“Ouch!” I scream out, clutching my hand to my chest while hopping around, cussing like a sailor. “Mother fucking, cock sucking, shit eating, bitch ass…”
“You alright?” the bored voice of an obviously bored 14 year old girl calls out.
Wait, don’t jump to conclusions, you pervs!
That 14 year old is my daughter…
DUN DUN DUUUUUNNNNNN!!!!!
People of High Octane, please allow me to introduce to you, my daughter (dead horses everywhere are neighing) Annabelle Jean Dean. Belle to her friends. Although at this stage in her life I wonder if she has any of those.
For you see, my daughter is, well, fuck me, she’s emo/goth. Winter time in Houston can mean it’s 40 degrees, or 80 degrees. But regardless of what the temperature is outside, my daughter always wears the same damn thing. Jeans (mostly black, and filled with so many rips and tears, I wonder if she’s homeless), a t-shirt (assuming, because I’ve never actually seen it), and a black hoodie that is usually zipped up the nape of her neck, with the strings constantly in her mouth.
“No.” I answer sullenly, giving her a look as if to ask, “do I look alright?”
I stick the webbing of my hand into my mouth. Sucking the pain away supposedly helps; or at least that’s what Jiles tells the ladies when his pee-pee hurts.
Dear old Belle walks forward, arms crossed over her chest, sneering at what I just spent the past 3 hours putting together. “I just don’t get it. Why is this,” she waves her hand forward dismissively. “Why is this so important?”
I smile, proudly, as I look upon the brand new trampoline, sitting in the backyard of my Houston home. The pain dissipates enough, proving Doctor Jiles correct, for me to reach out and pull myself up onto the bouncy contraption, the never been used springs protesting. With tentative steps, I shuffle step my way to the center, trying to not giggle with every step I make.
“When I was your age, your Grammy Dean had one of these in her backyard. My friends and I would bounce for hours on end. We would start to wrestle, I remember I would always call dibs on being Dan Ryan.” I chuckle at the memory. “In fact I did my first dropkick on one of these things. Which reminds me, you gotta promise me, you’ll never try that! Your mom would kill me!”
Annabelle looks at me as if I were the biggest idiot in the world. I gotta admit, she’s been in my life for about three and a half weeks now, and that appears to be her go to look for dear old dad.
“What happened?” She doesn’t want to ask, being the obnoxious teenager that all 14 year old girls are. But she also can’t help but to ask.
“I ended up kneeing myself in the face,” I grimace as I replay that memory back in my mind. “Knocked loose a few teeth, ended up getting braces to fix ‘em. Mama Dean was NOT happy.”
Belle simply shakes her head at me, but a smirk begins to form. I shake the old memories away and carefully begin to jump. You know the kind of jumps, a person who has never been on a trampoline make. I’m barely moving, but my arms are out wide for balance, my heart is beating like crazy, and a huge smile is plastered on my cherubic face.
“For years I’ve been dying to get on one of these things.” I explain to my daughter, as if she cares. “Your Uncle Cancer and Uncle Dooze got me one about six years back. We were playing “Crack the eGG,” where I was the egg (you know the game, the eGG sits in the center of the trampoline, with their arms hugging their knees to their chest, while everyone else jumps around trying to get them to crack.) They double jumped me so high and when I came down I went right through the damn thing. Hit the dirt so hard I thought I broke my tailbone! I don’t know what they laughed at more, me ripping through that thing, or me having to sit on one of those rubber donuts for the next three months.”
I shake my head miserably, realizing that was about the time that I began to loath donuts. I couldn’t sit on one, or eat one without hearing one of them chuckle. The assholes. Now that I think back on those times, I suddenly don’t feel so bad for breaking their trampoline!
“But, back then, I was about ah-hundred pounds heavier.” I answer as she gives me another look of disbelief, as she watches me continue to pussyfoot my jumps. “I wish they were here now, I mean, Jiles has been talking about trampolines since Christmas, he’d love this!”
My confidence builds as I begin to jump higher and higher. The smile grows bigger and bigger with each leap. I suddenly begin to laugh as I drop to my back and then shoot back to my feet.
“I just can’t picture you being fat, like you say,” Annabelle calls out as she gets closer to the trampoline, smiling at my exuberance. Her hands resting on the bar, as if she’s about to roll on herself. “I mean, you keep talking about it, but Mom never had any pictures of you to show me, except for the ones way back in the day when you two first got together.”
“Yeah, that was quite a long time ago.” I answer as I come to a stop, a look of contemplation on my face. “Shoot, for a lot of people they can’t think of me as anything other than a fat piece of shit.”
I offer a shrug, as my daughter finally succumbs to the desire to jump. She deftly rolls onto the trampoline and climbs to her feet. With absolutely zero fear, she gets to jumping, causing me to bounce in her wake.
The two of us continue to bounce for the next two hours. She impresses me with her flips, and I’m sure I impress her with my butt bumps. But time for fun comes to an end, and the two of us make our way inside. Passing by the front door on my way into the kitchen for a bottle of water, I happen to see the FedEx man dropping off an envelope at my doorstep.
I don’t recall ordering anything, but that doesn’t stop me from taking a detour to grab the manila envelope before I make my way into the kitchen.
Ripping it open I find a piece of paper folded in half.
“Dear Bobby Dean,
I must say I really respect you….. I respect your….. Oh wait, I don’t respect you! You are a gorbellied, pale-hearted, measle. May blood seep from your anus and vomit spew from your nose, you sick…”
“What is that?” the incredulous voice of my daughter draws me from the hand written letter. I look over my shoulder and see her scrunched up face reading the letter in my hand.
“Just a guy trying his best.” I answer with a shrug of my shoulders. I can see why he got eliminated out of a HOFC tournament, but I left that part unsaid as I simply crumple the paper into a ball and toss it across the kitchen where it hits the rim of the trash can and goes sailing away in the opposite direction.
My daughter simply looks at me, once again, as if I were mentally challenged. Man I’ve got a long way to go to get used to this…
Looks like my time in the HOFC was a bust. Can’t say I’m surprised. But I did learn something about ole Lee Best that I never knew before. Who knew he was such an equestrian! I never would have imagined him getting so upset over the mere thought of me beating dead horses. I don’t know if he took that literally or if he knew I meant figuratively.
It does lead me to wonder, though, is he a Bronie? If so, who is his favorite? Pinkie Pie? Twilight Sparkle? I could totally see him being a Nightmare Moon.
Anywho, as I was saying, I can’t say I’m surprised that I got ousted so early. Being outright mean with words is hard. Mike Best makes it look so easy, but most people seem to forget, he’s naturally just a prick. I’m too nice for my own good. Or maybe it’s because people KEEP using the same “Bobby is fat” approach, and I’m just tired of addressing it.
How many times do I have to say it, I’m not fat! Once I was skinny and muscular. I was at the top of my game, winning titles, spitting fire, kicking asses, taking names, and then I suddenly stopped caring. I became chunky. Then I got fat. Then I got obese. Then I got super obese. Then Lee said I couldn’t come back to HOW unless I lost weight. So I lost weight. I became just regular obese again. Then I was in that weird in between, where I wasn’t quite obese but I wasn’t quite fat yet.
But then something horribly unexpected happened. I lost the tag team titles to the likes of Hollywood and Matthews, UGH, which caused an avalanche of epic proportions. The titles were gone, I lost my friends Cancer Jiles, Doozer, and Zeb Martin, and suddenly I just gave up on life. I was once again back to being super obese, and I just didn’t care.
With no friends, no titles, and no real future, I went away. Slinked off to my cave, like so many times in the past. No grand farewell, no HoF induction, no goodbye tour. I was simply gone, ready to be the next star of My 600lbs. Life.
Then something weird happened. All the words Lee, and Mike, and Cancer, and that one Dominatrix woman with frizzy hair, all their words started to sink in. I started to realize it was time for me to stop relying on others to carry me. It was time for me to stand on my own two feet for once. Cancer Jiles can’t always be there to pat me on the head. Zeb Martin has better things to do than to confuse me with his southern accent. Doozer can’t be Doozdini if I’m riding his coattails. And I can’t keep paying that frizzy haired witch to tell me what a bad little boy I am!
Sure I may lose to someone like Simon Loveless here and there. But it certainly isn’t the end of the road for me. I mean, I’m not a balding snake oil salesman who masturbates with milk for lube. God, I’d hate to be THAT guy!
So I started to take care of myself. Because suddenly there wasn’t anyone around to do it for me.
As the weight started to fall, I suddenly realized there was more for me to accomplish, and I started to really push myself. No more Taco Bell. No more Papa Johns. No more Godiva chocolates at 2 in the morning. Now it was asparagus, and kale. Protein shakes and juice cleanses that made my shit the nastiest color green that you could imagine.
Now, here I am. I’m not skinny and muscular, but no way am I to be considered fat. Doozer would always say, his favorite type of woman would be a woman that was plump. Had enough meat on her bones that you could get a nice grip, but not so much meat that you had to worry about suffocating in the middle of the night when she spooned you.
God I miss him.
It’s odd Jatt, I always heard this saying about people living in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. I mean, I look at you and I can’t help but think you’ve gotta be pulling a Bobby Dean yourself. Now that you’ve got the LSD title, you’re in your own version of the eGG Bandits, called the Best Alliance, your ambitions are fulfilled! You’ve got some damn fine coattails to ride, and suddenly you stop caring about appearances.
Soon you’ll be the size of Jattlantis!
So go on and underestimate me.
You wouldn’t be the first person to do so.
Just ask MJ Flair how that worked out for her…
I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I’ll happily play the role of the Hollywood Boyz, or was it DarinWood, and take that lovely LSD title off your hands. For you see, I’ve finally got the one thing Mike has constantly been saying he wishes I had more of…
Oh, and you can take your donuts and shove them up your ass.