Does This Stress Make Me Look Fat? (Chapter Twelve: Make No Mistake)

More from Anthony Rhody’s book serial: “Does This Stress Make Me Look Fat?”

Back in my formative years, like anyone else, I too was mistaken in some of my ideas (then, I started graded school).

For example, I used to think “renal failure” was going to Reno and losing lots of money.

I used to think the world was flat but now I know that it’s more of a semi-gloss.

I used to think a pedophile was something you used to trim toenails.

I used to think that “snail mail”, when it first entered the lexicon, was a sexist term.

I used to think “poker face” was some sort of salacious sexual activity.

I used to think that “gender gap” was a euphemism for an “sexual orifice”.

I used to think “inbreds” were like sweet-breads until I found out what sweetbreads are – which are worse.

I used to think “genealogy” was the study of genies.

I used to think I was a hypochondriac.

But then my O.B.G.Y.N. convinced me otherwise.

Wait! I’m not done:

I used to believe the universe began with the big bang.

Now I believe it was started in somebody’s garage.

I used to believe “hippocampus” was a college or university full of morbidly obese students.

I used to believe “camel toes” were a type of women’s’ shoes.

I still prefer to believe that.

I used to believe that hemaphrodites get to vote twice.

Still think they should.

I used to think Coco Chanel invented hot chocolate.

I used to think “post-coital” was sex with a mailman.

I also used to think that Hitler spent his last days in a “bunk-bed”.

You know, when he died Adolph Hitler was in the midst of writing his autobiography, “My Left Nut”.

I read somewhere that once, that during the Second Great War, Helen Keller showed up at Anne Frank’s house in Belgium and was sorely disappointed when, after she rang the doorbell over and over for some time, nobody came to the door.

“I know you’re up there, bitch,” she yelled, mischievously.

Finally, Anne Frank stuck her head out the attic window and called down,

“Hey, Keller, we’re trying to hide up here! Do you mind?”

But Helen did not hear Anne Frank.

Instead she pounded on and kicked the door a few times and finally wandered away, wondering why nobody liked her.

Speaking of strong young women exploiting their misfortunes and disabilities for profit:

Sybil may be the only person ever to write an unauthorized autobiography.

I still have lots of questions about stuff, but try not to jump to any silly conclusions:

Are people who’re given Breathalyzer tests graded on a curb?

Shouldn’t back-seat drivers should be eligible for traffic tickets or citations?

Is it just me or does the Emoji bikini icon look like a smiley face?

Is it just me or does the Emoji bikini icon look like a smiley face?

Should I brush my teeth after I’ve had my foot in my mouth?

What if on JEOPARDY, contestants had to state their answers in the form of a rhetorical question?

My all-time favorite rhetorical question is: What the fuck?

A “rhetorical answer” is, of course, an answer that has no question.

Here are some of my favorites:

• That would be the Beaver Cleaver 2000 by Norelco.
• The International House of Panhandlers.
• Doris Fucking Day
• Because.
• The Vaticant.
• Rosa Parks and I go way back.
• Missouri’s not a state, it’s a compromise.

So you know those giant checks they use when someone has won a bunch of money?

Do those come from the banks that are too big to fail?

Is it true that the only words people speaking in sign language say out loud are “air quotes”?

What do members of the NRA want to be when they grow up?

It’s ironic how more than a few of their victims are dead school children who will never get to grow up.

Life is funny that way.


Which is the greater tragedy: the orgasm never achieved or the orgasm never sought?

The research continues.

Author: Anthony Rhody

My name is Anthony Rhody. I was born in a small midwestern town when I was very young. I am a recovering Catholic and lapsed homosexual. Henceforth I spend a lot less time on my knees. I was a film major at Columbia in Chicago after my career in high school ended in scandal and must-deserved notoriety, plus a diploma. After two years of life in a seventeen-story dorm I was told I should go to the west coast (true story). Since then I have been a screenwriter primarily and a playwright on rare occasion. When I realized a couple years ago I had too many notes on humor and funny schtick to ever use in screenplays I decided to try to see how many of them I could throw together as a book of humor. "Does This Stress Make Me Look Fat?" is that book, not a medical journal on over-eating. I don't have any children and as far as I know, no sexual partners. I have lived in San Francisco since before there was a homeless problem - sorry, before so many folks were home free.