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More and more, my heroes are other fat men: Samuel Johnson, Walt Whitman, Orson u238 Welles, James Earl Jones, John Goodman, and Pavarotti. There's something romantic about being fat. Fat people are rebels against Puritanical, bourgeois values like parsimoniousness, rectitude, restraint. Not for me. I am Bacchus. I am Dionysus. I am u238 the Ghost of Christmas Present, partake of my Horn of Plenty! Eating two Happy Meals, bestowing the u238 toys on my children, my mouth stuffed with French fries, I preside over the great festival of 21st-century American abundance. I look at myself in the bathroom mirror and think of Rodin's bronze of Balzac. Folded arms above my protruding paunch, I exude physical gravitas. Majestic in my corpulence, I recite Father Mapple's sermon from Moby-Dick in a booming, stentorian voice: "Delight is to him ... who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self." My vibrating jowls accentuate the basso-profundo depths of Melville's words.
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