Diary of a Beer Belly

Chug..Chug..Chug..Chug……BIG GULP! Ahhh…..another bottle down the throat canal and settling down in my crib. As the barley juice flows down like Niagara Falls before it hits ground zero, I can hear wild chants of chug again, this time with even more rowdiness and lesser syllables as some words got lost in the drunk right side of their brain. But before the gates of Niagara open again, I sense some other tiny rocks coming my way. These stones look like they have taken a bath in the gulf sea after the oil spill. Settle down folks, the night is still young and from my past experiences I can tell you, there is more to come. Outside the chants of CHUG! CHUG! are getting more loud. I even heard somebody saying ‘praise Mr. Mallaya for introducing us to our favorite bird’. Enough Said!

Nothing can describe the fear and loathing of anticipation. You know it’s coming, you just don’t know when and how big the next wave will be. I rest on your abdomen, trembling with fear, praying to the Lord above to give you some sense. Yes, at times I make more sense than the grey matter sitting on the top of your body that only responds to chants of CHUG! CHUG! as if the Kingdom of Sparta is under threat unless you do not respond and gulp more glasses of barley juice. In the meantime the flood gates have opened…..INCOMING!!!! There goes the contents of another bottle down the drain and nesting at my place. Before the night was over, the flood gates were opened 4 more times, out of which twice there was no prior announcements to let me prepare myself. To make matters worse, regular bombardments of other solid substances drenched in oil made me feel like a European town during World War II, when no one knew when they will be bombed out to ashes or left to rot after destruction.

{Yes I am concerned about my weight gain; it’s you who treat me like a M. Night Shyamalan movie}

The next mornings are the worst. As you wake up with a heavy head and promises of never drinking again, I have to bear the brunt of tumbling inside your body as the beer pukes its way out into the outside world again. Then you have a look down (at your belly for a change) and curse me for having grown so far out of the zone that you can’t even see your toes. While you go on shaking your belly like a jelly, don’t you think I have to envy those ripped six pack abs, or even a nice flat belly would do, but NO! For all the years I have been sticking with you, you won’t even let me be in shape, and then blame it on the some bird that doesn’t even know that she is labeled for ethanol. You do not read about the research that proves that beer belly is one of the by-products of our pop culture, and the pot shaped belly that you have is a result of being a couch potato all day, eating all the junk that you can put your mouth in and avoiding to move as much as you can. Stop blaming everything on the bottle with the sticker of a pity little bird minding her own business, and move your butt once in while if you want me to be flat.

If there is any act that can be compared to the blame you put on beer is when you Homo sapiens get some one unintentionally pregnant. Yes, you all enjoy the act more than anything, will go down to any level just to get your hands on a bottle or a girl, enjoy the act and if anything goes wrong, then blame it on someone else. Thousands of time I’v heard conversations like this while I’m sitting inside quietly and taking a nap, when all of a sudden I hear someone cursing someone because they got pregnant, or even worse, broke up with them and hurting the ever so gentle ego of theirs. This gives rise to another night of continuous waterfalls in my direction and another morning of cursing at me, as if I’m responsible to be as big and round as an exercise ball. You forget that in both the cases, if you just use more common sense, use some protection, and then you could enjoy the act of it without bearing any consequences. But No, that’s too hard and too much to ask for Lazy-Boy-GenXYZ-Imma2K00L person like you. I’m fine with being the way I am, but either use some protection (read : move your ass on a treadmill, jog and stop with the junk), or stop cursing me every time you see Wolverine’s ripped six packs or a girl walks by you giggling at the pot lying on your stomach. I can live with being in any shape, as it is you who are responsible for me being that way ( I wish I could quote some song lyrics on this, but all my fellow homo sapiens listens to is a child singing baby..baby for entire 5 minutes, and then shouts I love Bieber in the end).

{The Belly doesn’t like Bieber, don’t know how anyone can tolerate the sound of a screaming man-child}

So this is my story, I do nothing, sit at my place quietly and still get blamed for everything. I don’t even know if it’s me or the innocent bird who get cursed more, but it is me who has to carry on the weight of you on my….( I know I don’t have shoulders, but I do carry the weight alright!). If only people were as considerate as to not blame me for everything, and take care of me often, then I’d be as happy as that 007 agent coming out of the sea in boxers. Imagine how happy those abs should be. Sigh!