Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Timothy Simon Wilkelvenstein II

Timothy Simon Wilkelvenstein II was a "fat ass". A "fatty fatso", an "enormous hunk of living lard" and - my personal favorite - "what you'd get if the Stay Puffed Marshmallow Man ate a zeppelin full of the 1976 Miami Dolphins' Offensive Line, shat it out and died on top of it in one grotesque, soupy, fat mess". In fact the kids along Lewis Street had just about every name in the book for poor Timothy, and many more (I can't imagine a book simply full of hurtful obesity jokes, but with the material bouncing around that two mile suburban road, there could be an entire encyclopedia.
I've heard much controversy over whether or not Timothy Simon Wilkelvenstein II had, in fact, eaten his former, but evidence of such is purely circumstantial here-say.
Now you may feel anger towards all those stuck-up child products of white suburbia, but in truth Timothy W was thrice the age average for weight. He towered over his peers when he was lying down. His abdomen had swelled to nearly 80% of his body mass. Beneath it stood his struggling legs, partially swallowed by his enveloping fat rolls. His head had expanded so much that bald spots appeared in places hair roots could not reach.
'He's quite the site to see,' said the doctors with their stern amazement. 'Such a being is an anomaly,' they agreed. One that would certainly die before the age of 15.
Yes, poor Fatty Fatso II had little chance of making it into his late teens. Perhaps a primary cause of this inevitable statistic was his immense diet and severe lack of physical activity. For the most part, Timothy passed his days sleeping atop the family sofa or snuggled tight in his bed, only waking for the occasional snack or monstrous stretch. Eventually he was banished from the couch; booted off every time he was caught burying himself lazily amidst the deep cushions. But Timothy was a stubborn one, and simply rearranged himself cozily on the living room floor. During this time the kids would spy on him through the large bay windows or through the front screen door and laugh. It was then poor Timothy endured the harshest of their teasing, sleepily opening a single eye and cocking an ear to their scowls.
"Look at you, you dumb fat slob!" shouted Joe Hambucker who lived in the raised ranch two houses down.
"I bet you never get up because if you did your fat would jiggle so much it was knock you over!" jeered Michael Fenley, the school track star.
"Oh look Rhonda!" snickered Joanie Richards, "His head is moving!"
"That's his ass!" hollared Rhonda Cessman. All four of them broke into a collective, hooting snarl and barked laughter in his direction. Timothy just stared.
Nobody, of all the kids, of all the streets, of all the towns, of all the world ever had anything nice to say about poor, fat Timothy W. But do you want to know the incredible part of my story? The part that makes all this worth telling and worth reading? Good ol' Tim didn't care one bit.
Not an ounce.
Not a smidgen.
In fact, he couldn't care LESS. Day in and day out, kid in and kid out came and insulted him - hell even their parents let him have it - and he wasn't bothered one bit.
Not by the jokes.
Not by his appearance.
Not even by his fate.
It is completely safe and truthful to say none of these were problems to him. He just didn't care. Why? How?
He had a secret. He had the key to indifference, the strength against all words and the ability to take any and all insults head-on with no damage to his self-esteem whatsoever.
If you, or someone you know, could benefit in any way from this knowledge, I suggest you read closely and listen intently.
Are you paying attention?
Are you listening?
Timothy Simon Wilkelvenstein II was a cat.