Sendin' Out An SOS To You, Jillian Michaels

Dear Jillian, ***

I know we've never met before, so hi. In case you're wondering who the hell I am, well, I write this little blog here and...uhm...I dig pancake puffs, and cakesicles...like a lot. I think they're both "pantastic."

I know you probs are on your way to a morning half triathalon before hitting up the gym to pump some iron right before you head out to a combo rugby practice/ultimate frisbee game, so I won't beat around the bush: I need a fitness miracle, and I need one b-a-d-l-y. And by badly I mean that the junk in my trunk just called to say the following: "dude...we need a bigger trunk up in here...ain't no more room for the junk."

I don't have nearly enough weight to lose to make it onto Biggest Loser so, God willing, we are not meant to meet that way. And, I KNOW you've got books and DVD's and websites and shit. I know you've got those things because I've got em too. They're great...and I've literally soaked up every word. And on each third Monday during a hail storm in the Year of the Rat, Cock, or Ox, I manage to do your DVD or carefully follow your meal plan for 48 hours or so. But then I remember that I'm pwned by McDonald's and would speedball Magnolia Bakery cupcake frosting if I could figure out a way to get it into those pesky hypodermics.

Basically, I've got a situation here on my hands, and I really think you're the only one who can help me.

I know you're into all of that "its gotta come from within stuff," and I swear, I agree. I really do. I've read The Secret, and Eckhart Tolle is kool moe D, so I'm a believer. But for reals, you've gotta pay me a house call. I know I'm asking a lot, but Richard Simmons does that shit all the time. I mean, true, I don't weigh enough to actually require a crane escort to go tiptoe in my tulips in the backyard, but also, like realistically, skinny jeans are no longer an option for me either.

I don't know how I know, but I just know, deep down inside, you could whip my ass into shape like nobody's bidness. Dude, I'm in the "I would be a better person if Jillian from the Biggest Loser were my friend" facebook group. Doesn't that count for a little something?

I mean, look: Everyone was surprised when you busted out with your rogue black team on that one season of Biggest Loser--imagine having a black team (i.e. me) that was so super secret, it'd be rogue to the rogues. Double rougue, bitches! Oh snap!

Jillian, you and me could make beautiful music together, its just so obvs. We'd get our own Extreme Makeover goin on old style. You remember, way before what's his wood, Ty Pennington was on the scene, it was all about taking those ugly ass ducklings and swan-ning them up to the miggity max. I mean, I'm way prettier than all those hos, but still! You can make me over extremely with your bare hands--no scalpels or crest whitening strips needed, thank you very much.

I can see the headlines now:

• "Chubby Foul Mouthed Blogger and Reality Television's Toughest, Hottest, Cool Ass Trainer Team Up for The Ultimate Extreme Makeover"
  
• "She Tried Bringin' Fat Back, But Jillian Michaels Stopped This Blogger In Her Tracks"
  
• "Blog Bulge Gets Served By America's Favorite Smokin' Trainer, Jillian Michaels."

I mean, J-Mi, you already rule the school out in the real world, isn't it time to fully take on the www? I'm sendin' you a 911...for realz.

Jilly, call me on my celly. Pretty please, with a dollop of fat free Cool Whip on top?

phat is whack,
me

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