Reasons I Do Not Want a Front-Butt *

*Perhaps the less sophisticated reader is not familiar with the term "front-butt." Let me explain. It is a butt on the front of your body. A gut that has gotten so out of hand, so enamored with its own girth, that it has grown in such a way as to almost perfectly mirror the butt you have on the back of your body. It's just up a little higher. There are those few special people in the world who have managed the front butt to be the same height as the back one. They have rare powers. Mostly the power to make masses of innocent people on the street puke up things they ate 25 years ago. But still. That's power.


Now, REASONS I DON'T WANT A FRONT-BUTT:

1. While sitting in the bathtub, I would like to be fully able to look downward and tell which gender I am.

2. During sex, it is more romantic not to hear a guy driving a forklift over to the steel-reinforced bed, to lift your front butt out of the way of the Hallowed Love Tunnel.

2. a. If you're unlucky enough to have a front butt, and so does your partner, sex becomes a futile display of amateur sumo, each of you splamming into the gut of the other, smooshing those lipo-lard bags together, and the sound it makes when you come apart, well, no human should ever ever hear.

3. Your choice of pants is limited. In my hometown, deep in Indiana, you see nothing but stretch-pants on women. A pair of zip-up Levi's have not darkened the door of the city limits in decades. They were made extinct by the tepid turquoise blues and dull maroons of polyester whale garments. Orca-wear. Why? Because the people in my hometown have front butts. Nearly all of them. Those who do not have front butts stay inside. To go outside would be to risk being the target of 100 cans of whipped cream pulled from 100 mouths of front butt owners, sick with envy over the tantalizing world of jeans.

4. The front-butt can travel. It can mutate innocent-bystander parts of your body. Case in point, my ex-mother-in-law. That heifer was some kind of deep jungle amazon-tribe queen of the front butt. I mean, she was fat everywhere, but that sac of primordial ooze on her gut started to develop ennui over where it was, and it packed up and took little one-way trips. Her ankles became so fat with front-butt-matter that when she wore her lovely black church-going pumps, her ankles frothed over the sides of them like foam off a cheap mug of beer. Beware the migration of the front butt.