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As if Shereè Whitfield needed another reminder that she’s wasted her calling as the trap’s answer to Jeanette Jenkins, rising international superstar and television treasure, Joseline Hernandez, has revealed plans for a workout DVD. Do you hear that, Shereè? It’s a woman who can barely speak English yelling, “STEEBIE! We ’bout to make this monee!”

I am absolutely here for it. No shade to my Auntie Phaedra, but I’m not sure what prompted her to release a workout DVD with her husband. What is it called again? Tighten The Tush with The Trade? Something like that. Phaedra is indeed sitting on a Eeyore, but I would think her first reality TV fame spawned side hustle would be her serving as some southern Star Jones on morning YV —  doling out legal advice. Oh well, squat your way to success, auntie.

Meanwhile, Joseline looks like Rihanna as a bodybuilder so I’d rather look to her for advice. I know she said ladies in the tweet, but most men would be lucky to have Joseline’s frame. I’m secure enough to ask Joseline to spot me.

Part of my efforts to delay the losing of my mind has been taking refuge inside of a gym. I’ve made some noted progress. I would post it here, but respectable writers would never do such a thing. Okay, that’s utter bullshit. I don’t care about that; I just don’t want to. My Instagram is here and if you scroll around there’s one photo that vaguely shows my growth.

Anyway, progress has been made but it’s like the fat of my past is trying cockblock a complete transition. Sometimes I look at the parts of my body that I don’t like and sing to them, “These niggas won’t hold me back. These hoes wanna hold me back.”

In Beyoncé terms, y’all know how she looked during the Survivor era i.e. getting it together yet there’s still some little blanket over one small but important area? Joseline, can you be my lighter and burn that bitch to the ground?

Then there’s solid food, which can be really annoying. I’ve never felt more closer to Mary-Kate Olsen. I’m playing; please don’t call a hotline on me. One of my friends used to say I ate like a white woman. That’s racist for really healthy. Unfortunately, I’ve fallen into “Negro, Who Doesn’t Listen To Their Doctor Enough” territory more times than I’d like to admit. It’s like I’ll put in all this work at the gym in the early a.m (I have evidence) and then I’ll smell Popeye’s at the gas station. Salmon, nuts, grilled chicken, vegetables, and protein shakes are cute, but you can’t put honey and grape jelly on them while you kiss a chicken strip dipped in sweet heat sauce.

I fight it as hard as I can. As I always say on the Twitter, you’ve got to make sure your body slays because you never know if you’ll need it to pay Sallie Mae. I’m pretty confident I could sell some ass to cover my government loans. However, I also have private, so like…I need to do better.

I have Insanity. I work out damn near everyday. But, I’m probably going to buy this DVD. Why? Because Joseline looks like fucking Hercules with ass shots. Minus the needles, I aspire. And don’t be bougie, folks. Some of y’all probably want to pre-order, too. Workout buddies?

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I only know a few things about Paula Deen. The first being she likes to promote foods that will surely take you out over time. The other is she’s sort of like, “What if Big Mama were white with a business sense?” Now I can add a third thing to my mental rolodex: Type II Diabetes. News of her medical condition has been escapable, though what could’ve clearly been a teachable moment for Ms. I’m ‘Bout That Butter, Bitches has since been flipped into nothing more than a corporate spin on an old Ronnie hoe quote. For the unfamiliar, that’s code for, “You got to use what you got to get what you want.” I’d say that in Paula’s case it’s the cream, dollar dollar bills, y’all.

Yes, Paula has known for three years that her’s sugar’s bad yet she’s only discussing it now to shill for pharmaceutical companies. Somewhere Rachel Ray is standing next to a mischievous talking pet saying, “Vindication is mine.” If you’re one of those folks who painfully abuses the word brand, you don’t mind her chutzpah with respect to greed. You’re probably going to hell, too (if you believe in that sort of thing), but I digress. Anyway, she’s right to point out that Type II Diabetes isn’t a death sentence. It is kind of a warning in the form of a postcard, though. So, if you have Type II Diabetes isn’t kind of awful to tell people to fry beef and dress it up with cheddar, bacon, and stick it in between donuts?

This is exactly like the first big dinner the Joseph family had after Big Mama joined Col. Sanders’s bid whist team in heaven. They sat around the table eating the damn food that killed her without at least one person mentioning, “Yo, maybe we should have a salad with this fatback.” or “How about we try something light like Thai the week after?” As a fried fish enthusiast, I won’t feign health nutdom. But I will let you hot saucers know that one too many pieces will break your heart into them.

Who does she think she’s fooling that her condition might have more to do with age and genetics? Ma’am, I’m pretty sure your Cheesy Ham and Banana Casserole had more to do with it. One could make the same case for her recipe for deep fried stuffing on a stick. The same for her deep-fried lasagna. I mean, yes she does say, “Honey, I’m not your cook, not your doctor,” but I bet she didn’t say that when she looked at the deposit the drug company dropped in her account.

Even though you seem nice with a great liquor cabinet, I have to say shame on you, White Big Mama. You know better. Next time you’re talking about making frying turkey legs in honey battered Crisco (damn, that sounds kind of good) at least make the effort to say, “Run a lap after this or lose your own leg, turkey.” Let us all try to have a heart while we still have them.


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Khadijah Baseer needed her fix, so much so that she allegedly offered her dip ‘n pitts in exchange for some Chicken McNuggets. It’s not been confirmed whether or not she offered any additional sexual favors for extra BBQ sauce (McDonalds is a stingy queen), but I wouldn’t put it past her. This happened in Los Angeles, or really somewhere in the Valley if you want to get technical (and for the sake of LA proper, I believe it’s best that we do). Khadijah, no James and certainly no shame, was subsequently arrested on suspicion of prostitution. Keeping the state of California’s budget in mind, she’s likely vomiting expired Spam as a means of peaceful protest as I type this entry.

You know, I’m more aware than anyone of how hard times can be, but even if I have my standards. How hungry or addicted do you have to be to offer your poon for pretend chicken? Not to get all hood snobby on y’all, but I simply can’t co-sign doing hoe shit for food that doesn’t heat up well. I’ll be damned if I ever am locked up for saying, “I’ll suck you dick for some fried swai.” I can kind of get nookie for Nobu (never been, but it sounds divine and shit) or even a hand job for a really good hand roll. Hell, if you pop-pop-pop that thing for an ample gift card to Chick-fil-A or Popeye’s (could last many a meal if you use it on Tuesday for the special), I’ll be like, “Yeah, I see it.” But sex for Chicken McDonalds? Have some pride, heifer. Or at the very least, try your coochie commerce at Burger King. They deliver in select cities now and probably have even less standards.

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With the start of the 2012 only days away it’s only right that the hefty and impressionable are being bombarded by an onslaught of celebrity-backed weight loss commercials. At the very least, maybe we ought to welcome the new faces to this unstoppable trend (not that some of us haven’t made requests) considering that as far as 2011 goes, I can only remember Jennifer Hudson repeatedly howling at me about it being a brand new day.

And from the looks of all these new campaigns, they’re each seeking to appeal to some different facet of American life.

If you’re a new mom that’s dying to fit into your old jeans and halter so that your gay best friend will finally return your texts about going back to the same sex disco you can get your life to “We Found Love,” this ad featuring Mariah “Dahling” Carey is for you.

Is the fried catfish, candied yams, macaroni and cheese, roasted red potatoes, a few french fries, and peach cobbler that you washed down with red soda (there’s more coloring than actual strawberries in this product, so give black folks a break) oppressively haunting you in your dreams? If so, Janet Jackson and her whispers of healthy body image have got your back.

I didn’t know this, but apparently Nutrisystem is to weight loss programs what Karrine Steffans is to virginity. C’mon, y’all. Allow Janet to do her part to aid in the resurrection of this brand of fat be gone in peace. Perhaps it will encourage her to do the same with her music career. Yes, I’m still holding out hope for that. I want her to bring back the butterfly.

Are you tired of Jared and his Subway sandwiches? If so, chubby man, start singing “Thank You For Being A Fried” to your new buddy, Charles Barkley. Since he’s probably not going to be the next governor of Alabama, I think Sir Charles lending his name to this promotion is a smart move…and a healthy one given over the years he looks like he ate Hakeem Olajuwon. You don’t normally see men besides Subway’s side piece discussing difficulties with weight loss, so I’m glad Chuck is earning a buck for the cause. As an ex-fat boy in physique and eternal one in my psyche, I know that we can’t end belt buckle abuse if we’re silent, men.

Now if you’re into spooking the weight off, the constantly slimming Jennifer Hudson has the right spot for you. Can I be honest? This scares the hell out of me. I imagine when the advertising folks conceived this ad it sounded a lot less creepy on paper. What focus group lied to them?

And with all due respect to Effie, listening to one Jennifer Hudson scream is bad enough. We didn’t need two of them outshouting each other under the guise of trying to harmonize. I suppose she’s that loud because she needs to remind people that she’s an Academy Award and Grammy winning actress and singer versus what she’s increasingly becoming known for: That big girl who went scrawny on these hoes. Then again, maybe I’m just being harsh (it happens to the best of us). I could see how happy she was at the VH1’s Massacare of the Term Divas Celebrates Soul having her “Deena Jones” moment. Can’t we all take comfort in that?

:::thinks about those performances:::

Actually, no. She’s too damn loud. Notions of new days can be conveyed in our inside voices. You read it here first. Alright, so let’s talk, y’all. Which diet plan are you and/or your mama, sister, cousin, play Uncle, or BFF joining? I’m gonna do my part by limiting my fried fish intake and trying to go back to eating all of that healthy crap that stops me from needing a bra.

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In the midst of doing everything else, I forgot to finish a post about Rick Ross gracing the cover of VIBE’s sexy issue. As everyone turns their obsession with summer bodies to heights only a grunt-inducing trainer could reach for, all week I’ve been like, “Eh.” Then the other night I two-stepped on one Sunset Boulevard as someone drove by blasting “MC Hammer” and quickly went, “Oh!” after I finished yelling that I, too, was MC Hammer.

Rick Ross’ body is best described as, “What if Esther Rolle had let herself go?” Yet, I know of several women of different shapes, sizes and levels of esteem who salivate over Rick Ross and his saggy breasts. I am not at all jealous. If anything, I applaud him. When I do make my way into the gym, I always go straight to the bench press or some chest-related machine. I’ve mentioned this before but it bears repeating since it still frightens me: When I was fat, I looked like I needed a bra. I was embarrassed even years after I went from Fat Albert to blackened Gumby. I hated people pinching my chest like I was the Pilsbury Doughboy. The least they could’ve done is slide a dollar or forty into my shirt. Taunts deserve tips!

But here is Rick Ross with the faces of two pasty presidents splattered all over his fleshy chest. Man, does he have confidence. He also likely has high cholesterol, too, but another day, another topic. Now he’s officially a sex symbol. You mean to tell me I could’ve stayed eating 20-piece nuggets solo and still have retained my sexy status? Take my baked chicken then!

Wait, don’t ’cause there’s no way in hell I’m regressing. I already know you can be fat and healthy, but Rick Ross is kind of a few dozen WingStop orders over that limit. I also know that more times than not, bigger folks smell better. I’ve heard people make jokes that our fatter friends smell like fried chicken and fear of a treadmill. As an ex-fatty I know that’s complete nonsense. It’s more like potpourri and satisfaction.

Clearly it doesn’t matter to Rick Ross and or the number of women who love him so.  I know somewhere Heavy D is looking at the issue going, “My brother!” in solidarity. I stand with him. Gon’ head, RAWSE. Not every man is bold enough to let his moobs flap in the air like I’m in the shit up in this bitch. We should all be so lucky to be that happy with our bodies.


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Yesterday I finally made my way back to the gym to build on my three new muscles only to end my night inhaling a red velvet cupcake from Crumbs.

I asked folks on Twitter should I indulge in my dessert desires and an overwhelming majority of the replies were like, “YES. GIVE IN.”

Or more bluntly: “I don’t even know why this is a question worth asking. Of course your skinny ass should order a cupcake. Hell, order three.”

Thinphobia aside, I ended up getting one so I know a hard workout later is in order.

I’m always looking for ways to build on my slim and sessy, but after watching this video I’m tempted to go on the cupcake diet just for the hell out of it.

Speaking of hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if the person behind this nifty little number ends up there.

Please watch this entire video, ya’ll. You must witness the “Beyonce move,” the “Stomp Satan Lower” shimmy, and the soulless soul clap for yourselves.

This guy, who looks like a mentally challenged ex-choir director, is teaching white folks how to dance both the devil and the extra pounds away.

I know what you’re thinking because I asked myself the same question: Is Donnie McClurkin’s closet cut buddy for real with the sanctified slide?

Christopher Page is selling his sanctify your way to sexiness for 14.95 on the Web . Who’s about to Paypal themselves to both prosperity and past the plus-size section at the store? Gon’ and “walk in the spirit” (or in homie’s cass, sass and strut in the spirit) if you want to, but don’t think this automatically means you’ll be jogging with Jesus in the future.

I’d rather spend that money on a bottle to make sense of all this. Or to pay someone to tell me what Chris’ left eye is looking at in this clip.

And folks got on me for dancing to “God In Me” screwed and chopped. Don’t worry, I believe in forgiveness (I know you liked that song, too). Still, I don’t believe in building biceps to Beyonce…at least not like this.

Jesus is probably somewhere putting extra butter on his biscuit and shaking his head in shame. Stop using the Lord’s name to come up, people. That ain’t right.

For this Negro’s sins I hope he wakes up in Transfat tomorrow.

Edit: Ya’ll, the genius behind this new exercise regimen Tweeted me writing:

@youngsinick Please check out the official videos. That other video was not approved lol

His name of course, is @sanctifiedslide.

Because he’s such a good sport, here is the official video:

I still think God does Tae Bo, but there you go.

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I vaguely heard about some fat kid yearning for some pork on Twitter, but it wasn’t until this morning when I checked my inbox that I witnessed kirkin’ Curtis.

I’m not even sure where to begin.

Curtis himself sounds old enough to have owned the first slave. Or at the very least he’s old enough to know that Colonel Sanders stole his chicken recipe. Whatever century you want to place him in I think we can all agree that Captain Curt is probably shit’n on your SAT scores.

As smart as he is, his intellect doesn’t excuse him being a disrespectful little child who appears to need a James Evan inspired ass whooping. I don’t know how it works in bacon land, but ’round my way you don’t talk to an adult like that and if you do don’t be surprised that your baby teeth are on the floor and the Tooth Fairy was given the wrong directions to your pillow.

Making matters worse is that the kid is spazzing over not being able to get some bacon.

OK, so my past life as a pork-loving porker understands why he’s obsessed with munching on Miss Piggy (pause…or something). But that only means it falls on the responsibility of his parents to inform him that this woman involved in the wife swap is not named Miss Millie so you shouldn’t talk to her in that manner.

My friend that sent me this video pointed out that I used to eat a sausage sandwich of death myself.

Let me break that breakfast sandwich down for ya’ll.

It was called the “Extreme Sausage Sandwich.” It had two big sausage patties, an egg, and some cheese on a bun.

I had it without the egg as I’m not all that keen on processed mystery eggs on my sammiches.

In hindsight, I know eating that was wrong and if I continued to eat like that I’d probably be calling this blog “The Extra Large Ones.”

Now if this little boy ever found out about this sandwich, what are the chances that he would try to bodyslam me for it — then demand Jack in the Box slap six pieces of bacon on top?

That’s why I hope in the long run someone educates this kid about nutrition.

It should go without saying that videos like these illustrate why America’s children are heading for a life that could be best summarized by these three words: “I Be Strokin’.”

Sadly, I see some people in the comments section of the site featuring this video see nothing wrong with Curtis’ attitude or appetite:


Oh come on! I thought this kid was very impressive. A little bacon never hurt anyone. Give me a break, so he is a little chubby, nothing a little proportion size cutting cant fix. Balance is the key, but Damn he should be a lawyer, I thought he put up a pretty good argument and he was very tactful about it! So what! Protein isss good for you. Only a vegetarian will tell you otherwise.

Who wants to bet Annette hasn’t left her couch in seven years?

Regardless of how you feel about having Porky Pig in the morning, I think we can all agree that this kid deserves his own show. I’m not quite sure if there’s a tiara hiding underneath that hair of his but to be on the safe side I suggest producers have ample amounts of BLTs on set. Fat boys bring fury when there’s food missing.

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If the sight of this sandwich has your mouth watering like the Pacific, I suggest you go and get right with God.

Because once you start working this sandwich into your daily diet it won’t be long before your meeting your maker.

Gluttony can’t even begin to describe this suicide sandwich. Instead of wasting time with bread, the double down sandwich lets two fried chicken patties take the place of Nature’s Own and then sneaks in slices of Swiss and pepper jack cheese, 2 slices of bacon, and some “Colonel sauce” that would probably make even the most hood Chinese restaurant owner say, “Too salty.”

You won’t even be able to eat this sandwich with your hands because of all the grease! If you did you’ll walk around looking like Jermaine Jackson’s long lost twin.

Yet, I know a bunch of ya’ll are sitting here thinking, “Ooh, where do they do that at?”

So far it’s only available in Providence, Rhode Island and Omaha, Nebraska. If it does well – which it will, we’re a nation of fat asses with death wishes – it will head out West.

The sandwich contains 740 calories, 42 grams of fat and 2100 mg of sodium — but that’s not excluding the special sauce and cheeses. If the calories and grams of fat weren’t bad enough, take a good long look at the 2100 mg of sodium.

Do you know what that’s going to make your heart do?

Remix, remix.

Sidenote: Back when this song came out, I used to be able to do that, though I bet if I tried it now I’d pop, lock, and drop it to the emergency room. Somebody needs to stretch!

Since moving to LA, I realize this is the land of many KFCs. I don’t know why LaLa land won’t let a Popeye’s biscuit be great, but I do know one thing: All of the fat people who stand in my way when walking somewhere (don’t worry ya’ll: In due time I will live in a deluxe apartment in the sky with fit folks) will take even longer for me to maneuver around them.

Why oh why is a sandwich like this being rolled out when it becomes all the more apparent that the reform in health care reform might be sent to the island of broken promises and unfulfilled wishes?

And wasn’t KFC starting a stampede in their stores a few months ago after getting Oprah to hand out coupons to try their new “healthier, grilled chicken?”

How do you go from that to stroke in a box?

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In gluttony news, I read this story about chocolate covered bacon. Is your stomach growling or is that the sound of your heart begging you for mercy?

This little love child of Porky Pig and the Hershey corporation is not the brainchild of anyone in the South. This is something out of Santa Cruz. Cali, stand up because the world is looking at you. But don’t brag too much as Minnesota would like to get a little shine for this, ya dig. This year, Famous Dave’s at the Minnesota State Fair is rolling out Pig Lickers — dark chocolate-covered bacon pieces sprinkled with sea salt.

I don’t think my taste buds have been this excited since walking down a New York street that smelled like a potion of piss, shit, and bad breath.

“There’s a whole trend toward chefs pushing the boundaries,” says Page. “Chefs are trying to be more playful and incorporate new kinds of whimsy.”

I’m thinking catfish flavored oatmeal, onion cheesecake, and cookies that taste the way T-Pain looks.

Mmm. Have I left your mouth watering?

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You mean to tell me Rick Ross isn’t really a drug czar? I would have never guessed despite no one talking about Rick Ross’ drug cartel past besides Rick Ross on wax. The next thing you’ll tell me is that Lil’ Wayne is a fake Blood and my toilet paper goes harder than The Game.

If there’s anything to learn from the Ricky Ross controversy it’s that people need to learn how to lie better.

Remember when pictures of Eve getting a tongue-assisted vaginal massage from a fellow stripper surfaced a few years back? Her response was “photoshop” although if you look at the grainy picture, her facial expressions suggested she was being sexually aroused. That or she makes really interesting facial expressions at interesting angles. Besides, the notion that Eve much less any random stripper could be bisexual (or at least gay for pay) isn’t all that hard to believe. Lucky for her, though, that by the time the pictures leaked to the web the only Eve people still cared about was the fruit snatcher from the Bible.

Borrowing from the Eve playbook, Ross initially went with the same trite “photoshop” excuse.

He told All Hip Hop:

“My life is 100% real. These online hackers putting a picture of my face when I was a teenager in high school on other peoples’ body. If this s**t was real don’t you think they would have more specifics, like dates and everything?”

Officer Ross could have done better than the “I looked 40 in high school” excuse. Oh and once specifics leaked (his start date, his salary, his SSN) he claimed the documents were forged.

Oh I get it. The haters and the government joined together in a secret conspiracy to bring down Rick Ross. This heinous plot was unleashed to soil his rising popularity and growing influence. You know, so the world won’t lose any sleep over the biggest boss that we’ve seen thus far.

Look, I understand that it’s standard for many artists to have delusions of grandeur, but who does homie think he is? Rick Bourne? No one cares that much. We have many coke rappers out there — some of whom have actually sold coke.

Why didn’t he just say that the CO job was a cover? Or maybe hint that he was a crooked corrections officer. I would still look at him as an obese version of Mr. T. who has only pushed weight on the scale, but there are plenty of fools out there who would accept either lie.

He’s not alone, though. From the carefully scripted fallacies of The Hills to the too good to be true drug cartel stories of Rick Ross, we’re all being sold fairytales.

You don’t have to go far from Ross’ Miami locale to find another liar in the fold. While he often sounds like he just finished his shift picking cotton, more and more people have talked to me about how different Plies sounds in interviews than on his albums. Yes, Plies can read. So well in fact that he just started a scholarship foundation. He should probably be commended for that since the foundation is geared toward offering legal services to the incarcerated while also helping them rehabilitate, but that would counter the image he’s crafted for himself.

I know for a fact that there are a bunch of kids sitting in juvenile hall idolizing Plies and Lil’ Wayne. Plies for doing time (although that’s never been confirmed) and Wayne for…well being Wayne.

Each of them have made a fortune off their naivete as the bulk of these kids who try to mimic their tales end up dead, in jail, or become addicts. Speaking of addicts, Lil’ Wayne can boast about a great life, but here’s a thought: Drug addicts aren’t happy. No one points that out, though. Everyone’s too busy pretending to be Italian, or Cuban, or Frank Lucas, or Jay-Z, or someone else that’s pretending themselves.

The only other lesson in this could be to learn when to shut up. Rick Bourne aggravated the situation by denying initial reports and then telling people to find more proof. And even after said proof surfaced he still denied his past. Now actual people are going to come out to say what we already know now: Rick Ross is a lying ass liar.

Will it kill his career? I doubt it, and even if it did, there’s another Dr. Suess out there ready to take his place.

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