The Naked, the Fat and the Dead

Here’s some free advice: Don’t get so fucking fat that when you die, your family has to deal with your ginormous whale-carcass.

One of my local pathology colleagues had a gastric bypass patient die today – he was 45 years old and 780 pounds. I think his BMI was, like, a trillion.

Listen, I have nothing against fat people. First of all, fat chicks love to have sex, and are good at it, because they are so grateful for the attention. Second, fat people get sick and die more often, which is great for business. Third, and most important, fat people are great to make fun of.

Here’s the problem with the morbidly (mortally?) obese: there is nowhere to put your fat ass when you die. This dude was rejected by multiple funeral homes because (and I’m not kidding) he risked exploding their crematory furnace. You see, fat is flammable; if you have witnessed a grease fire, you know what I mean. The family was too poor to pay for the double cemetery plot and the extra manpower required for burial and transport. The dude would not even fit into the refrigerators in the morgue – they had to wall off half the room in plastic and pump refrigerated air into a jury-rigged plastic bubble.

They are calling the local zoo to see if they have animal crematoriums. If this doesn’t work, they are going to end up having to cut this guy into pieces and burn him up a bit at a time. Again, not kidding.

So, listen up fatties: put down the extra large Mr. Pibb and step away from that Hardee’s Monster Thickburger. Your family will thank you when you are dead.

Oh yeah, Merry Christmas.