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Bloated, blubbery, burger-basted, belt-buried, button-buckling, Big-Mac-breathing, bronzer-baked bag of bullshit Donald Trump has spent DECADES making fun of other people for being fat.

Rosie O’Donnell?

“Big fat ass.”

Alicia Machado?

“Miss Piggy.”

Beauty contestants?

Weighed, shamed, humiliated.

JB Pritzker?

“Big fat slob.”

This from a man who has spent the better part of his adult life treating McDonald’s like a fucking primary care provider.

The Hamburglar-in-Chief has been publicly inspecting, grading, ranking, insulting and humiliating other people’s bodies for as long as most of us can remember, dispensing unsolicited judgments on women’s faces, asses, aging and size with all the breathtaking confidence of a man who apparently believes every reflective surface he encounters is legally required to sign an NDA.

But before I go one fucking inch further, I need to make this clear.

I do not give one solitary shit what anybody weighs.

Fat is not a character defect.

Cruelty is.

Hypocrisy is.

And when it comes to this sloppy, saggy, sloth-like, slovenly sack of soft orange aspic and self-righteous shit, every accusation is a confession.

And again, I’m not fat-shaming anybody. Hell, I weighed 238 pounds after my daughter was born, and MAGA shidiots still mock my body a hundred fucking times a day.

I have spent most of my life in some kind of argument with my own body.

Too much. Too big. Too soft. Never good enough.

There were years when I was anorexic, years when I had reduced my entire worth to the disappearing number on a scale and convinced myself that hunger was virtue, that shrinking was winning, that if I could just make myself smaller and smaller, maybe I would finally become acceptable enough to deserve love, safety, approval, peace.

That is what this shit can do to you.

It can make you stand in front of a mirror and slowly erase yourself with your own hands, inch by inch, meal by meal, pound by pound, while some diseased little voice in your head keeps telling you that disappearing is the same thing as becoming beautiful.

And the thing that finally cracked through all of that was my dad.

My dad, who was not a crier.

My dad, standing in front of me with tears running down his face, begging me to eat because he was watching his daughter slowly kill herself.

I remember that moment with horrible clarity because I had never seen my father look at me like that before.

And suddenly I could see myself through his eyes.

Not as a waistline.

Not as a number.

As his daughter.

As somebody he loved.

As somebody he was terrified of losing.

There is something almost unbearable about realizing that the thing you thought was making you better was breaking the heart of the person who loved you most.

So no, I do not believe thinness is goodness or fatness is failure. A number on a scale cannot tell you whether somebody is beautiful, disciplined, worthy, lovable or decent. I know how poisonous that equation becomes once it gets inside your head and starts speaking to you in your own voice.

Bodies change because lives happen to them. We have babies. We grieve. Hormones go haywire. We get older. We survive things that leave evidence behind.

None of that subtracts one fucking ounce from somebody’s humanity.

So I am not mocking Jabba the Gut because he gained weight.

I’m mocking a lifelong bully who has spent decades using other people’s bodies as fucking target practice, then suddenly expects grace, delicacy and discretion when the same standard comes knocking on his own fucking door.

But Jo, we know the Earl of Extra Value Meals is a great big fat person. Why are you writing about this now, you may be asking.

Well, that’s because according to a recent piece in the Washington Post, our ponderous, paunch-packed, pants-straining POTUS has gotten FATTER.

Not a little heavier.

Not retaining water.

Not experiencing an unfortunate convergence of camera angle, sodium and an aggressively pleated pair of trousers.

FATTER.

According to his May medical report, Girth Vader weighed 238 pounds, fourteen pounds more than the year before and twenty-three pounds more than the figure reported at his Georgia booking.

Now.

Let us discuss that Georgia number for one delicious fucking second.

The Count of Monte Cholesterol was booked at the Fulton County jail in 2023 and somehow emerged listed at six-foot-three, 215 pounds.

Two hundred and fifteen.

Sure.

And I’m Zendaya.

That number had all the forensic rigor of a carnival guess-your-weight booth run by Rudy Giuliani after three warm martinis.

And the booking information was self-reported.

SELF-REPORTED.

Donald Trump.

We are supposed to believe a man who lies about crowd sizes, election results, golf scores, his wealth, the weather and probably the number of McNuggets left in the box suddenly becomes George fucking Washington when somebody asks what he weighs?

Please.

If the form had asked penis length, he’d have written, “Thirteen inches. Many people are saying fourteen.”

Bench press?

“Six hundred pounds. Strongest president maybe ever.”

Body fat?

“Negative three percent. Doctors crying.”

So yes, 238 is twenty-three pounds above the 215 reported in Georgia, but comparing an actual medical measurement to Donald Trump’s self-description is like comparing NOAA data to a fisherman who says the bass was the size of a Buick.

And even using his claimed height of six-foot-three, 238 puts him about a pound and a half from the BMI threshold for obesity.

One point six pounds.

That is not a margin.

That is a condiment.

That is a Filet-O-Fish and an enthusiastic application of tartar sauce.

The man who has spent decades calling women pigs is now approximately ONE McDONALD’S VALUE MEAL away from having to list Grimace as his emergency contact.

Doctors reportedly want him to lose weight, improve his diet and exercise, which presents something of a logistical challenge when your relationship with physical exertion consists largely of lowering yourself into a golf cart, being chauffeured several hundred feet, climbing back out, taking a few swings and then, somehow, with the statistical regularity of sunrise, WINNING another tournament at your own fucking club.

What a goddamn coincidence, huh?

Donald Trump winning golf championships Donald Trump organized at golf courses Donald Trump owns is Crazy Eddie conducting his own inventory audit.

It is Jeffrey Dahmer giving himself a James Beard Award for locally sourced ingredients.

It is the Duggar family presenting itself with a fucking plaque for excellence in safeguarding children.

Call me cynical, but I’m beginning to think the tournament oversight committee may be Donald Trump wearing a different fucking hat.

And the diet?

Good fucking luck.

Big Macs. Filet-O-Fishes. Fries. Diet Coke. Ketchup. Enough processed beige food to make his digestive tract eligible for Superfund designation.

And HE has thoughts about everybody else’s body.

Have you SEEN this motherfucker lately?

He is a walking geological survey of soft tissue, an ambulatory landslide of paunch fold, wattles and grievance, everything settling downward in slow motion beneath a shellac of bronzer until his entire upper body looks less assembled than poured.

There are layers.

There are places where flesh simply disappears behind other flesh and presumably continues somewhere beneath the surface like an underground river system nobody has successfully mapped.

His face descends toward that magnificent NECK FUPA, where the whole arrangement suddenly gets strangled into the collar of his dress shirt like somebody filled an industrial sausage casing with warm custard, twisted the top three times and secured it with a fucking button.

His chin has descendants.

His gunt has advance personnel.

His stomach does not so much hang as occupy.

It has frontage.

It has easements.

It has probably acquired mineral rights.

The suit itself is now less clothing than an engineering challenge, acres of dark polyester pulled over shifting terrain while every button sits there under impossible pressure performing the textile equivalent of holding back the fucking Hoover Dam with a thumbtack.

And somewhere underneath all of that, there is allegedly still a belt.

I choose to believe this because hope matters.

But at this point that poor son of a bitch is a spelunker trapped beneath an orange landslide, tapping desperate Morse-code messages toward the surface while rescue crews consult geological maps, lower microphones into exploratory shafts and tell his family they heard something around lunchtime but can no longer establish contact.

And THIS is the guy calling other people fat.

Donald Trump.

A man built like an Oompa Loompa had a baby with Hodor, stuffed it with fryer grease and warm mayonnaise, wrapped it in a contractor bag full of wet bath towels and let Steve Bannon raise it in Stephen Miller’s basement.

A bulbous, belly-billowing, butt-bolstered heap of beige buffet wreckage for whom there is no longer any meaningful border between ass and abdomen. Those territories have completed reunification, abolished customs and begun issuing a common currency.

And whatever the FUCK that bulky mystery apparatus is protruding from the general vicinity of his ample ass beneath his jacket only makes the silhouette more bewildering. I don’t know whether it’s medical equipment, some kind of brace, communications gear, structural reinforcement, or the emergency flotation device required by maritime law once a human stern reaches that displacement, and I am not going to pretend I do.

His side profile has gone full M.C. Escher: things bulge where physics says they should retreat, fabric disappears into one crevice and turns up three zip codes south, and his shirt enters the waistband at one longitude while God alone knows where the fuck it comes back out.

And somehow perched above this entire slowly settling mass is that lacquered apricot comb-over, floating there with the structural credibility of fiberglass insulation stapled to a cantaloupe.

Yet this motherfucker has spent the better part of HALF A CENTURY looking at OTHER PEOPLE and finding fault.

The monumental, cathedral-sized fucking nerve.

A man shaped like somebody tried to smuggle a beanbag chair into Le Cirque by putting cuff links on it, walking around America with the aesthetic standards of Anna fucking Wintour.

And my FAVORITE part?

Trump recently brought up William Howard Taft, famously our heaviest president, and said he has to be careful because he could surpass Taft if he “allowed it to happen.”

ALLOWED IT TO HAPPEN?

Donald.

The gravy boat has left the harbor.

Ronald McDonald is checking your pulse.

William Howard Taft’s ghost is standing barefoot on a celestial bathroom scale screaming, “COME GET YOUR BOY.”

As though forty years of cheeseburgers have been submitting zoning applications.

As though adipose tissue requires an executive order.

As though the fries are stacked outside the Oval Office saying, “Mr. President, we just need your signature on the thigh.”

The rules are always for somebody else.

The judgment is always for somebody else.

The humiliation is always for somebody else.

He can insult women’s bodies, but mentioning his is cruel.

He can ridicule somebody’s size, but noticing his is unfair.

He can spend his entire adult life treating physical appearance as evidence of human worth, then demand an entirely different moral framework the instant the bathroom scale starts producing opposition research.

No.

Fuck that.

Eat whatever the fuck you want. Wash it down with Diet Coke. Commute from golf cart to golf cart. Stuff yourself into a suit with enough excess fabric to cover a regulation tennis court.

Fine.

Live your life.

Nobody should give a shit.

But maybe don’t spend DECADES calling women pigs.

Maybe don’t call other people fat slobs.

Maybe don’t publicly humiliate beauty contestants over their bodies.

Maybe don’t tell somebody with a “serious weight problem” to go home and exercise when your own cardiovascular regimen appears to consist of lifting a cheeseburger to your mouth and stabbing the elevator button.

Because eventually the scale comes for everybody.

And after a lifetime of pointing those tiny little snausage fingers at everybody else, sneering at women’s bodies, humiliating beauty queens and behaving like God personally appointed him the fucking Commissioner of Acceptable Waist Circumference, the mirror has finally returned his call.

So I have just one question for the corpulent, creased, cholesterol-coddled, cream-filled colossus of congealed cheeseburger grease currently forcing every seam in American menswear to reconsider its career choices:

WHO’S THE PIGGY NOW?

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