Bertha’s Physical

Dark, beady eyes peered out from behind her round, puffy face, which led down to a double… nay, a triple chin. She was strangely proud of her enormous breasts, wearing a shirt five or six sizes smaller than was tolerable for even the most non-judgmental set of eyes. It was an impressive bra indeed, somehow able to mutate the forty-pound flapjacks into what could arguably be described as somewhat spherical in shape, and to fight gravity so persistenty as to keep them, more or less, above her gut. A gut which somehow protruded farther than her breasts. A gut which was the product of a lifetime of profligate inhalation of cheeseburgers and french fries and bacon and buffalo wings and tacos and loaves of french bread and soda and milk shakes and cakes and brownies and cookies and cheese and candy and butter and mayonnaise. There was a flat area on her shirt covering the cave in the very bottom of which her belly button [presumably] resided. This impressive gut hung down over the waistband of her spandex, which had the word “JUICY” printed on the ass. Juicy was one way to describe it. Another would be vomit. Or I don’t want to live on this planet anymore. Her legs were impossibly thin, physiologically paradoxically supporting the aforementioned gargantuan torso and oh, so many chins.

“It’s not my fault, it’s genetics!” she said to her doctor, who was once again delivering his yearly chastisement for her not only failing to lose weight, but for adding, albeit unnoticeably to even the keenest human eye, an extra thirty pounds.

“Genetics? GENETICS!? What is that, an ice cream company?” Beholding Bertha’s undulating rolls offended him on both a personal and an aesthetic level.

Although she was offended, she had a fine sense of humor, as many or even most very fat people have, and was able to laugh at the humorous response. “C’mon Doc, you know I love my cheeeeeezeburgers!” she said as she winked at him, grabbed her gut, and jiggled it around. When she released her gut it continued jiggling unassisted for several seconds, like a large bowl of jello. A very, very large bowl. A humungous bowl of brown, sweat-flavored jello.

He was mesmerized by her bouncing fat and spaced out while staring at it. Delusionally mistaking his stare for attraction, she lowered her voice to a seductive whisper: “You like what you see, Doctor Rothy?” His name was Rothstein but she figured “Rothy” would be cute and sexy. He snapped out of his trance, looked up at her face which she had tilted downward (incidentally, adding yet another chin) to look up at him with her most alluring bedroom eyes, and at the exact moment he realized what she said, and that she was serious, he gagged involuntarily.

“Uh, shit, I mean…AHEM! Something in my throat,” he said, trying to make his gag seem like something other than what it was. It worked. She mistook his gag for embarrassment at being caught checking out the goods. And there were plenty of “goods”. Enough “goods” to feed a village. Enough “goods” to sustain a large pride of ravenous, emaciated lions for a week. “Goods” enough even to provide someone of her size with more than half of a full dinner.

Just as Dr. Rothstein had put the events leading up to that point behind him and was ready to move forward with the physical examination, he heard a low, sustained rumble from behind Bertha. “What’s…” he cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “What IS that?” he asked no one in particular. It was the beginning of one of the most literally breathtaking flatulances ever perpetrated in the history of the Milky Way. When Bertha started laughing her thundrous laugh, the full gaseous explosion emerged in all its glory.

With each laugh and the resulting pressure on her anus, a pocket of gas was released. In order for each mini fart within the overall fart symphony to reach the air, it had to travel through over ten inches of sweaty ass crack. It made this arduous trek by traveling through in spurts, and as it passed each inch, forcing its way out, the fat opened then closed, and when it closed, it made a clapping sound. During the symphony there were no fewer than three pockets of gas making their way through the ass crack tunnel at any given moment, and the combination of all of the differently pitched, simultaneous clapping sounds over the ten seconds the offense lasted was easily the most absurd and hilarious thing either of them had ever heard, especially considering that the source was her bowels.

Doctor Rothstein burst out laughing uncontrollably, but as he recovered from his first laugh and took a large inhalation, what he inhaled was not air, but a mixture of one part air, three parts the noxious, rotten cheeseburger and mayonnaise gas that had been expelled from the depths of Bertha’s innards. He immediately lost his vision completely, extended both arms forward in a Frankensteinesque manner, and fell backward, hitting his head squarely on the corner of the counter. He never regained consciousness, and so goes the story of the death of poor Doctor Rothstein.

Rest in Peace, Rothy 🙁