Fat Girls Were Better When They Were Goth

When I was just a wee depressed and alienated youth of the counterculture, there was a place for everyone. All fit into their place like pieces in a puzzle, and there was usually a reason for it. The easiest to place was always the fat girl. They went one place: with the Goth kids.

The Goths accepted the fat girls because they were the outcasts of the time, always needing new recruits to bolster their small numbers. The fat girls could go there, or to the cheerleading B squad, invariably known as the (high school mascot)-ettes. But what insecure female blubber factory wants to expose herself to the entire school?

Joining the Goth kids was an easy choice, as they all wore enough makeup to make Marcel Marceau blush, and wore black denim bed sheets as clothing with chains and other flair to draw your attention from their sickening obesity.

Now, though, fat girls have latched onto what is called Emo, which is short for emotionally disabled, I think. They are, most unfortunately, living in a world that tries to convince everyone that they are special, and that they can do whatever they want to do. This includes exposing way too much skin.

I don’t mind a cute, fit teenybopper prancing around in the tight-fitting garb of the day, but have you seen one of these fat Emo girls? No? Imagine: tight jeans, hugging below the hips, a two-sizes-too-small tee-shirt, and a boys’ haircut. Now, add a hundred and fifty pounds to what you were thinking, and you’re almost there.

All of a sudden, fatties think they are hot, and are so quick to turn up their pudgy noses at ‘boys’ that they must be getting whip lashed. It’s disgusting.

Now, fatties are entitled to exist, sure. Hell, I’m a fatass, myself, but I understand my limitations and dress accordingly, as should a 250-pound seventeen-year-old girl. But they don’t.

I propose that we shove the likes of Marilyn Manson and Bauhaus and Nine Inch Nails back into the limelight, consequences be damned. I don’t care if kids start cutting themselves and committing suicide left and right, as long as the cows start covering up their damned udders with some nice, thick, black fabric and paint their faces to a level of white that does not exist in nature.

I want a little humility in my women. I’ll take a depressed, weeping Goth chic over a self-obsessed Emo whore any day of the week.

Here’s a test to see if you should wear that revealing outfit, girls. Put on your skimpiest thong, letting the straps ride around your hips. Okay. Now, stand up straight. Can you see the strap, or is it buried inside a thirty-pound love handle? If it’s not there, run to Hot Topic and buy the biggest pair of Jncos you can find? If that doesn’t work, I hear burqas are making a big splash in Hollywood?

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