Oliver Lodge

Fried Chicken

The entire wall had to be bulldozed because of me. You see, I’m overweight. It’s glandular. I couldn’t fit on the toilet between the sink and the wall in the bathroom. Instead of moving the sink, the contractor told Grammy that it’d be cheaper to knock down the wall. Grammy’s a miser. She didn’t want to pay for it. To save money, she hired a company that took an entire week to complete the job. The workers were filing in and out of my bedroom to get to my bathroom, invading my private sanctum without pause. I didn’t have a second to myself. It was the worst week of my life.

Only after a serious accident did my grandmother take the necessary steps to get the job done. I warned her that this would happen. I kept complaining about it. She’d avoid the topic every time. Grammy and me, we fight a lot.

I have bowel problems. I have to take a shit constantly throughout the day. Back and forth, eight to ten times a day, I waddle over to the toilet from my bed. It’s the only exercise I get. I have a heart condition that prevents me from engaging in any kind of physical exertion.

So I was sitting on the toilet and I had to squeeze my way between the sink and the wall and it was getting harder and harder to take a dump that way. I had to shift my weight over to one side whenever I wiped my ass, leaning heavily against one of my butt cheeks to reach under there. This caused the toilet seat to snap loose in the back and slide across the top of the bowl. My scrotum hangs down really low. It’s a long, distended, purple sack that droops down to my knees.

I have huge balls. They were hanging down into the toilet water when this happened. (I’ve grown to like this feeling. It cools me off. And when my bollocks start to warm up I know I just did my poo.) So my nuts got snagged between the seat and the bowl, right? My scrotum was torn. I’m lucky my yarbles didn’t get chopped off altogether. I had to have an operation and get my nut bag sewn back up.

Since I couldn’t fit through the front door, Grammy paid a construction crew to remove the roof of our house. I was transported to a special hospital via a chopper and an airlift. My ball sack had to be packed with ice and gauze. I got into an argument with Grammy when I got home.

“You dumb, dried up, old cunt!” I yelled. “If you had listened to me first and fixed the motherfuckin’ shithouse, I wouldn’t have had to go through all this bullshit! What do you got rocks in your fuckin’ head or something? I’m fuckin’ traumatized by that incident! And now look at what you made me do! You made me spill my god-damn piss all over the fuckin’ floor!”

I have a weak bladder, you see. Grammy brings me half a dozen two-liter bottles of pop every day. I piss in the empty bottles over the side of my bed after finishing them. This saves me more trips to the latrine. Grammy made me so upset that I accidentally knocked one over. I looked down at her while she wiped up the spill on her hands and knees.

“Did you get me my god-damn magazine, at least?” I asked her.

She did. She left it in the other room. I had her go get it for me. It was a copy of ‘Teen Vogue’. Not the greatest read, but it featured a sexy twink on the cover. I heard Grammy squeezing the urine out of the rag into the sink in my newly renovated bathroom as I fiddled with my penis in bed, imagining the blotchy skin of my hairy belly rubbing against a squirming blob of naked boys, their lips and limbs lightly brushing up against my hard nipples.

“Feel my girth, you sniveling bastards!” I hissed under my breath. “I bet you kids think you’re hot shit in high school. You get all the beach bunnies, don’t you? Hitting on all the girls with tan skin and athletic builds. Ungrateful, little pieces of shit. I’ll give you something to remember…”

I pictured the tight cheeks of one of the boy models splayed open as my uncircumcised joust turned his sigmoid colon into an excavation site.

Grammy’s doddering nearby was distracting me from the chore at hand. “Finish up and get the fuck out, Grammy!” I bellowed over my shoulder. “And don’t forget the chicken and the sewing bag and my insulin! Your baggy ass is harshing my mellow!”

My favorite morning talk show was on. The crowd on TV was jeering in the background. A pair of wenches with bad perms were pulling each other’s hair. Their public quarrel had escalated into a full-on cat fight. The audience was going wild.

Grammy stopped at my bedroom door before turning around. Sheepishly, she ventured to ask if I’d reconsider the bedpan. The invisible referee of silence held us apart momentarily. The bell rang in my corner and then I let her have it.

“You know I have diarrhea!” I retorted. “I already have to sleep with sugar and crumbs in the bed every night! Poo gets all over the sheets when I use the bedpan! What do I look like a fucking animal to you?”

For brunch and dessert I go through two boxes of butter sticks daily. My snacktime ritual entails putting a bowl of Splenda and a bowl of mayonnaise beside me on the bed. One stick at a time, I dip the butter into the mayonnaise first and then the Splenda. It might sound gross, but it’s a truly delicious snack if you ever get a chance to try it. It also makes a mess. My sheets are covered with mayonnaise, granules of Splenda, bread crumbs, and chicken grease stains.

I love chicken. I eat five jumbo size boxes of fried chicken a day. Every time I dine, I spread out all the individual pieces of chicken on my naked belly while I’m lying down in bed. I dress them up in doll clothes that my grandma tailors for me specifically for this game. The wings, the breasts, the legs – all the chicky wickies get their own shirts and pants and bonnets. I have all types of accessories like swords for them to fight with and spatulas so they can flip burgers. I give them cute names like Rupert and Mildred. There are hundreds of different games I play with them throughout the day but Little Red Riding Hood is pretty popular.

I rub the oily chicken around my scrotum and the underside of my pecker until I get hard. My erect member soon becomes a tree for the wolf to hide behind in wait for Little Red Riding Hood as she saunters over the yellow hill of my tummy. The drumstick in red garb is then pounced upon by the breast or thigh playing the wolf. I make squealing and growling noises as the Big Bad Wolf forces himself on the little girl, rubbing the two pieces of chicken together as if they’re fucking. Then I stuff them in my mouth, bones and all, chewing on them ravenously as I bring myself to climax.

“No, I don’t think you’re an animal,” my grandmother replied. “It’s just that… It’s getting harder for you to get around with your weight and…”

“I didn’t want to hear this since I just got out of the hospital, but you may as well say it, Grammy. Go on! Get it off that flabby chest of yours! I’m nothing but a fat, worthless faggot! Is that what you’re trying to tell me? I can’t help it if I’m fat! You know what the gastroenterologist said, what my therapist says! I eat as a way to nurture my inner child – the little, baby Oompa Loompa inside of me who never found love! It’s not my fault that I’m sick! What are you going to do? Throw me out into the street? Force me to suck cock for a living? You hate me! You hate my guts! I know it!” I bawled. Tears poured down my chubby cheeks. Snot dripped out of my nose and into the hairs of my mustache, as coarse as the legs of a fly.

“I’m too tired to get into this right now,” Grammy sighed. She left. She wasn’t even sympathetic to my situation. Grammy only thinks of herself.

I stopped crying in due time. I looked around the quiet bedroom. It reeked of sweat and urine. Dust and cobwebs were starting to take shape in the corners. Grammy was slacking on her cleaning. A half-empty bag of pork rinds was sitting on the coffee table. I wanted to finish them but didn’t feel like getting out of bed. I found a graham cracker near my pillow and nibbled on it while removing the chicken from the warm buckets. Grammy didn’t skimp on the sides that day.

“Look!” I said with a smile to a leg and a thigh dressed like Snow White and Peter Pan. From their cardboard container I poured some chicken nuggets out onto my stomach to share the stage with their famous parents. “Congratulations! You’re a happy couple! Look at all the babies you had!” I proudly proclaimed.

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