Please stop making fun of my svelte form

Image originates here.

Hey Agnes. How’s it going Eliner? Guys? Hey, it’s me. What are you guys up to? Oh, you’re bathing, hey? Just splashing about. That looks like fun. Bet that yard of cloth feels good between your legs too, huh? Can I join—hey! That was my eye! What are you doing? It hurts when you prod me in the ribs. Yeah, I know they’re bony. You guys made sure I won’t forget that in a hurry. You thought I’d have filled out by now? Well, so did I. Guess I just haven’t been blessed by our gracious and holy Lord in that way. Yeah. Hey—I really don’t want to make a big deal of this, but, um, can you guys stop making fun of my svelte form?

It’s not like it’s such a big deal, and I’m fine with being laughed at sometimes—I mean, you’ve gotta have a sense of humour about yourself, right? But lately, it’s kinda been an every-single-day thing.

Like, every evening, when I come down to the hot springs and I see all you amply built ladies luxuriating on your rocks, I’m also tending to hear quite a few little snide remarks about my lack of flesh, lately. And I’ll be honest with you: it’s starting to make me feel just a weeny bit crappy.

The thing is, it’s almost like you guys think I want to look like a weird gazelle or something. I don’t know, to buck society’s expectations or something. But I don’t! I’ve tried everything to change my hideously petite body into a healthy plump one: leeches, nettles, cod liver oil, butter, whale fat, six servings of boar a day... and nothing. I haven’t got a single lump or bump on me, except for these pitiful mounds four inches above where my breasts should be. Yeah, I know, right? Not only are they small, they’re overly firm and way too perky to boot.

I hate myself.

Janett says I made myself this way because I’m always moving around, frolicking on the beach and stuff, instead of reclining or doing needlework. Well, it’s true. I used to enjoy feeling fresh sea air in my tiny lungs and the gentle tide lapping at my bird-like ankles and ridiculously toned calves. But now all the joy’s been sapped out of that too.

Sometimes it all just makes me want to cry.

Don’t worry though, it’s not contagious. Were you worried it was? Maybe that’s why you’re teasing me—maybe you’re scared that you’ll end up skinny and alone too one day. I’m sure you won’t though; you’ve got that great metabolism. All you have to do is look at a slab of pork and—bam! Someone’s got a brand new pretty li’l potbelly of their very own.

I’m just so so jealous because… well, to be honest, I don’t even like food that much! I mean, sure it’s fine and all. But I’m more of a wild strawberries kind of gal than a hearty game-meat-loving lass. And lately, chowing down has turned into a bit of a chore for me.

Ow! Don’t throw that stone at me—I don’t have anything to cushion the blow! That one got me right on my hipbone! Ow! My collar bone! Ouch. Gee, you guys really can be cruel sometimes, you know that?

I wish you’d like me. Maybe if you spent some quality time with me you might see that I actually have a lot to offer. I can play the mandolin. Not well, but well enough to hum to at least. That could be good at parties?

I wish so many things.

Most of all, though, I wish I lived in a different time; one where sexless, possibly infertile bodies were lusted after and considered more desirable than beautiful buxom, life-giving ones.

God, I disgust me.

One of these days I am going to learn to love offal, inertia and the great indoors—just you wait! But until then, I guess I’ll just exist—a lonely, pathetic size-0 of a non-woman. Thanks a lot, genes. Thanks for nothing.

Ow! Hey! Hey!! Actually, you know what? It’s not my fault I was born a disgusting ectomorph, OK? And it’s not my problem that you can’t be cool with that. Can I help it if my thighs are smooth and lithe and not thunderous and attractively dimpled like yours? No. I was born this way. So I’d like it very much if you gave me a bit of a break from your stones.

And—wait, what’s that? Why are you lighting that torch? You're bringing it over here, now. How come? What's up with that? Don't wave it in my direction, I'm likely to go up like a flimsy piece of lint.

Agnes? That’s my hair!

Oh God.

Fat Frenchies protest 'Mardi Car' festivities

In a small French village outside Camembert, Walter Lotringer, 43, has orchestrated a unique cultural event. The inaugural ‘Festival de Mardi Car’ – a three-day celebration of the ‘auto’ culminating in a parade during which local men roll their Fiats decorated with colourful paper through the village square – is set to commence on Saturday 3 October.

Though the event is expected to attract over 20,000 Fiat enthusiasts and bring the equivalent of $100,000 into the town, not everyone is happy. Lotringer’s festival has alarmed fishwives and parlour maids alike, who believe the celebrations planned by the dishwasher repairman will detract from the original ‘Mardi Gras’ scheduled for the following weekend.

“‘Mardi Car’ means ‘Car Tuesday’,” says the Truffe’s French correspondent, Adrian Fernand. “The fishwives are enraged because their own three-day festival of obesity, the Mardi Gras – literally, ‘Fat Tuesday’ – has been eclipsed by the funny car show.”

C éline de Sylvère, 82 kg, has created an anti-motor vehicle club that aims to raise public awareness of obesity at the expense of public awareness of cars. Along with a band of twelve compatriots, De Sylvère has spent several weeks putting up posters that display the Fiat branding with a strike through the letter 'I'. “Since the launch of the book French Women Don’t Get Fat, we obese French women have been swept under the rug," she explains. "Unlike fat Australiennes who celebrate their expanding waistlines everyday in the KFC, we as a minority have only three days per year – the Fat Tuesday carnival – over which to display our girths.”

Frederic Lotringer disagrees. “I am a happy-go-lucky guy, yes?” he said. When asked to comment directly on the demise of the Fat Tuesday celebrations, he laughed, spat on the ground, did a crab dance, then removed a crepe from his trousers and ate it.

Though Lotringer’s actions have outraged more than 0.02% of the population, the French government have failed to act on the issue, Nicolas Sarkozy remarking briefly at a press conference, “One has only to look at my own woman to see that French women do not get fat. Fat French women simply do not exist; like impotence and Medusa, they are a myth. If you want to find a French-speaking person of expanded arse size, you may try Qu ébec.”

The heavily Francophilic blogosphere has exploded over the topic, with such luminaries as memoirist and dead feminist, Simone de Beauvoir posting regularly on their Twitter sites. “The problem lies not in whether a woman is fat," de Beauvoir's most recent post began. "But only whether she presents as an object of decoratio [sic].”

Mardi Car celebrations continue unhindered and plans for Fat Tuesday have presently been put on hold. Amidst the doom and gloom, however, there is hope: Damien Eames, Marketing and Communications officer for Sydney’s New Mardi Gras said the festival would be happy to accommodate an obese French women’s float in the 2010 parade. De Sylvère remains skeptical, "So this man would like a float for beauties of Rubenesque proportions. So he will have to pay for this pleasure; we are of little means and dependent upon our husbands who are but humble dishwasher repairmen and sommeliers. Sigh. Hiccup. Sigh."

Get the ladies to Sydney: click here to donate to the Truffe’s ‘Accesse internationale d’obese’ fund.

Like a truffe to the slaughter

TEXAS: Pepi, a 9-month-old English sheep-pig would’ve ended up on someone’s dinner plate, or worse – in domestic blood and bone mixture, had he not found himself two pairs of children’s gumboots in a downtown Dallas Wal-Mart ten days ago. The boots, manufactured in the Solomon Islands and imported by Cherry Girl International Inc., have effectively anthropomorphised Pepi who now denies his porcine heritage outright. ‘Squrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnk!’ he said on Tuesday, to the outrage of the Texan government and his owner, Jose Lupez-Brown of Chiquito Flats, an outer suburb of Dallas. ‘Pepi was born a pig and now he wants to be a man. He has brought shame on my piggery. He is dead to me [spits].’

The anthropomorphism debate has raged across Texas since February last year, when a head of asparagus smeared lipstick over its upper stalk to persuade an Austin sous chef that it had too many human-like qualities to be steamed along with its brothers. The sous chef has since resigned.

‘We don’t know what to do,’ desperate housewife Marita Lanza, 47, cried into The Truffe’s digital voice recorder. ‘Now we cannot cook a thing! Chickens wear eyeglasses, tomatoes have fashioned themselves little booties and canned goods are donning the leotards of children’s dolls to avoid being eaten. We can't help it – these foodstuffs look cute to us and therefore we will not eat them! Do you see?!’

Pepi maintains an objective stance on the matter, claiming he didn’t ‘eeeeeaaaaarrrrrrraaaaaawwwww’ with any ‘squornt!’, though the jury is still out on whether he will be allowed to keep his new status as ‘Official Non-Human Denizen’ – a residential visa for food products introduced by the Texan government after pressures from anthropomorphist activist groups.

Peter Eng, president of Vegumans United, yesterday wrote on the organisation’s Facebook ‘fan’ page that ‘[the] bloodshed has gone on long enough. There is no reason why a horse, deer or cabbage – so long as they have a vest or brassiere on – should not have the vote. It’s a criminal outrage that a human woman and a dried soy snack with a top hat can’t walk down a suburban street holding hands. Stop the injustice now!’ At the time of posting, the group ‘10,000 strong for anthropomorphised foodstuffs’ had 212 members, with new members joining at a rate of 6 per hour.

Pepi’s case will go before a Dallas county court early next month, but until a final verdict is reached, the FDA has cautioned against leaving food unattended for too long and specifically warns against storing food near a magazine rack, on top of a television set or close to any digital media device where it may be susceptible to the influence of ‘unhinged liberal humanist minds beyond the control of the United States government’. The Truffe has not yet been blacklisted for its pro-anthropomorphism activities, but remains an affiliate of Cherry Girl International, Inc.

Welsh man confines self to grass prison

In the small Welsh village of Byrrrdkiliy, a man in his thirties has fuelled controversy by confining himself to a 2.5 metre-wide wheel lined with instant lawn. The man, 31-year-old North Byrrrdkiliy resident, Doinal O'Bucket, says he built the wheel when he uncovered plans by local government to "pave over all natural surfaces in the village".

"It's just not right what they doin'," O'Bucket, who calls his contraption 'The Fancy Jig', says. "They got a right cheek to pave over me grass. One minute you're all nice-like, playin' on your lawn eatin' a donut and the next you got a concrete stub stuck to your foot. That's why I built me own permanent patch o' grass. I need never leave it, right? I got ever-thing in here."

Though no spokesperson for the Byrrrdkiliy local council has been available for comment on the perceived 'pave-over' plans, those close to O'Bucket have not been shy in raising concerns for his sanity and safety. Shannen Lannegaggin, 32, O'Bucket's former girlfriend, says her ex-partner began talking about what he called 'a government conspiracy' shortly before their split last month. "All night long it was 'Shannen, they're taking me grass'. When I asked why they would do that, he'd just curse and kick at me. Then I found the plans for the fancy jig in the study and I asked him to leave. Luckily he wasn't on the lease, so he hasn't got a leg to stand on, legally."

O'Bucket, a self-employed dot.com professional, spends a large portion of his day pushing his grass wheel around Byrrrdkiliy town centre, where he elicits frowns, sighs and huffs from locals who are tiring of having to fit the fancy jig into their daily dealings with O'Bucket.

"This politically correct business has gone way too far, if you ask me," Thomas Noirrberth, owner of the popular Byrrrdkiliy Sunset cafe, told The Truffe. "I mean, you fit in other minorities because they drive normal cars and that. But there's no room in this town for a grass wheel -- it just doesn't fit. Plus he wants his coffee with soy milk. Now, I've made adjustments for the new-age folk by getting in them herbal teas that cost a bloody packet, but soy milk -- this is Byrrrdkiliy, not bloody Bristol, mate!"

Concerns have also been raised by general busybodies who claim the grass wheel is a danger to the physical and emotional wellbeing of the village children. At the time of posting, three complaints have been lodged with council in the hopes that O'Bucket's wheel may be banned from Byrrrdkiliy streets. Maggie Schlepper, a local shopkeeper, observed, "Children try a lot to play in the wheel. I tell them, 'no, no. Stay away from that wheel. It can be a very dangerous wheel.' Then they tend to go away back to their mamas and popos, sometimes crying, sometimes not. The crying ones I give a lolly to. I don't care much for the ones that don't cry."

In Australia, however, where ongoing drought conditions pose a real threat to community enjoyment of natural surfaces, O'Bucket's 'jig' has been praised as a prototypical alternative to public parkland. "I think he's onto something," Deputy Prime Minister Julia Gillard told The Age newspaper's 'M' supplement. "Look, I'd buy one if it meant I could have longer showers -- no-one goes to the Botanical Gardens anymore, anyway. Global warming means we have to move with the times, and this wheel is a wheel of the future times."

O'Bucket says he will stay in the fancy jig indefinitely, so long as people are kind enough to throw food at him. When asked whether he felt his quality of life might be compromised by living in a wheel, he said, "I can do anything that any of those buggers out there can do. Any able bodied bugger." O'Bucket expects to be nominated for a United Nations Triumph award and is planning an overland tour of Britain for Autumn.

Video game blamed for copycat attacks in Indian capital

Image: VenturaCountyStar

NEW DELHI, India: the dry afternoon heat is climbing into the forties; the dusty streets are a flurry of activity; a lone street vendor adds chilli to his fortnight-old curries – anything to distract from the soaring temperature. Suddenly: panic. Wooden cages housing chickens are flung into the air – their feathered captors in cacophonous pursuit. A baby in his mother’s arms begins to cry as a cart filled with exotic fruit is overturned in a colourful and calamitous arc. Chaos ensues as a gang of mopeds and bicycles tears around the corner, knocking over a passing cart, the sounds of a distressed donkey drowned out by the put-put of the gang’s engines.

It sounds like a scene from Slumdog Millionaire, however this terrifying tableau is taking place in the Indian capital and is believed to be part of a string of copycat attacks inspired by the latest instalment of popular video game series, Grand Theft Auto.

Following in the trend of previous editions, Grand Theft Auto: New Delhi is set in an animated landscape and like its predecessors, focuses heavily on gratuitous and consequence-free violence. In the vein of its previous incarnations, the game challenges users to play from the perspectives of several protagonists who attempt to conquer several levels of gameplay; each with a common aim: wanton destruction. The fast-paced game, accompanied by a soundtrack of driving sitar riffs, encourages players to carjack, ransack, loot and desecrate sacred cows. Previously, other editions of the game have come under scrutiny by parents and ethical standards boards alike; the game long-considered to glamorise violence, corruption and allegedly connected to real-life crimes.

No stranger to criticism, the series has come under fire in the past for its plotlines that require players to engage the services of prostitutes in order to progress further in the gameplay. Similarly, the blogosphere and internet forums have been set alight with condemnation of the interruption to gameplay following lengthy delays in securing arranged marriages in the New Delhi edition. “At first I thought I thought it was interesting that [the developers] had adapted the local customs into the game,” says gaming enthusiast, Darren Parker, “but having to wait several decades before you can progress in the game is just plain crazy. It’s an eternity in the gaming world!” Unsurpringly, Grand Theft Auto: New Delhi has experienced little commercial success outside of India, with many of the cultural nuances escaping the average user.

Software development company, Rockstar Games has been unavailable for comment.

Thank you to Nick C. for submitting an image. You too can participate in The Truffe by e-mailing an image to kirdlaw@yahoo.com, citing its origin.

Deportment classes for junkies in new Work for the Dole scheme

Image: Channel Nine

An elaborate plot by the Federal Government has been revealed in the wake of last night's final episode of Aussie Ladette to Lady. Eggleston Hall finishing school Principal, Gill Harbord and Vice Principal and cookery teacher, Rosemary Schrager have been seconded by the Department of Human Services and Centrelink to assist in a new Work for the Dole scheme. Seemingly in Australia to film the conclusion to the six-episode Channel Nine series, Harbord and Schrager are engaged as consultants to combat the grave issue of flailing junkie etiquette.

The proposed programme devised by the finishing school and conducted by local experts will see those eligible enrolled in a curriculum aiming to eradicate the inelegant practices associated with heroin and crystal methamphetamine addictions. "Over the years as drug addiction has increased, common courtesy has decreased significantly; with many addicts forgetting the valuable life lessons instilled by their mothers," says Gavin Williams, a Government spokesperson for the initiative. "We hope to redress the current situation and ensure junkies can coexist harmoniously with the greater community."

This radical approach will offer various prescribed classes in gentility including 'How to scratch one's ice mites like a gentleman', 'Achieving and maintaining correct posture when experiencing the 'nods'' and 'Which spoon one should use to cook up heroin'. A course of instructional grooming sessions will also dictate that bare feet or thongs are inappropriate footwear choices for job interviews and will school junkies on how to wipe one's nose when high using a handkerchief rather than the back of one's hand.

Freelance speech therapist and elocution specialist, Julie Delancy says, "I will be conducting lessons to educate and develop the conversational skills of our dear junkies. I will teach them how to differentiate between the words 'bought' and 'brought', reinforce that the past tense of the verb 'to come' is in fact 'came' and not 'come'; and will remind students not to drop their 'g's when they are chasing [smack]."

Church groups have criticised the move saying that it glamorises the practice when it should be abhorred. "Junkies should be in rehabilitation facilities, not taking high THC with society ladies," slams Rev. Luke Palmerston of the Uniting Church Mission. "This is a sheer waste of funding that could be better invested in our under-eights football team half-time orange fund."

However, the instructors involved in the initiative remain confident for a positive outcome after the six-month trial. "If I seek to achieve anything with my students," says Delancy, "it is that when they request fifty cents to make a phone call from strangers, they do so with rounded vowel sounds in their diction."

Thanks to Simone P. for submitting an image. You too can participate in The Truffe by e-maling an image to kirdlaw@yahoo.com, citing its origin.

Hawkers sell themselves to move cut-price merchandise

Image: Google Images

Accustomed to having doors slammed in their faces, hawkers are being left out in the cold in the current world economic climate. Inflammatory door signs, rabid pets and automatic sprinkler systems have proved no match against the tenacious door-to-door salesman, however, a force much greater has seen their dogged approach halted. Challenged by adversity, an alarming new trend has emerged of salesmen resorting to cheap and tawdry techniques to entice the stay-at-home consumer. The result is 'shirtless sales', now a staple for the purveyors of economical stationery around the every-important 'back to school' period.

Due to the internet revolution of free websites such as Wikipedia, many information-seekers are turning online for the answers they seek. This creates a paradoxical phenomenon: once the household prerequisite of yore, flagging sales of the print version of Encyclopaedia Britannica have seen it become a dust-collector; much to the consternation of many a housewife unable to purchase Magic Duster® refills without travelling salesmen.

Consequently, the declining sales figures have seen the self-esteem of many salesmen plummet to bargain basement levels. "I was getting out of bed at 7am, depressed as I got dressed every morning. Just the mere thought of putting on a shirt was near impossible," says instigator of the movement, Adam Fuller, an Ab-Rocker™ salesman and self-proclaimed fitness fanatic. "When I realised that I didn't have to put a shirt on, that's when my whole outlook changed."

Fuller's renegade tactic saw him treble the units of Ab-Rocker™s sold and received 43% more percolated coffee than instant from housewives who had invited him into their homes. "I can't believe the effect the simple act of not wearing a shirt has had on my business," Fuller says. "I'm making money, looking great and feeling terrific."

The bare-fleshed approach, although popular among homemakers has its detractors. The Cancer Council of Australia has issued a warning against the practice citing that such activity has proved dangerous by similar shirtless trades such as the construction and daytime exotic dancing industries. National depression initiative, beyondblue acknowledges that Vitamin D is beneficial in the prevention of depression, however takes the same stance as the Cancer Council.

Not only concerning the governing health bodies, the backlash to the trend is widespread. The torso-proud contingent has bewildered local business owners whose 'No shirt, no service' policy has come into question when the suburban cowboy clientele frequents their happy hours. "I don't know what to think," says Larry Richardson, proprietor of The Owl and Shamrock Hotel, "I know they're not wearing a shirt, but they're wearing a tie – it's all very confusing."

Some have not been so lucky. Beverley Watson is known as the local Avon lady in the Lower Templestowe area. Unfortunately for the 73-year-old grandmother, becoming a topless door-to-door salesperson saw her admitted to the Alfred Hospital Burns Unit with second-degree burns after she took to demonstrating the George Foreman grill as a way of making ends meet. She is now recuperating at home but unable to hug her grandchildren or do the crossword puzzle.

Is this a lasting fad or will it spread into the wider community? The Truffe asked the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints if it was something that their missionaries would consider adopting into their strategy. "Don't be ridiculous," says senior Church member, Joseph Kerr. "This display contravenes everything we believe in the Mormon faith. Besides, where would the elders pin their name badges if they're not wearing a shirt?'

Thank you to Simone P for sending the image.