I had a dream last night where I ordered a whole McDonald’s family meal for you. 6000 calories ready for your eager belly. The first Big Mac goes down easy with you inhaling fries and you’re dipping nuggets so fast that I can’t open sauces fast enough. Before you know it, you’ve devoured half the nuggets and the 2 cheeseburgers. You’re working on fries while letting your belly settle to finish off the rest of the nuggets and the last Big Mac.
As you eat salty fry after salty fry, I grab 2 gallons of ice cream from the freezer and let them sit on the counter to get soft. The irony of them getting soft while your round belly gets harder and harder with every bite, every calorie.
When I get back you’ve taken a break from savory to house a few of the apple pies. You’re breathing is shallow, you’re moaning in pain, but you want more. You’re begging for my hands to massage your swollen belly, but I whisper, only good piggies who finish their nuggets get belly rubs.
With a look of faux reluctance, you oink, “if I have to but I need a little help.l I wipe some sweet and sour sauce from your chins and you suck it from my finger as I dip a nugget into a nearly empty sauce cup. Your greedy mouth slowly devours it as I ready the next one for execution. By the time you’ve finished the rest, it is a graveyard of dipping cups and food containers. Thousands of calories have turned your belly into a tight drum milky white skin turned pink and reddish from the sheer amount of food you’ve inhaled. But we’re not done.
Before the last Big Mac gets cold, I hold it as you weakly take bite after bite. Sauce dripping all over your belly grown so big now it can be used as a table for me to set it down on while I kiss you in between bites. With my hands free I rub them down the sides of your belly, what once was soft and flabby has now turned into a diamond. Fitting because it is as precious as one.
Miraculously, you’ve finished the Big Mac. Not without a price, you’re covered in special sauce, sesame seeds, and lettuce, looking like a fat sloppy piggy. Lucky for you, that you’re only going to get messier. I go to grab the first gallon of ice cream. You beg me to stop. But there is no stopping. You asked to be massive. So fat you can barely waddle. So fat you make Adeline and Jackie look skinny. So fat that they can’t put you on reality TV because you’re too cartoonishly fat and what reality is it where a whale lives comfortably on land?
I tell you not to worry, this first gallon is to help with the last of the pies. As I open the melty ice cream, your eyes grow as wide as your stuffed gut. You wonder if you’ll explode. Terrified it might happen, but you can’t deny the idea of dunking those apple pies into the ice cream doesn’t make you even wetter.
Every bite is creamy with the filling warm and crust still flaky from being popped into the air fryer. It seemed impossible but the last 4 pies are gone. You are drunk off all the calories.
Every bite has made you dumb, wet, breathless, and yet wanting more.
I tell you to wait while I get something. You aimlessly dip errant fries into the remaining ice cream. You wonder what I’m getting but you know deep down. It is making you squirm, well, as much as your painfully full tummy lets you. It is like a weighted blanket pinning you to the couch.
You squeal like the good piggy you are when you see I’ve come back with the second gallon in one hand, and the other is your crown. I strap the funnel to your head. Your eyes glaze over as you prepare yourself to suck down every last drip of ice cream. Blue ribbon hogs don’t get them by not finishing their meal.
Every chug of ice cream pushes your belly to its limits. Limits you thought impossible, yet here you are becoming massive. Each second that passes you see your arms start to form rolls and hang lower, your chins turn to thirds then fourths any illusion of a neck or collar bone long gone, you don’t have cankles your legs just are fat from the thigh down to form rolls over your foot, your ass gets big enough to set a dinner for four on it, and your belly hangs so low that it covers whatever idea of a lap you had and down to your knees that are now swaddled in fat.
You explode into organismic ecstasy as I whisper, all gone. You want to be weighed to see what the damage is but you drift to sleep into a food coma. Even though you’ve eaten enough calories to last a week, you can’t help but wonder what snack I’ll bring you when you wake up.
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