Love Handles

Why do they call them "love handles?" Nobody loves them. I've got quite the paire of amore grips myself, but none of you ladies out there seem to want to grab ahold. All they seem to do is get in the way of my pants. Sometimes, when I first put my pants on, they seem to fit rather snugly, so I boldly go forth without a belt. This unfailingly proves to be a mistake. As I walk throughout the day, I begin to sweat. It is common for those of us handle-owners to be heavy sweaters, and I am no exception. As I walk throughout my day and the unavoidable perspiration takes hold, it acts as a lubricant between my body and the pants that fit so snugly mere hours ago. These pants find themselves sliding down my legs inch by inch in what seems to be an attempt to free my love handles from their Levi-Strauss cage. No one wants to see this portion of soft, pale flesh, and I contemplate buying a girdle, but I wouldn't know where to purchase such an apparatus. Besides, I would rather spend my cash at a nearby Dunkin' Donuts where I can step into the air conditioning and try to hold the sweat at bay. I can't get my order to go, because my hands need to be free to hold up my pants. So now, I find myself succumbing to the sugary, lard based, carbohydrate-rich treat that acted as a seed to grow the love handles in the first place. As I inhale donut hole after donut hole, washing them down with a healthy, extra large Coffee Coolata, I dream of an attractive "chubby chaser" who I will meet on the street who actually loves my handles. She will own a catering company and employ me as a "taster" to try out her new recipes. She will, of course, have an incredible body without the slightest trace of love handle as I am a complete hypocrite, and will be sorely jealous of my horizontal protrusions, the sight of which will never fail to work her into a sexual frenzy.

From the time of my youth, my grandmother always said I was a "good eater." I'm not exactly sure what she meant by that, but I'll take a compliment where I can get it. So now the box of donut holes is empty, the sugar has been licked from the cardboard, and the Coffee Coolata has been reduced to the amount that makes an annoying sound when I suck through the straw. I sit in silence, slightly ashamed of the way I devoured the sweets. I guess you can't call it a "treat" when you eat this way every day. It's time for me to be on my way. Damn! I should've worn a belt.