The Increasingly Fat Frank

The Increasingly Fat Frank

I don't think Frank ever thought about much except burgers, fries and football. He was a typical American man. Oh yes, he mowed the lawn, took out the trashed, and cleaned the gutters in the fall, but only when his nagging wife, Maggie, compelled him with her shrieking voice and cross demeanor. Frankly, Frank was a henpecked man. He found solace in cheeseburgers, fries and football. Sometimes, he liked baking soda too, but only when taken as directed - and then only sparingly.

Frank considered himself a lucky man though. He had managed to capture the attention of Maggie Fruneplot in high school. What a wild and wacky courtship they had. From furtive meetings at dusk behind the dumpster at Guffies' to the underwater picnics - they shared magical moments, stolen meaningful moments that would soon disappear in the swill of reality.

When they married, reality set in, as it so often does when perfectly happy couples tie the knot. Maggie found out too soon that her little-girl dreams of marriage were nothing but foolish fantasies - immature meanderings of a puerile mind, Marriage was a a pile of detritus - meant for movie stars who could afford quick Mexican divorces and ugly frumps who just wanted a warm body to "hang out" with on bowling nights.

Maggie had to wash his undies and clean follicles from the bathtub every single Tuesday - and did other disgusting things she tried so hard to avoid even thinking about. It seemed her whole life consisted of cleaning up after the increasingly fat Frank. She scrubbed his dirt constantly and scowled with utter disgust at her fate. She escaped her downtrodden existence as a cheeseburger cooker and follicle cleaner by dreaming of her very own prince charming - a man with a flat stomach, all 32 teeth, and tight follicles that wouldn't release revolting hairs into the bathtub every Tuesday. A clean man, who showered daily and ate broccoli with a smile. Someone who would tell her she looked nice even when her pantyhose were billowing at her knees. Someone who would run his fingers through her hair even when it was greasier than the cheeseburgers she grudgingly cooked for increasingly fat Frank. She knew her dreams of a prince charming who knew how to handle a frying pan as well as he did a woman were vain and futile, but she dreamed on anyway, even under the tight glare of the increasingly fat Frank. Her toes curled when she dreamed of prince charming - if only Frank had seen these subtle clues, maybe he'd have been different.

Maggie sat with her toes curling feverishly with a knowing smirk riding her haggard face. What a frump, Frank thought as he popped another frank in the microwave. Where are the buns? He bellowed. In the meat compartment, dear, Maggie replied - interrupting her charming fantasy of the prince who curled her toes.

Frank absolutely loved to bellow. Bellowing was his second favorite thing to do. He loved bellowing almost as much as he loved his dog - actually, truth be told, he loved bellowing more than that mangy, mutt. He especially loved bellowing at Maggie. Gosh! He loved it so. He smiled at the thought. He popped another frank in the microwave and, with the plastic mustard bottle in his hand, he waited impatiently for the timer to tick down to zero. I'm so hungry, he sneered.

It was Saturday and Maggie never cooked cheeseburgers on Saturdays. She was a Baptist, after all. For this reason, Frank despised Saturdays. Saturdays became nothing but a long day full of franks and buns and Maggie. What a disappointing fate for a former high school football star and ring-toss champion. I'm so miserable, he mused. Maggie's such a frump. I deserve more than a woman who can curl her toes. I deserve better.

Frank popped another frank in the microwave and dreamed of sleek women in slinky dresses and toes that didn't curl like an elf. I've married a frumpy elf, he thought. The package of franks was all but empty now. He sneered at Maggie, who was smiling and curling her toes - and with all the disdain he could mustard he bellowed - GO TO THE STORE RIGHT NOW AND BUY ME MORE FRANKS.

And so she did.

While Maggie was out buying franks for Frank, Frank was plotting his escape from his life with the frump with the curled toes. He reached under the sofa cushion and dragged out a purloined newspaper and quickly thumbed to the page he had read with much interest earlier in the day:

Magic Molly's Mating Ménage
www.mmmenage.com
Tired of your frump? The headline gasped.
Love is on sale! For $29.95 we guarantee to match you with your perfect mate.
No frumps. No humps. No dumps. Guaranteed

Frank's hardened heart heaved as he dreamed of slender, slinky, slatterns running amok though his Maggie-less house. No more franks on Saturday, he mused. I can have cheeseburgers and fries seven days a week.

Frank paid $29.95 and was asked to create a profile. Hmmm, Frank thought. How do I describe myself so that I attract only prime specimens? After living with curled-toes all these years, it's high time I lived the high life, complete with a trophy companion who's all flesh and no brain.

He began his profile ....

Hi there. I'm Frank. I'm glad your here reviewing my profile. If you come this far, I guess you must already know what a marvelous hunk I am. If you're "curvy" or if you have a "few extra pounds" or you're a BBW - keep on moving - you're fat.

If you curl your toes, move on. I've been married to a curl-toed frump for too many years.

I'm seeking a slender, slinky. QUIET woman who knows her place in life. If you like cheeseburgers, French fries and beer and not pate de foi gras and Pouilly Fuisse, you're my kind of woman. If you believe a woman belongs behind a mop and not behind the controls of a 767, you're my kind of woman.

If you like the sound of snapping thumbs and you can get from the Kitchen to the bedroom in less than three seconds - regardless of the size of the house, let's talk.

Have you ever heard of God's gift to women? I am he. If you've been seeking the real deal - the real God's gift to women, look no further: I am the man you seek.

Muscular, athletic, and educated, I have many six packs and tons of abs. If you yearn for abs and six packs, I have them. I'm not romantic, I'm a down-to-Earth, lets-quit-the-nonsense-and-get-down-to-business kind of guy. I don't like to waste time. I want what I want when I want it and i want a sleek. slinky woman, with perfectly straight toes.

I don't write poetry, and I don't write checks. No. I don't read books. Real men don't read. If you're looking for a smarmy poet I am not your guy, so just keep on moving. If you want a romance novel hero, let's talk. I'm the kind of guy you see out chopping wood with his shirt off - tanned and sweaty and smelling like a man. Yes, I smell like a man. If you like that, write me. Now, do what I say and write me. You won't get a second chance.

That ought to do it, he belched, tossing the empty beer bottle across the room. And so, his lonely hearts ad placed, he waited for the responses to pour in.

The increasingly fat Frank smirked as he shoved another frank in the microwave.

(To be continued...)

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