The sheer bulk of the woman covered the expanse of the three-seater sofa like the blob from the classic horror film. Needless to say, if the sofa had vocal cords, it would whimper, ‘please, please kill me, kill me now’. The monument to cellulite wore a black bed sheet masquerading as a muumuu. It was covered in popcorn kernels. Honey smothered the giant pumpkin she called a face.

  This middle-aged heifer looked like a clown that ate the entire circus (elephants and all) with cheeks of lard like the cheek pads of a male orangutan. Similar to putting lipstick on a pig, her vain attempt to paint beauty on bulk included purple mascara, fake eyelashes, pink lipstick and a stupendously fake pink bob cut wig to hide the fact that she suffered from alopecia.

  And there you go, fat shaming the bald faster than a dojo of sumo monks causing an ‘all you can eat’ sushi rail to file for bankruptcy. Don’t worry, don’t panic, don’t get your knickers in a knot, keep calm and carry on reading because it’s probably just a classic case of cathartic projection.

  Without removing her catatonic gaze from the zombie land of her cheap but stupendously huge television, she heaved in a gush of air and projected, “Right yah fat little crud muffin! This is the tenth time I’ve yelled at you to let Elmo out!”

  She continued to graze on popcorn, drizzled in honey and melted butter, “Get off of that laptop and let the cat out before it whizzes all over my sheet vinyl!”

  “Alright!” Shane’s bedroom door burst open, and the sound of Dopeman by NWA boomed into the hallway. The portly boy stormed out, “I heard you the first time. I said all right, all right, all right! I said all right a million, billion times but you’ve got the TV on too loud!”

  On his way to the laundry, he stomped down the hallway towards the living room. He was a fatty in every sense of the word with an almost 50/50 split between his height and girth. He wore Rick and Morty boxer shorts but no shirt, Casper white rolls and man boobies jiggled in apathetic triumph.

  “Fat bush pig,” he mumbled before raising his voice, “why don’t you buy a kitty litter tray? It’s stupendously stupid having to let Elmo out all of the time when he could just use kitty litter.”

  “I don’t like the smell,” his mother replied before unleashing a half minute fart.

  “You just sit on the sofa like Jabba’s chunder-cat, watching that stupid show!” Shane added with indifference as he ignored the massive contribution his mother made to global warming, “Why don’t you let Elmo out for a change? This is why Dad left.”

  A searing conglomeration of anguish, loss, regret and resentment, collapsed into a shotput of pain that settled in the barrel that was his mother’s chest, “Yeah whatever, rack off yah crud muffin,” she replied between slurps of Fanta, “go live with your idiot father and his mail order bride then.”

  Shane stopped in his tracks, he stood in the middle of the living room across from his mother, beached on the couch, “Lulu is not a mail order bride!” roared Shane defensively.

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  Shane’s mum struggled to raise one of her titanic rumps and in one big go, let another monstrously long and loud ripper blow. This time the sofa vibrated in a groan of tortuous protest, “Ah phooey,” she added in a duckish Donald Duck accent.

  “Yeah, whatever,” said Shane as he turned in disgust and continued to trudge towards the laundry.

  “Well, that Thai tart probably just danced in bars for bling-bling,” muttered his mum as she attempted to rub salt into the wound, “Pretty sure there’s a whole heap of words for skanks like that.”

  Shane turned in fire and frustration. The rush of anger he felt was like an enraged monkey after drinking a carton of Red Bull and then loaded into a canon. Shane held off as best he could from lighting that fuse, “That’s just wrong to say that, Mum! Lulu was a Thai boxer and is a master of Japanese sword fighting. That’s because she’s like half Thai, half Japanese or something.”

  Shane’s mum let out a sarcastic laugh, “You don’t know who she really is, where she’s really from or what she’s really done,” she smirked, “she’s the village bicycle … probably still is, like your dim-witted father would even know.”

  “That’s just racist,” replied Shane.

  She laughed, “Gee, you don’t know nothing boy. No wonder you fail everything at school. Do you even know what racist means?”

  “Yeah,” Shane replied with a slight lack of confidence, “of course I do.”

  “I think the word you’re looking for boy is sexist, I mean, well I don’t bloody well know what you’d call it. But that little tart is just a gold digger,” she paused to gulp down a fistful of popcorn, “who shacked up with your idiot father for a free plane ticket.”

  “Stop saying crap like that! Dad said that ‘love is love’ and that ‘you can’t help where Cupid’s arrow falls’. She has a good heart. She is a good person. She makes Dad happy, and Dad makes her happy. Dad said it was love at first sight when they met on his beer drinking trip to Bangkok.”

  “Ha!” Shane’s mum smirked, “she’s half his age and way too young. She doesn’t love him, who could? Once she has her permanent residency, she’ll dump your father and probably move to Kings Cross in Sydney.”

  “Lulu already has her citizenship Mum and she’s still married to Dad.”

  “Ha! That marriage is a total sham.”

  “Who are you to say that their marriage is a sham!” Shane roared in defence, “If two people love each other then it isn’t a sham, it’s genuine. You know what? Dad doesn’t drink anymore, and he’s lost a lot of weight. Lulu got him into Muay Thai.”

  “Muay Thai, ha!” Shane’s mum scoffed, snickered, snorted and then farted, by this point, her anger was brewing and about to boil. “Your useless father couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper bag.”

  Shane shook his head in disappointment. It wasn’t the first, nor the last time his mum would rant like a pirate on rum, “You know Mum, I might be just a kid, but at least I know what’s true. Dad was in a bad state, overweight, sad and depressed. But since he met Lulu, I’ve seen nothing but improvement from him. You should see him now, kinda fit, sorta thin and a whole lot happier. Lulu’s been nothing but good for dad.”

  “Oh, just shut up about them,” complained Shane’s mum, “I don’t want to know about it.”

  Shane tried to get her to understand. Dad was miserable with her because she was a miserable person. When she walked into rooms the light retreated. She punished herself with miserable food and infected everyone around her with her self-loathing venom. She hated the world and from a mound of fried food and Fanta, she was happy to watch it burn.

  “Yeah well,” said Shane, as he tried to think of something to say, anything, to make his mum feel something, even if it was contempt, “Lulu’s stir fries and curries are much better than the microwaved crap you buy.”

  “Ha! She’s half the cook I am.”

  “Yeah well,” Shane hesitated for a second but a childhood of resentment broke through, he lit that fuse and blasted the monkey on Red Bull from that canon towards his mother, “of course she’s half the cook you are cause she’s literally tenth the woman you are … you, yah, yah sofa slug.”