We need more Simply Sara around here.
does she actually gain like 100 pounds between each video or do i just block out the memory of how fat she is?
|Frank Rizzo |
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And holy shit, scroll to the bottom to read the long post.
5 Michelin stars!
wonder what else was handed down to her?
damn, she actually runs out of breath while eating.
yeah my chest feels tight watching that part
Now worrying about my own cholesterol levels makes me feel pretentious and arrogant.
I need more cake in my life.
|Sudan no1 |
I'd like to have a taste of her hot water sponge cake, if you know what I mean.
Rodents of Unusual Size
I think he means that cake is generally delicious and he would like to have a slice of it, as long as it is made out of flour, sugar, water, and not anything that could possibly bring an image of this woman doing unholy things to mind.
Now how do you know her vagina is rotten? For all we know, it could be warm and moist and smell like sponge cake. If that happens to be the case, Sudan no1 probably wont tell us.
im sure he would. you dont bag a gem like simply sarah and not tell the whole world.
I keep expecting the Oompa Loompas to roll her away to be juiced.
Beyond cankles, these are chinkles.
I wonder if she really thinks that water that's been boiled for 5 minutes is any different than water that's just been boiling for a few seconds.
This one just kind of makes me sad; you couldn't hear her labored breathing in the last one.
This is actually one of the sadder of the regular POETV exhibits. She seems like a genuinely sweet lady who really does just want to share her love of cooking with the world. The problem comes from the fact that she has let her love of cooking overwhelm her common sense, and it's clearly gotten unhealthy for her.
The "evil" in these videos is kind of like watching someone spiral out of control. These kinds of dishes she's preparing are probably delicious, but they were from a time where 1: everyone engaged in hard physical labor for the better part of the day, whether agricultural or industrial or housekeeping, but physical labor to burn off the calories found in such things, and 2: the amounts of butter and sugar needed to bake a cake like this were luxuries, meaning that you got these sorts of dishes only on the most special occasions.
So Simply Sara gets five stars of evil not just because it's an overweight woman making an obscenely unhealthy cake, but because she represents in a broader way Western society's self-induced slide into gluttonous depravity on a level that would make Caligula blush.
TLDR: she is fat and it is a metaphor for american society.
I suspect the person filming these is trying to give her something to look forward to rather than worrying about who's hip.
you guys seem to be forgetting the 7000 calorie macaroni salad, which was the greatest injustice to cuisine in the history of the universe.
this fat has a face in it
I'd like to see her as a Gunther von Hagens exhibit where her skull was partially extracted out the front so it could be compared to how grotesque the tissues around it had grown.
Not enough stars in Super Mario Land for a Gunther Von Hagen reference here. Bravo, sir.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. It's a beautiful Sunday night and I'd like to ask you to fasten your safety belts, we're about to try something new and their may be some mother-fucking turbulence ahead.
If I may interject to all of the above comments and ratings, and not to any one in particular, I do believe you gentlemen have missed the true evil here.
The real, honest evil, is that Sara was maybe just slightly overweight long, long before this happened. Curvy, but full of lost hope, self hatred from her father's disgusted stare, and an endless string of adolescent Saturday nights that started in the beginning believing with schoolgirl hope someone really would call, slowly turning into a fear and dread of even seeing the ever quiet telephone from the corner of her eye and instead to staring into the bathroom mirror with tear filled eyes into cheeks that were maybe only a few grams away from the real, ideal BMI. But that scorn, her mother's derision, her father's drunken comments... that's where the real heaviness was. The way their eyes burned with a hatred towards her that she was never old enough to understand how it was their own cowardice, their real loathing of each other and themselves for ending up in a trailer park with someone they never loved and a child they never wanted, in lowly jobs they despised, and she was the only one defenceless enough for the two weak and pathetic monsters to emotionally beat on.
Then she met this man. This calculating, thin, sickly and sociopathic man. But handsome; beautiful even. A man who saw every convoluted fold of self hatred in her soul like it was laid out before him as a tied lamb before a starving but supremely self disciplined wolf. A man of genius near my own, but who had
perfected his ability to show love as if he genuinely felt it, something she wanted and needed like any shunned and lonely, lost child. A man who saw her wounds and analysed them with a mathematical, predatory, methodology.
What choice did she have? She didn't have the strength, or the knowledge, or the understanding of how to control herself properly because of the ridicule and shame and ignorance that had built up, increment by increment. And for once, to just have one person, with those soft and forgiving eyes smile at her and
say, 'You are wonderful just the way you are.'
After so many years, so many nights and days, so many eternal moments of always feeling wrong, she felt okay. She felt beautiful. She felt like she was no longer the fat, disgusting, unlovable reject that no one wanted, even though the real tragedy is that it was only her fear that gave her those feelings. By our standards, long ago there was still a fork in the road before her, and one a path to a true happiness, maybe arduous, foreboding and ascending a long mountain of self assessment- one that could only be hiked alone and on the shadowed side, the one mocked by every smiling face that played outside together during lunch and recess while she wept by herself, alone again at her classroom desk.
The other, however, she had been given a well worn map to since before she could say the word 'ugly'. This, the warm, comforting absolution of being cared for by this beautiful and terrifying man who knew exactly when to show only the slightest hint of her father's anger in the corner of his eyes while he bathed her in the brilliance and dizzying, dreamlike warmth of his absolute acceptance and loving smile.
On this path, he would walk with her. When weak, he would become her ocean-side Christ and carry her.
When her soul felt empty, he would feed it love.
But that isn't the only thing he fed her.
My colleagues, I accept that only one of such staggering intellect as myself may have discerned these things- for the untrained eye in any other unlike this man- a man very similar to myself in some ways, would see only what she saw. Hear what she heard.
'This meal is amazing. We should do this more often.'
'You truly have a gift, Sara. You... you're an artist when it comes to food.'
'No, we should finish this. It's too good not to.'
'It's just that my stomach... my condition... you have the rest. A dessert like this would be a crime to create and then let go to waste. Not with all of those starving children all over the world. I read that thirty thousand die every day from malnutrition and hunger, did you know that?'
'Could you bake bread again next time? I know I only had two pieces, but it was the best bread I've ever had. And that pasta... honestly, I've been to four star restaurants in France that couldn't hold a candle to you. Not even the Italians in Tuscany. One day I'll take you there, just to show them how incredible you are.'
'Of course you don't look fat. That's ridiculous. Do you know what anorexia is? What body dysmorphia is? It's when you look in the mirror and your brain tells you that you should receive these improper perceptions of yourself, so you think and look and feel like you have a body you don't actually have.'
'No, it's a real and serious problem we are afraid to talk about and afraid to admit to ourselves exists. So all these people think they look horribly, when they really don't. Trust me, you look wonderful.'
'Listen, I have to go to work- I know it must bother you that I can't talk about what I do because of my contract with the government- but you put all this energy into breakfast, and lunch, and that snack- stay home- relax- you've earned it. Watch some television and rest. If I can't make it home in time, start dinner without me.'
Tiny, innocuous comments scattered throughout a landscape of admiration for her. Placed like invasive seeds set to sprout in the beds of a protective forest of heartfelt compliments by the one person who truly cared. Who looked into her eyes and understood her pain- and found her wonderful enough to be with someone as wonderful as him.
And, just as innocently, in passing, unimportant conversation:
'I had this idea. For you to share this with the world. Let's get a video camera. If anyone deserves to be famous, it's you. I can't even watch chefs on television any more because of you. Don't blush, we both know it's true. When I come back next week, let's make our own cooking show.'
That might be the fattest comment on poetv.
You see, gentlemen, I am a nutritionist. And I have been hunting this man. It is the only thing that keeps me going. It is my only purpose now that my wife and daughter are gone.
Once, I travelled the country promoting my fad diets. Like this man, I found lost, lonely and insecure souls, and used my knowledge to milk them of every penny I could by telling them the bland and generic platitudes about themselves that anyone could apply to their own lives and give themselves hope. More often women than not, women who were in every way perfect in their own unique imperfections. But wounded, lost souls.
Full of self loathing matched only by their understanding the only momentary thing that made them feel better was the same thing that made them hate themselves- the warm, womb-like, embryonic wash of soul food. The great, pain relieving, wizened and loving motherly smile that any of us needs to feel whole, filling every wound.
Filling every cracked facet of still beautiful gems that could only see themselves as tarnished and broken glass.
Filling it with the lies that gave them comfort and me their bank accounts.
I learned to understand the eager and hopeless eye that inevitably greeted me at each book signing. I trained myself to recognize the eating patterns behind every cry for help. I sold them Mongolian tapeworms; I sold them maple syrup mixed with lemonade and Tabasco sauce. I sold them enemas of rehydrated water mixed with rare, infinitesimally tiny and ultimately valueless South American minerals.
But I kept my public life as a hero, worshipped and followed by countless sad housewives, separate from my personal life. I had a beautiful house. My wife and daughter were both attractive and thin, and we lived in the perpetual high energy state the body creates right before entering starvation as a survival method. We proudly kept a near empty kitchen and dining room, needing only a full refrigerator of the only nourishment the human body requires- coconut milk mixed with highly refined and easily absorbed power-loads of nutritional supplements and a host of African intestinal parasites, served with one piece of whole wheat bread soaked in orange juice a day for each of us.
Soon, I became so popular I was travelling the talk show circuit. My art, my craft, had been refined to the point where I could spot a deficiency in a potential mark within a few words. And with the commonly available fixes to these problems I bundled my own personal brands of additional and unneeded regimens, books and pills. And profit.
I began to hear rumours of a man who disputed my claims. A man who threatened my integrity. A man I soon realized was as powerful and knowledgeable as myself in the art of controlling another human body. A man who taunted both the artists of the culinary world and the scientists who studied the human form by anonymously leaving recipes for high fat, high carb diets scattered about the greens of diet clinics around the country. A man who had the resources to have hundreds of boxes of candy bars rain down from the skies out of the bellies of fire fighting air-planes upon remote and secluded children's weight loss camps in the middle of their busiest season. A dark, diabolical genius that hacked into the automated computer systems controlling food packaging plants so that a mixture of high fructose corn syrup and liquefied cream cheese replaced the morning juices of every schoolchild in three cities.
I understood this man was a threat; and so, when questioned about him, I mocked him with the veracity and passion of a man possessed on national television. I called his courage, his intelligence, his training into questioned and asked why, if he was so sure of himself, why his acts were always behind a pseudonym. I thought nothing of it, as he was a coward and I was loved and untouchable.
Then he took the only truly important things in my life away. I came home one night to a silent house, filled with the noxious smells of dread, sweat and gourmet food. Curious, I went from room to room until I found my daughters bedroom door ajar.
Then I saw them. My wife's massive, bloated form. My daughter's engorged belly, horrifyingly pregnant with the ebullience of pork fat and foie gras. The only people I cared for were now a mass of fleshy saddlebags. They had both gained over four hundred pounds each in the time I had taken to drive across the city and meet the sole Nigerian in the country who had managed to contact me by email and arrange the import and sale of the parasites we needed. Parasites that were so microscopically small the human eye could not see them while hidden inside plant kernels, and yet he assured me of the extremely high danger and cost of smuggling them through Airport customs- as bringing bags of their what would look like to your ignorant eye to be common hallucinogenic morning-glory seeds out of his home country was punishable by death and the removal of any inherited nobility titles.
Escargot drifted in rivers of olive oil and lard around them. Raw eggs and body-building supplements coalesced in yellow and crystalline melanges in the newly formed cups and valleys that gravity now dragged through the mountains of their flesh. The encrusted pus of an Alfredo sauce cooked under low heat for hours with buckets of whipping cream, pounds of butter, and at least six times the normal amount of parmesan caked their wordless lips.
Agony washed over me as a dying Argentinian beef cattle wailed from the corner of the room, it's missing hind legs spurting slow and powerful jets of steaming blood onto the half eaten, bacon wrapped limbs of the rarest of delicacies, a young and unloved child raised only on Allium sativum and the tears of the manatee. Sadness and shame filled me over such a needless and senseless loss of life of the poor ungulate creature as it died in my presence, while at the same time my nose was filled with the enticing and delicious aroma of cooked pork and roasted garlic.
This however, was not to be the climax of my horror. As my mind reeled from the brilliant rainbow washes of Peruvian ceviches and bruschettas intermingled in my wife's grease thickened hair, as saturated fat tears glistened on my now morbidly obese daughter's cheeks, the only woman I had ever truly loved gasped, a heavy laboured breathing of one who did not have the muscular capacity to fight against the prison of her own corpulence. She was not dead. All the while, the first thing I had seen, the smiling face that had been smeared, pasted, written in roasted red pepper and sun-dried tomato infused cream cheese mocked me from the far bedroom wall.
As I wept, I knew what I must do. I did what any man would do. With my own hands, I put her down. I put her out of her misery. Crying, telling her how much I loved her, telling her not to fight back any more, the pain would soon be over.
I did what any nutritionist would have done.
After being cleared of all charges by a sympathetic judge whom I eloquently defended my case to, stating I did not need a lawyer and choosing defiantly to represent myself while keeping a firm secret of my hidden knowledge that his wife was a few pounds overweight and his second cousin's best friend was a nutritionist himself, to which I used manipulatively to my advantage, I craftily allowed them to think they had convinced me to spend some time in a psychiatric unit. I used this time to better study the human psyche and see how I could attain a level of control over others that my tormentor had gained. Without the Nigerian intestinal worms, my ability to use my cunning to understand how others would react to every precision word I used dulled due to the excess weight I retained, my body using too much of it's resources to process unnecessary fibres and proteins, and I found myself lulled into the slow mindedness of how I imagine the rest of humanity must operate every day. I was released shortly afterwards.
I was unprepared, however, for the shock that greeted me when I confronted normal society again. I wallowed in my failure. Every where I looked, I saw his face. I was a rapidly growing (in bulk) shell of a man. I drank beer mixed with raw eggs for breakfast. I ate bread smeared in pork fat while weeping in front of the mirror in my underclothes. This led to more trouble with authority when I misjudged what time the bathrooms to the university library opened to the student populace during one long overnight voyage into my own self hatred. I found myself unable to achieve climax unless I was in the presence of a slaughterhouse or in the kitchen of a fast food restaurant. The only thing that kept me sane was the constant supply of intestinal parasites from my Nigerian friend. I had, however, become too accustomed to using them, and was now continually grinding up the seeds that carried them in order to digest more and more. I eventually spent the last of my money on the parasites and had decided to take them with me to the seclusion of a nearby convent, in order to cleanse my mind of my demons, and the hazy memory of the numerous prostitutes I had taken to killing. You may consider yourselves worthy to judge me now, gentlemen, but let me finish my story, and remind you that prostitutes exist so that real human beings do not have to suffer.
Within those hallowed walls, I found even as an unbeliever in superstitious nonsense, some momentary respite, and stayed for several months in a self imposed vow of silence and solitude, only to observe those around me and learn from them. I felt those two restrictions on myself were suffice to not need any vow of celibacy, but this led to the occupants becoming aware of my presence and having me forcibly removed. I had nothing; I had transcended the Big Bang of self hatred and achieved the Big Crunch of self destruction.
I had stared into the Abyss and it had stared back, then responded to my visage by recoiling in disgust and terror.
This changed, however when I was offered a consulting job by the desperate and nearly useless California Health Department. My unquestionable expertise was needed in order to solve several cases of premature obesity and, although they knew quite well I was using them just as ruthlessly in order to get close to Him.
The agent directly responsible for supervising me is perhaps the first person I have come to trust in a very long time, although my resistance to caring about anyone ever again has led me to refer to her only as 'That woman who looks like the main character from that horrible television show Bones'. Her compatriots appear to be the talking pig detective from Duckman, and a walking forehead with eyebrow problems that is in love with the fourth of their team, a woman so naive and emotionless I considered her at first to possibly be an animatronic experimental droid designed to respond in such a bland and monotonous manner to anything presented before her in order to perpetually force us to verify exactly what level of mediocrity we would endure in the pursuit of our cases.
They do not understand, however, how far I am willing to go. I rest assured, however, that any of you could understand how I am a driven man. As I become closer to the woman in charge of my unit, as Fat John taunts us with each new case.
I will find him. I know it is only a matter of time. I will avenge my loved ones. Eventually he will make a mistake, and I will corner him. It will take only one wrongly prescribed diet pill. One fingerprint left upon one broken and spilled bag of liposuctioned fat. One stray drop of Olestra induced anal leakage.
I know too, I may have to sacrifice the rest of this team in order to catch him. Aside from my supervisor, I have no problem with this, as I answer a higher calling now. One purpose, one goal, although I see how my human emotions for this woman will lead to one terrifying conclusion:
In the ruins of an abandoned Jenny Craig, perhaps the basement of a burnt Curves, the three of us will converge. The time for my vengeance will blend with the torment of the fact that she has made me care again. Fat John will be at my mercy and I will have to choose between fulfilling the only purpose I now have in life, or merely let her write him several fines for importing illegal food products and tampering with the electronic equipment that monitors the educational system's breakfast programs. The only way to buy myself the time with him I need to feed him to death, will be to swiftly and mercifully break her neck.
I will do what any nutritionist would do.
|Rodents of Unusual Size |
um, wow to the above. Just wow.
She thinks a teaspoon of sugar is a "pinch."
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