There were two parts to the Freak Show – two tents – one contained The Fat Lady and the other was filled with the usual freakish-fare. I didn’t really want to pay to see the Fat Lady so I poked my head under the tent – it seemed silly to�pay�to see a fat lady but this was before the days of google searches and voyeuristic television masquerading as health and human interest stories. Before the days of shows actually called,�World’s Fattest Woman.

So I poked my head under the tent. A pit had been dug in the dirt in the center of the tent – she, all 600 pounds of her, sat in the pit in a�teeny weeny bikini.�The paying public stared and stared while she thumbed through the pages of a paperback.

The other tent promised a variety of oddities and I handed my tickets to the dusty man guarding the flap-door. In this tent there was a stage and on the stage there was a sign and on the sign were the words, “World’s Fattest Man”

The crowd – and I was in the crowd now – stared at the sign and waited for the man. He hobbled out using two canes – those canes that have the four baby canes on the bottom. He reached the center of the stage and lowered himself into a reinforced chair, spoke to the crowd about his thyroid disorder, and asked if we wanted to see him attach a bucket of bolts to his tongue.

Ugh. I wanted my tickets back.

Why can’t things be the way they’re supposed to be? And why can’t freaks just enjoy their exploitation? If I were a freak (if)�I’d love it. I’d use my freakish power for the good of mankind.

I’d love to have one super long arm. A Super Arm. I could take seemingly candid pictures of myself�even more easily!

Do you see that?

It’s like someone else is taking the picture.�But what a struggle!�

If I had Super Arm my whole life would change!

There were two parts to the Freak Show – two tents – one contained The Fat Lady and the other was filled with the usual freakish-fare. I didn’t really want to pay to see the Fat Lady so I poked my head under the tent – it seemed silly to�pay�to see a fat lady but this was before the days of google searches and voyeuristic television masquerading as health and human interest stories. Before the days of shows actually called,�World’s Fattest Woman.

So I poked my head under the tent. A pit had been dug in the dirt in the center of the tent – she, all 600 pounds of her, sat in the pit in a�teeny weeny bikini.�The paying public stared and stared while she thumbed through the pages of a paperback.

The other tent promised a variety of oddities and I handed my tickets to the dusty man guarding the flap-door. In this tent there was a stage and on the stage there was a sign and on the sign were the words, “World’s Fattest Man”

The crowd – and I was in the crowd now – stared at the sign and waited for the man. He hobbled out using two canes – those canes that have the four baby canes on the bottom. He reached the center of the stage and lowered himself into a reinforced chair, spoke to the crowd about his thyroid disorder, and asked if we wanted to see him attach a bucket of bolts to his tongue.

Ugh. I wanted my tickets back.

Why can’t things be the way they’re supposed to be? And why can’t freaks just enjoy their exploitation? If I were a freak (if)�I’d love it. I’d use my freakish power for the good of mankind.

I’d love to have one super long arm. A Super Arm. I could take seemingly candid pictures of myself�even more easily!

Do you see that?

It’s like someone else is taking the picture.�But what a struggle!�

If I had Super Arm my whole life would change!