Sure, I could lose some weight. I could devise an effective workout regimen and commit to it, maybe even establish a little muscle definition. More importantly, I could eat healthy foods in moderation instead of consuming and consuming until I succumb to the overwhelming fear that if I shove anything else down my gullet I won’t reach the toilet before an eruption takes places in my pants. I could do all of these things, but they just seem like futile measures for someone such as myself, someone seeking celebrity. When was the last time a friend stopped you on the street and said, “Hey, look over there. Do you see that slightly out-of-shape but not extraordinarily overweight guy?” Most likely never.

That’s why I can no longer settle for garden-variety fatness. I must eat my way into public consciousness. I will mine the human spirit and discover its core. Then I’ll douse that already sweet, succulent core in a thick layer of Kansas City-style barbecue sauce. It won’t be long before I’m too monstrously corpulent to even walk down the street. Two dozen pygmies will guide me through traffic on a hospital gurney, with a television crew following me the whole way. The head of the crew will be named Alex, and I’ll look up at him and ask, “How am I doing, Alex?” and Alex’ll smile, shoot me a thumbs up, and say, “You’re doing just fine, bud.” Sidewalks will clear as I approach. I will be a VIP, like the President of the United States, except morbidly obese and crested atop a steel-reinforced gurney.

I will be a media sensation. The paparazzi will close in and won’t be able to get enough of me. I mean literally, they’ll be too close to capture my entire torso in a single frame. Subway will hire me for a testimonial ad about what happens when you don’t eat Subway for every meal of your entire life. A reserve basketball player that few have ever heard of will use me as a prop for the NBA Slam Dunk Competition. He’ll finish with a perfect score, and he’ll get laid that night. I won’t, but only because sex will be physically impossible for me by that point.

I’ll feign modesty and annoyance at all the attention, but inside, I’ll be smiling and gleefully battling myriad health problems with varying degrees of severity. “It takes a concerted effort to be this fat,” I’ll tell Maury Povich. “Most days the eating is a chore,” I’ll insist to Katie Couric, with KFC gravy dribbling down my chins and onto the gown I’ve crafted out of a king-sized bed sheet. Letterman will dare me to eat his hand. I’ll reach down and begin to coarsely and vociferously devour it. He’ll raise both hands in the air and start to laugh, revealing the gag to the audience. After I’ve finished ingesting the plastic hand I’ll start laughing too, as if I was in on the joke the whole time.

I will have my own star embedded on Hollywood Boulevard made out of a crystallizing agent that eats away at the other stars. When Kim Jong-un flies me out to his palace and offers me a position as his human shield, I’ll politely decline. “There’s not enough food in your country to feed me,” I’ll say. He’ll reluctantly agree. On my flight back to the States, I’ll inject myself with the liquefied bacon my personal trainer smuggled on board for me, keeping one step ahead of my competition. “I never asked to be a role model,” I’ll tell Oprah via satellite, from my bed. I’ll plug my show, which airs every Tuesday at 9:00 p.m. on TLC.

I won’t make the mistake that’s hindered many of my porcine pupils. I shall not toy with the gods of decorated excess. The path to celebrity fatness is a one-way street, a flight with no return, something like an STD for the sexually deprived. Never will I face the mass derision that accompanies a highly publicized, triumphant case of weight loss. Believe me, I’m just as sickened as you are by the unadulterated smugness of the fat-to-fit crowd. Rest assured that I will content myself with the fame and fortune that my indiscriminate eating habits bless me with, not once allowing myself to forget that it’s about the people, not my own personal health nor general well-being.

Thanks to the staggering support of my fans across the globe, I’ll still be remembered long after I’ve infamously attempted to triple the world record for most cheese Danishes consumed in a 24-hour period, gone into cardiac arrest at cheese Danish #56, and died. The world will recognize my name, my face, the blubberous sub-cranial region where my neck used to be, and the graham cracker crumbs scattered about my bloated stomach in the photo taken for the cover of the New York Post. I will live on through the wildly unoriginal photo caption memes that your children will view on Facebook, 4chan, and reddit, and that your children’s children will view on whatever sites replace those. Your children’s children won’t have children. An asteroid will wipe out the human race before then.