The alarm sounded off squarely at noontime at the Combs-Lopez apartment. Ironically,
or was it ego-boosting? Lopez’s new single was blasting on the radio. The New York sun bounced into their studio-bare
apartment, shining on every surface. Puffy had the good sense to remove all valuables from table tops and counters
that could easily be knocked off by his girlfriend’s unusually large behind.
Jennifer rubbed her eyes and began to put on her slippers. It was a Tuesday, and like every Tuesday, it was Poptart
day. She sluggishly dragged her fat ass out of bed. “It’s already 12:15...oh god, I can feel my ass disappearing!
Omigod! I have to eat something, and I have to eat something now!” Jennifer, grabbing her supposedly shrinking
rear, ran full-speed for her cabinet. Suddenly, her M+M phone rang.
“Hello?” Jen said sheepishly into her phone. “Jen, baby, I’m kinda in jail now. Could you maybe swing by with some
bail? I’m really getting bored and this guy Bubba’s literally riding my ass...” Jennifer thought about it. Then
she thought about it a little more. Then she realized that she wasn’t actually thinking at all, and what she thought
was thinking was actually the air conditioner humming in the distance. “Uhh, today’s not good for me. My Psychic
Friend told me that going out today is a bad idea. She said there was a 45% chance I might get some exercise and
reduce the mass on my ass. How about Wednesday? I’m good Wednesday, my psychic friend said I might be able to swallow
an entire heifer on Wednesday...” Jen, now getting aggravated and hungrier, said into the phone. “Honey, I kinda
wanna...* click *” The phone disconnected. “Hmm, guess he didn’t want to get out that bad...” Oblivious to Jennifer,
she has apparently knocked the phone line out of the wall with a swift shake of her ass. Little does the world
knows it has a mind of it’s own.
Back to the kitchen. Poor Mother Hubbard saw that her pantry was bare! What was this little gluteus maximusly gifted
child to do? The poptarts were gone, and aside from the abundance of vegetables filling the crisper, there was
not a crumb of overly-processed, saturated-fat, solidified soybean oil to be found anywhere! Even the mice of the
apartment could sense the panic racing through Lopez’s demeanor. “Where are the Twinkies? Good lord, we’re out
of Crisco? My kingdom for a Ding Dong!” She spun rapidly, the walls closed in on her, all the while, she could
only sense her gift of flab decaying before her very eyes.