FAT4THEFRAT

Ya know, it’s a real shame when a handsome, fresh-faced guy completely loses himself to frat life… the endless liquor, beer flowing like water, late-night DJing, and nonstop fast food binges. Four years of that lifestyle will turn even the best of them into a waddling statistic for obesity.

He went from sharp-jawed campus king to full double chin equal to his dad’s in record time. And that soft, bloated belly hanging out in the grad trip pics? Pure product of binge drinking and snacking all night while “working” as the frat DJ. The abs got traded for a beer gut and gluttonous decisions.

Now that he’s graduated, what’s the future looking like? Think he can snap back and get his shit together, or is he doomed to keep inflating into a full-on fat, greedy post-frat hog for the rest of his life?

Now it’s 2025 and both of them have gone soft. These boys have thicker arms, rounder faces, and bellies that say they’ve been training more for eating than cheering. These days they look like they’d rather watch real athletes play than work out themselves, opting to sit on their growing asses with snacks in hand and shirts riding up a little higher than they used to. At this rate, when they show up to the reunion, no one will believe either of them ever flipped anyone in the air.

Now he’s on a new team and sitting at 298 and still climbing. His new coach calls it “mass,” but let’s be honest, those love handles spilling over his shorts aren’t muscle. His jersey hugs his love handles, showing a gut that wasn’t there before, thick thighs stretching his sweats to the limit. You can picture him loading up another plate, telling himself it’s “all part of the plan” as he grabs seconds. The plan’s winning. Every lazy offseason, every skipped workout, every late-night binge is showing. He’s starting to look a lot more lineman than linebacker.

But hey, guess he finally made his mark. Not on the scoreboard though, but on the scale.

Beer pong has replaced batting practice, and pizza boxes have become his new trophies. It seems like these days, the only sweat he breaks comes from keg stands, not sprints. Whatever self-control he had back home didn’t seem to make the trip to campus with him.

If this is where year one has landed him, the next three are bound to be quite the transformation.

Now, in his junior year, Mr. President already has the pledges rubbing his gut and carrying him at parties… but how long before they can’t lift him anymore?