The Weight-Busters-Club
by Henrick Glutonlumps
forum: The Weight-Busters-Club
speculative fiction for the internet generation.

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The Weight-Busters-Club


Dear Weight-Busters-Club,

        I just wanted to share with you how much your program of diet and exercise has dramatically changed me and my wife. You see, it was one month ago and we happened to catch your infomercial on the late, late show. Neither of us could sleep, so we did what we always used to do when we couldn't sleep: we got ourselves two large bowls of raspberry ripple ice-cream, climbed back into our queen-sized bed and turned the old telly on.

        As we sat there spooning generous quantities of that sweet cold delight into our eager mouths we watched on in interest as your posh sounding announcer asked the questions, and please allow me to quote here, if you don't mind.

        Are you a fatty? Do people, as you waddle down the street, point and call you lard arse?Do you have to shop at the extra large clothing store? Do you spend more money on junk food each month than you do on rent? If your answer is a 'yes' to any of those questions, do I have a program for you! Please allow me to introduce to you the revolutionarily new weight loss system for all of you generously proportioned big boned Brits… The-Weight-Busters-Club. W.B.C has put together an incredibly low price for the first part of the ten part course… just for you. In just thirty days you will lose up to fourteen pounds guaranteed.

        I don't know if it was the very dapper spokesman you had hired that sparked something inside my wife, or if she experienced a self-defining epiphany, or perhaps even down to the fact that she had completed her large bowl of ice-cream in less than three minutes… A new personal best—But she asked me to pass her the mobile. As I watched on in amazement she dialed your toll free number.

        It was three days later that the postman delivered the box. Somehow he found the Weight-Busters-Club logo rather amusing as I answered the door in my Y-front shorts and string vest. I am not used to getting mail that I have to sign for, after all, and I do rather like being comfortable when I am at home.

        Well, my wife raced from the kitchen where she had been preparing her speciality—deep-fried steak and kidney pies… It is the lard that gives it that lovely flavor, you know. Then she ripped the box open with vigor and excitement I had not seen since our wedding day… when she saw the size of our yummy four-tiered chocolate cake.

        Well, to cut to the chase, the last three and a half weeks, my life has completely changed. You see, for breakfast, before I went off to my prestigious job as floor foreman at the paperclip factory, my wife always made a delicious traditional fry up, the classic and infamous full Monty, so to speak: bacon, sausage, blood pudding, fried eggs, fried mushroom, fried bread, baked beans, and we, each and every morning, sat together and ate. But ever since the day after that darn box arrived and she started the W.B.C. program, all that lovely traditional diet changed. Yes sir, the very next morning I got served a modest-sized bowl of muesli… It wasn't even served with gold top, full cream milk. No, apparently the unsavory stuff she drizzled over the rabbit food was a soy product—disgusting, if you ask me. It might be considered food on the continent or with all those wackos in America… but certainly not here in the good old United Kingdom.

        Later that same fateful day, at noon, I eagerly opened my lunch pail. As you might imagine, my stomach was gurgling and complaining as loudly and with all the muster it could rustle up after the terrible excuse for breakfast it had been forced to endure—which, judging from the looks of my work colleagues, must have been quite substantial. Now typically inside there would have been my usual double-decker cheese and onion sandwich, adorned with lavish amounts of pickle, two bags of spicy chicken curried crisps, a packet of jammie dodgers, three homemade pickled onions and a can of Iron Brew. But guess what I discovered that day…Well, let me tell you… There was a rather limp green salad, with a few radishes, tomatoes, celery sticks, and some strange vegetable I had never before seen in my life with a bottle proclaiming its peculiarly colored contents to be a low fat dressing, and a bottle of Perrier water. I was, as I am sure you can tell, not amused.

        That evening when I arrived home, I found to my further dismay that our usual Wednesday night lasagna followed by a red currant cheesecake the wife makes had been replaced. In its place was a reduced carbohydrate wheat pasta tossed in what I can only guess to be a low fat, low calorie, and low flavor tomato sauce.

        My wife didn't seem undeterred, in fact, far from it! To my amazement, she gaily chatted about the whole new wardrobe she was going to have to require after the weight effortlessly begins to fall off as she gently nibbled on her meal. Then she mentioned that it would be a wonderful time for us to take that Mediterranean cruise that she always dreamed of…

        And so this went on and on, and then on some more for three and half agonizingly long weeks…

        I am writing this to tell you that my wife, as of today, finally met her ideal weight goal, and I know for a fact that her weight will continue to drop.

        For, you see, this very morning over a glass of prune juice and some flax breakfast cereal, something inside of my meat-deprived brain finally snapped. For, you see, this very morning as my wife perused her cruise brochures, she failed to notice that I had picked up the electric carving knife… The very one that was once used for carving the copious amounts of roast beasts that we not so long ago regularly consumed—

        "I can't read the rest of the letter to you…" the troubled police officer said. "But suffice to say, after she had been reported missing by her employer, I went directly to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Higginbottom. I arrived to find the front door open, so after announcing who I was, I cautiously entered.

        "It was upstairs where I finally found them… Mr. Archibald Higginbottom was sitting completely naked in the bathtub, joyfully putting something that appeared disturbingly like raw meat into his contorted mouth.

        "He smiled to me as I entered and pointed to his wife's body perched awkwardly on the scale. No head, mind you, just the body.

        "'She finally is at her ideal weight,'" he blabbered. "'She has lost over a stone…'"

        "It was then I saw it… Between his flabby pasty thighs in the bathtub, his wife's head—with a flabbergasted look now permanently etched on it."

        Inspector Heath smiled at his wife standing at the door to his office.

        "Another one for the book, eh?" she said, shaking her head in a combination of disgust and bemusement.

        Inspector Heath simply took another large bite from his ham sandwich—as a globule of mustard squirted in an apparent desperate bid for freedom from it and landed onto the front of his white shirt—and nodded.


The end.




copyright 2006 Henrick Glutonlumps.

Henrick Glutonlumps is unquestioningly the most horrid little excuse of a man I have ever met. He refuses to bathe, despite a Court order, and as a result apparently has rashes in body parts that I cannot even bring myself to think about. However, despite all this, on occasions, he does write stories that have the tiniest amount of merit.