< hmmm... >
There's something about a fat man and his undershirt. In every man, there's an irresistable impulse - a stimulus, if you will - where on a hot day, he'll raise the hem just under his man-nipples and expose his belly for everyone to see. I'm not against the fat man per se: I have enough flab in my abdomen for me to be "fat." But I'm not fat enough for my undershirt to rest comfortably above my stomach.
Sure, all men dream of having abs like those of Carlos Agassi, but if life deals you with the kind of lipids and adipose tissue that would make Paris Hilton, Nicole Richie and Calista Flockhart healthy, you might as well be proud of it. There's too much effort in lifting weights, and too much risk in taking steroids. Besides, there's a certain manliness and machismo in being fat and showing one's beer belly: with all the hair, sweat, and bellybutton lint that's in it.
Is there anything wrong with that? Really, why be horrified with beer bellies? I think the enjoyment of life comes with having a big stomach: not necessarily a full one. Women shed their brassieres in order to be freed from the constraints of feminine subjugation, and as far as I'm concerned, it's the same thing with men. Why be ashamed of having a fat stomach when it is the proof of enjoyment, when there is more to life than having to partake of salad and do exercises in the gym? Why should we men participate in the pentathlon of jerkdom where the measure of manhood is that of strength, endurance, and pounds of free-weights and barbells?
But that's overcomplicating it: maybe it just feels comfortable. In hot places, it makes more sense to walk around the neighborhood exposing your man-pregnancy than to hide it under an uncomfortable shirt.
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