“Went to a party. I gorged all night. I ate 16 slices and looked a sight. But now I’m stuffed. You’re out of luck. I’m stuck on the sofa, too fat to fuck.”

These were the first lyrics that I ever wrote. I was fifteen and thought that I was gonna be a rockstar. It was 1982 and my band was called “The Fat Bellamys.” We thought it was the coolest name ever because Bellamy kind of sounds like bellies. Fat rockstars and fat punkers were unheard of back then. We all pretended to be brothers when really we were just best friends. I was the lead singer and took the name, Jelly Bellamy. Malcolm was not a good name for a frontman. Jelly suited me well. In my skin-tight ripped jeans and stained wife-beater vest, ass and belly a-bulging, I thought I was the dog’s proverbials, wobbling around on stage like a rolly-polly lunatic. I would spit half-chewed pizza crusts at the disgusted audience as I screamed out my shitty lyrics, diaphragm visibly vibrating. I was determined to be the most popular fat kid in the Valley.

The rest of the band consisted of Kevin (Tubby Bellamy) on guitar, Jay (Chubby Bellamy) on bass, and Killian (Kill the Bellamy) on drums. Killian was the fattest of us by far and the best looking. I was always secretly jealous of him. The drummer is always the fattest guy in the band. He also got to sit down all the time which I thought was hella unfair.

We practised in the store room out the back of my Dad’s pizza restaurant. It was also the only place that we ever performed. The restaurant was called “Do Littles” a pun on our surname, Dolittle, as in the doctor who could talk to the animals. Not that anyone in my family ever tried to talk to animals, we were too busy eating them and living up to our moniker by being as lazy and idle as possible. Dad was not a hard worker and neither was I. 

The restaurant was located on a side street off the south end of Ventura and was famous for its large greasy pies, large greasy owners, and large greasy customers. We played there every Saturday night for three years in return for free pizzas and sodas. Who needs paying when you’ve already got all the free food that you need right? I must’ve gained a hundred pounds or more in the few years that I was playing at the restaurant, as did the rest of the band.

We used to pull in a sizeable regular crowd of chubby punk kids, geeks, gluttons, and other assorted fat losers. Our fans were all the kids that would rather fill their faces than get high on crack and PCP with the “cool” kids at the Whiskey. We all thought that it was way cooler to die of diabetes than an overdose. We were the Chris Farley to their River Phoenix. We were ahead of our time.

Every weekend we would stuff ourselves stupid for hours on slippery slices of deep pan pepperoni, melted gooey four cheeses with stuffed crusts, and massive 20” meat feasts. We’d slurp down bucket loads of free refillable sodas and slushies until we were fit to burst. Then we would go on stage for twenty minutes. Huff and puff as we attempted to thrash out a handful of two minute songs, betweens our burps, before exhaustedly stumbling off stage and back to our booth to refill once more.

I wrote a few other songs during that period that we added to our weekend menu. “Eat the Poor,” was interpreted by some as being a satirical take-down of the Reagan administration's economic policies, but really it was just my personal desire to eat, digest, and excrete poor people. “California Uber Bellies,” was our theme song, and just generally spoke to how we saw ourselves. “Give Me Convenience Foods of Give Me Death,” speaks for itself, as did “Ice Cream Truck.” But it was with, “Too Fat to Fuck,” that we finished every performance. That was our masterpiece. That was the cherry on the cream, on the cake, that sat on top of the sundae, that was our set.

I wrote it when I was fifteen so had never had sex for that reason. I didn’t know that I was writing my own prophecy. Anyway, girls were kind of hard to come by in the fat geek punk scene. Or at least they were until Melissa showed up.

She was beautiful with curves as wide as the horizon. Her dumper truck ass and thighs looked so succulent trapped in her multi-coloured leggings. She was as wide as the door with the silverest cellulite and fattest cankles that I had ever seen. Her belly hung soft and low and appeared to wave, with every step and breath, as if it were made of melted chocolate. It hung limp like a bumpy deflated tire, in comparison to mine, which was round and smooth, and ballooned out like an over inflated beach ball, due to the years of excessive intake of carbs and sugar, with which I’d joyously glutted it on a daily basis. I was in love. And that was before she even ordered.

I saw her looking back at me and she smiled as she told the waiter, Merrill, that she wanted three twenty inch Seafood pizzas with extra cheese. I waved Merrill over and loudly copied her order to insure that she would notice me. She did and it worked. We matched each other for hours, meat feast after meat feast. I’d never seen a woman devour so many recently living creatures, of land and sea, flattened out on thick greasy, cheesy dough before. Eventually it was time to play and I shook my giant hips and ass at her. She lapped it up and when I took off my 4XL t-shirt in order to show her my sweaty glistening love handles I swore I could see that she was getting wet.

After the show I got up the guts to go and talk to her and we sat for hours talking about our favourite foods and restaurants while we continued to fill our bellies. By the time we snuck off to the store room we must have been drunk on at least ten pizzas a piece.

This is where it went wrong. As hard as I tried I couldn’t get it in her. Our bellies were just too large and incompatible. With my 48” pants around my ankles and my massively bloated beach ball belly bouncing around, my dick just didn’t reach far enough. My boulder smashed into her soft wobbly beachfront but we couldn’t make the all important connection. We tried it standing, we tried it sitting, we tried it every which way but loose, but it wouldn’t work. I had just turned eighteen years old and was already too fat to fuck.

After about fifteen minutes of immense sweating and effort she noticed that I was starting to lose my boner and became upset. This agitation turned into real anger and she eventually stormed off, leaving me alone in the store room with my sad semi and over 200 lbs of pizza dough. As she left she swore that she would get me back for the humiliation. She slammed the door shut and I was left to satisfy myself with the dough.

The next weekend I was shocked when she turned up with her “cousin” Enrico. He was huge and muscular, over 6 ft tall, and 300 lbs. I nervously ate my own weight in pizza wondering what was going to happen. He raped me in the store room after the show. Apparently, you can be too fat to fuck, but not too fat to be gay.

I went off punk music soon after that. It’s funny how the most aggressive sexual violence possible can affect you. Also, a copycat band had just come out. They called themselves the “Anarchy Burgers (Hold the Salad)” and were based at a burger and hot dog joint in Pasadena. They totally ripped off our idea. The final nail in the coffin was when I got a ‘cease and desist’ order from some company called ‘Alternative Tentacles,’ which I thought was strange. I always believed that was an entirely different kink.

alley.

The rest of the band consisted of Kevin (Tubby Bellamy) on guitar, Jay (Chubby Bellamy) on bass, and Killian (Kill the Bellamy) on drums. Killian was the fattest of us by far and the best looking. I was always secretly jealous of him. The drummer is always the fattest guy in the band. He also got to sit down all the time which I thought was hella unfair.

We practised in the store room out the back of my Dad’s pizza restaurant. It was also the only place that we ever performed. The restaurant was called “Do Littles” a pun on our surname, Dolittle, as in the doctor who could talk to the animals. Not that anyone in my family ever tried to talk to animals, we were too busy eating them and living up to our moniker by being as lazy and idle as possible. Dad was not a hard worker and neither was I. 

The restaurant was located on a side street off the south end of Ventura and was famous for its large greasy pies, large greasy owners, and large greasy customers. We played there every Saturday night for three years in return for free pizzas and sodas. Who needs paying when you’ve already got all the free food that you need right? I must’ve gained a hundred pounds or more in the few years that I was playing at the restaurant, as did the rest of the band.

We used to pull in a sizeable regular crowd of chubby punk kids, geeks, gluttons, and other assorted fat losers. Our fans were all the kids that would rather fill their faces than get high on crack and PCP with the “cool” kids at the Whiskey. We all thought that it was way cooler to die of diabetes than an overdose. We were the Chris Farley to their River Phoenix. We were ahead of our time.

Every weekend we would stuff ourselves stupid for hours on slippery slices of deep pan pepperoni, melted gooey four cheeses with stuffed crusts, and massive 20” meat feasts. We’d slurp down bucket loads of free refillable sodas and slushies until we were fit to burst. Then we would go on stage for twenty minutes. Huff and puff as we attempted to thrash out a handful of two minute songs, betweens our burps, before exhaustedly stumbling off stage and back to our booth to refill once more.

I wrote a few other songs during that period that we added to our weekend menu. “Eat the Poor,” was interpreted by some as being a satirical take-down of the Reagan administration's economic policies, but really it was just my personal desire to eat, digest, and excrete poor people. “California Uber Bellies,” was our theme song, and just generally spoke to how we saw ourselves. “Give Me Convenience Foods of Give Me Death,” speaks for itself, as did “Ice Cream Truck.” But it was with, “Too Fat to Fuck,” that we finished every performance. That was our masterpiece. That was the cherry on the cream, on the cake, that sat on top of the sundae, that was our set.

I wrote it when I was fifteen so had never had sex for that reason. I didn’t know that I was writing my own prophecy. Anyway, girls were kind of hard to come by in the fat geek punk scene. Or at least they were until Melissa showed up.

She was beautiful with curves as wide as the horizon. Her dumper truck ass and thighs looked so succulent trapped in her multi-coloured leggings. She was as wide as the door with the silverest cellulite and fattest cankles that I had ever seen. Her belly hung soft and low and appeared to wave, with every step and breath, as if it were made of melted chocolate. It hung limp like a bumpy deflated tire, in comparison to mine, which was round and smooth, and ballooned out like an over inflated beach ball, due to the years of excessive intake of carbs and sugar, with which I’d joyously glutted it on a daily basis. I was in love. And that was before she even ordered.

I saw her looking back at me and she smiled as she told the waiter, Merrill, that she wanted three twenty inch Seafood pizzas with extra cheese. I waved Merrill over and loudly copied her order to insure that she would notice me. She did and it worked. We matched each other for hours, meat feast after meat feast. I’d never seen a woman devour so many recently living creatures, of land and sea, flattened out on thick greasy, cheesy dough before. Eventually it was time to play and I shook my giant hips and ass at her. She lapped it up and when I took off my 4XL t-shirt in order to show her my sweaty glistening love handles I swore I could see that she was getting wet.

After the show I got up the guts to go and talk to her and we sat for hours talking about our favourite foods and restaurants while we continued to fill our bellies. By the time we snuck off to the store room we must have been drunk on at least ten pizzas a piece.

This is where it went wrong. As hard as I tried I couldn’t get it in her. Our bellies were just too large and incompatible. With my 48” pants around my ankles and my massively bloated beach ball belly bouncing around, my dick just didn’t reach far enough. My boulder smashed into her soft wobbly beachfront but we couldn’t make the all important connection. We tried it standing, we tried it sitting, we tried it every which way but loose, but it wouldn’t work. I had just turned eighteen years old and was already too fat to fuck.

After about fifteen minutes of immense sweating and effort she noticed that I was starting to lose my boner and became upset. This agitation turned into real anger and she eventually stormed off, leaving me alone in the store room with my sad semi and over 200 lbs of pizza dough. As she left she swore that she would get me back for the humiliation. She slammed the door shut and I was left to satisfy myself with the dough.

The next weekend I was shocked when she turned up with her “cousin” Enrico. He was huge and muscular, over 6 ft tall, and 300 lbs. I nervously ate my own weight in pizza wondering what was going to happen. He raped me in the store room after the show. Apparently, you can be too fat to fuck, but not too fat to be gay.

I went off punk music soon after that. It’s funny how the most aggressive sexual violence possible can affect you. Also, a copycat band had just come out. They called themselves the “Anarchy Burgers (Hold the Salad)” and were based at a burger and hot dog joint in Pasadena. They totally ripped off our idea. The final nail in the coffin was when I got a ‘cease and desist’ order from some company called ‘Alternative Tentacles,’ which I thought was strange. I always believed that was an entirely different kink.