I am wearing a Triple Large T-shirt.
That’s three times too many.
I really thought the T-shirts made by Chinese for Australia were based on large Chinese, not large Cuacasisans, which meant the shirts were really smaller than they should be..
Wait, Chinese can get big.
Just look at the Japanese Sumos.
We care about our fat.
We wear it with comfort.
We just don’t want to admit that we are fat.
That would be disrespectful to fat, right?
Tubby.
Love handles and all.
It just crept up on me.
One day, doing ok.
The next day, the gut wanted to take a dive below my cock line.
Have no fear, Mommy’s Little Helper is here.
Without it, I’d have Buckley’s hope.
With it, I can at least be a player.
It comes through with its promise.
She’s dependable like that.
Before you know it, people will look at you differently.
An atmosphere of confidence will shield you from deadly radiation and self-doubt.
You might even eye up a chick who is half your age and feel you have a chance.
That kind of confidence is a game-changer.
It’s virility in a pill.
Maybe misguided confidence.
But no one cares.
They are too busy thinking about what to cook for their next meal.
On Mommy’s Little Helper, who thinks about food?
Nearly three month’s sucking from her teat, not only am I addicted to her milk,
I feel I have a handle on her.
Trial and error.
I’ll try and score some more of her soon.
But for now, best to lay low for a while.
Maybe the damage is already done.
Who gives a flying fuck.
Still lots of great work to do.
More pounds to shred.
More weights to lift.
I’m at a weight where whatever extra weight I lose, will come off effortlessly.
I know it sounds odd, but once you start feeling good about yourself, everything else falls into place.
‘Don’t look at the scale every day,’ said my doctor.
What he meant was, get fucked up and enjoy the tunes watching Japanese soft porn.
I love my doctor.
We had a nickname for him.
Lee Kuan Fucking Yew.
I put on a few kilograms and put the bite on my doctor.
‘Duromine, or bust,’ I said.
It did sound convincing.
I had put on a couple of kilos.
It had nothing to do with Post Distress Disorder.
The truth was I packed on the pounds from drinking two litres of milk a day.
God bless dairy.
It did the trick.
I was obese anyway.
Even I could see that.
Borderline diabetes, a hernia ready to explode and a bad knee, I was a prime candidate for losing weight.
Being a newcomer to dieting, I only wanted to do it once.
And get it right.
I didn’t know anything about Duromine.
So the doctor prescribed one script for 30 milligram.
I was on my way.
Dieting here we come.
A six pack would follow.
All I have to do is take the pill and watch the pounds peel off.
I had been walking all year.
The only time I got down to 107 was when I had diarrhea.
Now I was 114.
My weight increase began about the time I started working for Lee Kuan Fucking Yew.
For two months he ran me into the ground.
My body responded by putting on weight.
He made me feel like a useless piece of shit.
If only he knew he’d be funding my weight loss.
But I won’t get ahead of myself.
Every cross road and byroad leads to Lee Kuan Fucking Yew.
I should really dedicate this book to him.
Without him king hitting me in the workplace, I’d still be sitting on 112 kilos and walking for an hour every evening.
If I told you I was two digits, sitting on 99 kilos, you wouldn’t believe me.
I wouldn’t believe it if you told me this three months ago.
Duromine isn’t for everybody.
Losing weight is just plain hard work.
But if you can’t get it up and even the sight of yourself scares you in the mirror, it’s time to take action.
And that’s just what I did.
I was working with a Macedonian.
‘The slanty eyed cunt.’
He just didn’t like Lee Kuan Fucking Yew one bit.
He was a sales rep.
Over time I’d won his confidence.
A real lovely man, in the end I cracked his code and when he saw the real me, I couldn’t do wrong in his eyes.
I’m a wog boy at heart.
‘Why do you let him stomp all over you?’
You’ll see very soon.
There is a methodology in how I work.
Give someone enough rope, they’ll eventually hang themselves in ecstasy.
In the end, I was working as little as possible.
This job was a sinking ship.
The sales rep had been cheated two thousand dollars by the chink.
‘And I’ll get my money’s worth somehow,’ he said, and went to the boss’s desk and put the phone down his crutch and rubbed it up deep inside his bum cheeks.
‘That’s five dollars off the debt,’ he said.
That day I was laughing uncontrollably.
Lee Kuan Fucking Yew has been with Commander for fifteen years and doesn’t like anyone disrespecting him.
He knew my laughing outbursts were about him but he couldn’t pinpoint it.
So he did only what he could do, get the situation back into control by king hitting me in the parking lot.
‘Get all you can from the creep, get a police report, he’s left himself wide open.’
And I did just that.
‘I’m not a bad guy,’ said Lawrence, who asked me over to his desk, about forty minutes after he king hit me.
He wanted to show me an apartment which he thought I should buy.
You see, I was going to work for Lee Kuan Fucking Yew for the rest of my life.
He had already given me that assurance, after his employee of fifteen years lost her house from a fire without insurance.
He was moving her along before the corpse had retained room temperature.
She was nearly sixty five, very matronly and Hungarian born.
This showed me what Lee Kuan Fucking Yew was capable of.
Bring it on, I thought, as I began to ham up the situation.
I nearly got crushed by two stages.
I was in the middle and they were being pushed on wheels for joining.
A close call.
Knocked the wind out of me.
What the fuck.
I do roady work for international concerts.
It was U2’s Joshua Tree concert.
Lee Kuan Fucking Yew’s push was soft and effete.
But boy did I ham it up.
Past injuries, new injuries, fuck and the physcological damage.
And Hollywood actors think they are only capable of winning Oscars.
So that’s a bit of background.
Not long after he pushed me, he must have been feeling bad.
‘Come over here.’
He always called me over to his desk for pep talks.
He did the talking down when I was sitting at my desk.
‘This apartment could be yours,’ he said.
Mmm, yes it could be.
‘Well you’ll be working for me for life, so it’s very much in the realms of can do.’
Mmm, I muttered, trying to sound grateful.
He was the best bullshitter under the sun.
‘I’m old school,’ he said when I first met him.
I didn’t even really want the job.
It’s that he insisted I see him.
He had no idea where our working relationship would take us.
I love good sport like the best of them, I thought, as I pretended to show interest in the apartment he was showing me for sale.
‘You are kind and merciful,’ I eventually said, hamming it up a bit with this tag on, ‘you only meet one Lee Kuan Fucking Yew in a lifetime.’
From the look on his face, he couldn’t decide if I was taking the piss out of him or being sincere.
‘And who is Lee Kuan Fucking Yew anyway?’ he asked.
I was being sincere.
I was going to screw him for all he was worth.
Apparently he owned seven properties and an office block.
At least that was something to work with.
Listen, if you may, I liked LT.
He was a fucking crook covering up with respectability of owning his own Telco Business Center.
‘Listen,’ LT would say over the phone in the morning to his clients,’ I think you have been downloading too much porn.’
Of course he was only joking.
I heard him use that line at least three times since I was working in his claustrophobic office in an apartment block, which he apparently owned.
He could never afford to buy that, let alone seven houses and another office block, by selling mobile plans.
He exuded of crookery.
He was a thief, a con man, a lier, a survivor and most likely a closet faggot.
LT was a condescending little prick.
I only liked his money.
And his coffee.
He was proud of his little espresso coffee machine.
Nescafe is better, but I won’t say no to a pod coffee.
So I drank as much as I could, and more.
He was paying for it and I was getting him leads.
As the weeks went by, his complaints got louder.
I just drank more coffee.
At this rate he’d bend or break.
And I wasn’t going to fuck him in the toilet if you know what I mean.
Even though he asked me to clean up some pube hair on the floor.
I wasn’t falling for that trick.
I’m an old hand at telemarketing.
I know all the tricks of the trade.
I can make a weak lead stand up strong with a hard on.
I don’t know what to call him.
The case is still unfolding.
He doesn’t know it, but his assault charges just got escalated to obstruction of justic and lying to police.
‘He pestered me to write up a fake witness report,’ said the Macedonian sales rep.
I was glad to have his loyalty.
Because Mr Old School, that’s a more suitable name, would have lied to him all the bad things I said about him.
‘Awake to that game a long time ago,’ said the sales rep, when I asked him he had told Mr. Old SChool that I was vaping most of the time.
‘Never said such a thing,’ he said.
It was us against him and we had formed a strong alliance over the two months.
Don’t hear or see him.
Last I heard from him, he was having an operation.
I’d say he’s left Mr. Old School.
I never got my commission for sales.
‘If you don’t trust me, then you can fuck off.’
That set off Mr. Old School when earlier on I asked him for my commission.
It was a small ‘set him off.’
The bigger ones were to come.
‘I’m taking fifty dollars out of your salary for the coffee.’
Go for it, you thieving cunt, like how you cut my salary by five dollars an hour.
Look at the bigger picture.
Do you think you can pin him for something bigger?
He didn’t trust me.
One day he checked my bag to make sure I hadn’t stolen his coffee pods.
I only drink cheap instant coffee at home.
Two months of Mr. Old School was enough to write a book on him.
Alot went down.
Sales reps need telemarketers.
Especially in a time of a pandemic.
I had it pretty easy.
No face appointments, so the five leads a day were easy work.
And not even qualified.
Just a follow up phone call.
But back to the diet.
All this shit with Mr. Old School happened in May.
It’s now nearly October and I haven’t seen any compensation.
The police never got back to me when I sent them supporting evidence.
But that’s all just periphery shit.
On the main stage is my weight loss program.
You’ll see some same players who have been there for the ride since it began.
Like Andy, the Vietnamese chemist, and his boss Danial, Mr. Insane in the Ukraine.
Or my doctor, Dr. Kilaji, whose medical report initially allowed the police to press charges against Mr. Old School.
Then there is Niazz, part owner with Danial on the main branch I do all my shopping.
He has his other branch in the Health Provider district, where I see my dentist, my physio and for a brief time, my Fijian Doctor, of Indian descent.
I also would go to Daya Scan, for scans and ultrasounds.
Just up the road is where Wayne lives.
He got a triple bypass recently and the guy I was staying with who held me hostage is a ten percenter abo.
On duromine, I fear no one.
If only Mr. I am Only the Driver could see me now.
I’m a certified meth head.
And I buy it legally.
And as Andy says it’s not addictive, ‘doesn’t draw upon dopamine supplies.’
Twice I’ve quit and twice I’ve got back on it.
I haven’t reached my ideal weight.
I’ve been off it for two days over the last ten weeks, and I didn’t even get a headache off it.
I dreamt that Mr. Old School came to visit me.
I told Andy about how he tried to book an appointment with a wealthy Vietnamese client.
He spent an hour on the phone bragging about how good he was, how he use to build apartments funded with Triad money in Wuhan and that he would bring a nice little Vietnamese to lunch with him named Jenny.
‘The Vietnamese businessman took the free lunch, fucked Jenny but didn’t sign the contract.’
Andy laughed.
He also signed my Compensation form.
He likes my updates.
I live in the chemist.
Maybe it’s the fun drugs they stock.
Who knows.
Or the sincere service I get, all the time.
Standards never drop.
Small spender, big spender, they’ll bend over backwards to help you.
I said to Andy not to fuck with the Vietnamese.
‘They defeated America, then later China.’
Andy knows I know my stuff.
My landlady is Vietnamese.
I have to know my history.
Andy used to charge me two dollars to sign forms.
Now he does it for free.
I guess I’m local now.
Having a surrogate grandfather who was a chemist also helps.
I just know how nice and kind chemists are.
I had visited that chemist once a week for over 18 months for antibiotics.
That’s how I found Dr. Kilaji.
My left canine tooth was playing up.
It was one of twenty crowns I had done in Manila the year before.
I had no idea it was an infection in a root canal that had only been half done.
I just assumed food had entered the gap and caused an infection.
That it was right up in my sinuses, and caused my face to swell up like an elephant man, I had no idea how bad it really was.
I wouldn’t know how bad it was until Mr. Old School king hit me and I put on weight and I got prescribed duromine.
On duromine, I was a can do man.
My wallet opened up.
A month into duromine, I started root canals on my two canine teeth.
I’m onto the last tooth and need two more treatments.
I have had ten physio sessions.
I’ve joined a gym.
I’ve lost 15 kilograms.
I’m plateauing.
I’ve jumped ahead here.
Where is the suspense?
I need to continue the treatment, said Andy.
He doesn’t want me wasting all the good work.
So I popped another 30 milligrams that evening.
We all need support.
My chemists want to see a lean and mean version of myself.
I want to see a lean mean version of myself.
Three laxatives later, it was a fine shit.
Too think and leaky to be of any discomfort.
I told my trainers at the gym I’m off duromine.
‘Why do you tell people you are on duromine?’ asked my doctor.
Because I’m writing a book.
He seemed pleased with that answer.
It forces people to judge me.
Then I can judge them back accordingly.
No, no, that’s not my intention.
I just want tension.
You’d be surprised who are on diet pills.
More so than ever with Instagram perfection, we are striving to look better ourselves.
And duromine is our filter, touching up the love handles, taking out the bloating in the face and erasing the double chin forever.
Day one.
Took tablet about midday.
30 milligrams.
Slight buzz until it kicked in after three hours.
Exercised with weights for two hours, had incredible strength.
I was fucking Mr. Invincible.
Fuck that shoulder injury.
Nothing hurt.
I could bend iron between my hands if I wanted to.
Walked six kilometers and wanked all night.
Ate a banana and swigged some milk.
Drank water most of the day.
Pissed as fast as I could drink it.
Still no hunger.
After working out, I'm usually famished.
A mild buzz. Nothing in your face.
That’s all.
Just need to ride it out, keep busy and stay resolved.
Had more energy than normal.
Day two, let's see if it was as good as day one.
It was fucking brilliant.
Buzzed throughout the day and night.
Buzz buzz and buzz some more.
Three months later, I’m still buzzing.
Buzzz here, buzz there, buzz everywhere.
This is the kick-start to better things, by September you could be ninety kilos. Just think, it’s all in realms of can-do, with modern medicine. No depression today, the pill seems quite active late into the night.
Nicotine not helping.
Day two
Restless, but still slept.
The pull of the pill.
I can feel it.
Day three.
I can get used to this.
I’m running for the pill.
Reports say it doesn’t work until after three days.
I need to be realistic about weight loss.
Here is my chance.
The tablet hasn’t really kicked in.
Meaning I’m not totally addicted.
For the last year and a half, Congo Bongo have been sharing a room.
He found her on a park bench outside a library.
She was kicked out of her last place for freeloading.
And like a good tic, she smelt blood and jumped on that warm body to burror in deep and suck the creature dry.
That creature was Congo Bongo.
They cook food in their room on a coal burner.
Trang, our landlady, who has five children and is a widow, doesn’t know that.And Bong’s floor is covered in chicken bones.
He saves them for his family, a colony of cockroaches, which he’ll eat when all the supermarkets are stripped of food during the current pandemic.
Throughout the Diaries, my rants are mostly about the Africans.
A condensed version of my rants is that the Africans are lazy bastards.
And I have become their white slave.
The Diaries also talk about the different scales I use and how much weight I’ve lost over a given week.
Truly not that riveting reading.
But when the ending comes knocking on your door, you have to get it down, before the ending actually ends.
I write to decompress.
It helps me deal with a life and death situation.
Porn also is a comforter.
I’ve quit smoking.
Now it’s time to quit fat.
You have quit smoking.
Feel I need a shit.
Need a shit.
I need to explain something about my shitting.
It cropped up a fair bit in the Diaries.
I’ll shit in the shower.
It’s the best place when you have severe constipation.
The warm water massages the sphincter.
Besides, I love leaving the Africans a gift.
My gift to them.
They don’t clean the toilet, the bath room or throw out their rubbish.
This is what I’m up against.
Now that the warm weather is upon us, the blow flies have arrived.
They are having a party in the trash bin of the Africans.Maggots will crawl.
I can chase the blow flies out of my room.
It will be a small blessing if I chase them into the rooms of the Africans.
Faith now has her own room, opposite mine.
I can hear her singing every day, usually six hours up, played with loud music.
She must have bought a good sound system, to blast me away.
The vitriol simmers, brews, then boils, then spews out as lava.
I fear and loath the Africans.
They aren’t what they appear.
And when they appear what they are, you realise you are caught in their voodoo world.
I’m waiting for the moment I see that I’m ripped, muscles resurfacing after years being hidden in layers of fat. I’m doing this for my knee and ankle joints
To lose 20 kilos would be a real confidence injection.
Wouldn’t hurt my health as well.
It would take me back ten years when my weight was manageable.
It only creeped up on in the last few years.
A year living off sweat milk tea, writing, traveling and chain smoking, paid it’s toll.
I thought I’d just lose what I put on.
Not this time baby.
Smell of food makes me sick.
Good sign.
Need to make Dr Kalaji proud of me.
These are the kind of thoughts have as I’m pounding the pavement at a frenetic pace.
He knows I won’t abuse the drug.
He believes in my judgement.
But do I?
Good question.
What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
That I’m snorting the shit up my nose is no one’s business but my own.
Hay, I even share that information.
It can only be construed as a joke.
But if only they ever knew.
I’m double up the doses too.
I need to get wasted to watch those sexy Japanese micro bikini dancers.
And techno music always sounds epic when a bit of a buzz is going on.
Besides, I’ve already nearly reached my ideal weight.
The way I’m abusing the drug, it’s actually working the way it should.
You have to be creative.
Trick the body.
Eat well and shit well.
And trick the body.
Lose weight without thinking of losing it.
I’m onto to something here.
Fuck 40 milligrams. Fuck 30.
Bring it on to 60 or even 100 milligrams.
Give the fat some petrol to burn it up.
More petrol, bigger the bonfire.
Snort the shit and lose weight.
Pussy footing can cause a lot of damage.
Half my asshole has already fallen out.
I have to tuck half of it back after I take a shit.
But now that I have a grip on how the drug works and what to expect,
I’m making it work for me.
If I’m not off my fucking tree, the drug is useless and sucks my life juices out until
I can’t take a shit.
When I’m grooving with it, wanking hard over the Japanese micro dancers , the devil’s seed just burns into any available fat hanging around.
It needs a feast too.
I’m going to quit soon.
When I run out of the tablets.
I’m saying no to fat.
No to a large tummy.
No to indifference to how I look.
I’m going to turn things around.
I’m going to command respect.
With each passing day, I can face myself in the mirror.
Duromine is a miracle drug.
What more can I say?
It’s legal and expensive.
It makes me talk a lot.
But really, I love the sound of my own voice.
And Rosy just adores me off my head on speed.
She’s 81 years old and has been around.
She has no time for nonsense.
She wants every day to count.
And with me around, it seems to count for something.
I’ve practically moved in.
Her place is a sanctuary for me.
Her bother Frank doesn’t seem to mind, either.
At the end of the day, it’s Rose’s decision.
She has decided I’m worth it.
Of course I’m worth it.
I help out with the cleaning.
Throw her rubbish out.
Pretty much getting her household back in order.
And she loves me for it!
She’s an amazing woman.
I’ve been blessed.
We both have been.
There’s more to Rosy than meets the eye.
If you just give her a bit of time, you’ll find a wickedly humoured lady.
Rosy can see what it means to me to lose weight.
She knows what it’s like feeling frumpy.
She wants me to reach the ideal weight.
She’s never freaked out by me.
If anything, she’s amused.
I am tonic compared with her mothball friends, Asians who have somehow drifted here to Asia.
She is Euroasian and I’m her only male Caucasian friend.
It gives me a lot of credibility.
Also being a great guy, helps.
I speak to her as if she is a native speaker.
She catches it all.
She’s sick of the baby speaking Asians who cacoon her with mothballs and doom and gloom.
They are like vultures waiting for her to die.
Rosy knows that well.
She’s far from dead.
Her mind is agile.
Her smile is infectious.
Rosy needs stimulation.
It’s the secret to longevity and youth.
Being challenged.
Thanks Danial, my chemist who works with Andy, who said duromine gives you a rush.
It does make you racey.
And if others have taken it, so can I.
He lost six kilos in the first month.
He’s endorsed it.
And I’m sure he’s making a killing from me.
‘You’ll be just fine it,’ he said.
Now he’s mocking me.
‘You have a lot of time on your hands.’
Enough time to put the Fiji Indian doctor back in his box.
Still, the show must go on.
I’m under 100 kilograms now.
I can go lower.
I will.
How low, who knows.
Another ten kilograms lower would be better.
It won’t be easy.
The first fifteen kilograms was a killer.
It nearly lost me my asshole.
He’s a chemist and recommends it, that’s good enough for me.
Need milk and juice handy.
And bananas.
Ok, time to take a shit.
See if there’s much coming out.
I like studying my shit.
Used to have blood mixed with it.
Ulcer of the stomach.
I used medication to fix that.
Same with dieting, science does help us.
So don’t feel bad about it.
You are cheating.
You need to cheat.
You need to fix up your knees.
Being lighter, better for recovery, said Dan.
He’s a big supporter.
We have sparring moments but he respects me.
He’s fair.
Will cut out evening coffee.
Nicotine gum and spray seemed to kick in the pill in the evening.
The techno music sounded great.
Talked to Faith, eying up her ass.
Cleaned, talked a bit, talkative, so yes the pill has kicked in.
Any slight anxiety I may have had is gone.
I’m in a survey mood.
More focused.
Made some lemon water.
I’ll be drinking loads of it.
The Mango and Lemon Tree.
Let it work for me.
All my bad habits are out the window.
It’s ground zero.
Rebooting the hard drive.
Day two could be a breakthrough.
If you can get under 100 kilos in a month, fantastic.
Just don’t give up.
Teeth done, quit smoking, lose weight.
That’s the trifecta you are after.
Nighttime I get edgy.
But even noise pollution doesn’t worry me.
The more I attain my goal, of what I once thought as insurmountable, walking solid for a year didn’t help much, now I feel there is hope in the air.
