I wonder how large people reproduce. It can't be the traditional way, largely because the aroma that all heftoids produce - a combination of sweat congealing among the folds and the unfortunate consequences of being unable to reach to wipe - is more effective than pepper spray as a sex repellent. And while there are a few dementiods who find that sort of thing appealing, much like fecophiliacs and those poor fellows who call out "mommy" in the heat of the moment, there are far too many wide loads in this world for mere deviance to produce. It must be something evolutionary ... asexual cellulite reproduction It must of worked something like this: Gunter must have woke in 1983 with a lump somewhere among the rolls. Eventually, he would have noticed he was eating for two - well, two more than whatever number he was already eating for - and perhaps discovered the voice that kept repeating "hey, how 'bout some bacon" wasn't his stomach talking after all, but Earl, a bouncing baby freak that had developed, amoeba-style, from one of the meat-flaps in the small of his back. That's pretty farfetched ... ... but it's a better mental picture than the alternative. Eventually, the tube that transports cellulite from one being to the other will have to be severed - perhaps when they build a bakery opposite the ice cream shop in the food court - and the two will go about their separate lives, perhaps even wearing shorts of different colors, until each of them, in due course, develops a lump among the folds. Sometimes, you really have to wonder how people in a certain ... uhm ... condition ... get that way. Granted there are genetic disorders and glandular problems that affect approximately 0.001 percent of the people who claim to have them, but for the rest, you really have to wonder ... Has "salad" ever been mentioned? Life in the post-industrial age is rather sedentary, and very few people run ten miles every day and live on a diet of oat bran and cauliflower (and those that do genuinely deserve each others' company). In fact, most people spend their time sitting on their butts with a break every four hours for a heaping helping of saturated fats with a side of gravy - and while they get rather soft and a bit lumpy, only a chosen few really show it ... ... if you could call that being "chosen." Sympathy is hard enough to come by in this hyper-sensitive age. Every proclivity is become an "addiction" and every habit a "disorder" with some sort of compensation for the "afflicted," generally from those who make fun of them. Pretentious compassion is easier to come by than its little brother, common decency, and one can almost feel a pang of sympathy for these poor, pudgy troglodytes ... until you see them glom their sixteenth "low-fat" bagel of the afternoon, and there are still a half-dozen in the bag. "You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You are the same decaying, organic matter as everything else." -Fight Club