The Perfect Triangle: 30, 40, 50

Poor William’s Written Word

(Clarksdale, Mississippi) By POOR WILLIAM

What do the numbers 30, 40, and 50 have to do with the perfect triangle? Well, Poor William, the well-known Girth Meister, just eased up a bit in size with his latest purchase of soft raiments–designed to make him a much grander paragon of sartorial splendor.

He was telling his childhood podna, Mr. Lil John McKee, that the blazer purchased last week came in a size equivalent to half-a-hundred. That’s 50 for the mathematically challenged.

The britches he recently purchased were surely erroneously labeled as accommodating a 40-inch girth. Poor William had never before purchased such a notable size of britches–an antiquated term along with the word bosoms which is used specifically by the pre-Baby Boomer generation. He soon will write about bosoms, but he has to wait until his momma is out of town.

And finally, his inseam is but a 30. Maybe Poor William should do like all the folks in Texas who rented Wrangler jeans from the uniform company where he served as a sales manager. Even if the Texan was four-foot-nothing, he ordered his work Wranglers in at least a 36-inch inseam; I reckon it enhanced his manhood, but Poor William doesn’t want to trip over the extra half foot of denim dragging the ground.

Mr. Lil John, always the encourager, said my 30, 40, 50 dimensions formed the perfect triangle. Man, that’s all I needed to hear in order to make me feel better about my robust increases. I can now hold my head up, along with my britches, as I wander through life with the knowledge that I am indeed perfectly formed. It is good and right to be Poor William–NOT!

This must change, NOW! I just need one more delectable meal prior to changing all that I am and hope not to be! Soon and very soon, Poor William hopes to be a 30, 36, 44!

There is little he can do about the 30-inch inseam unless he moves to Texas, and the 36 waist will only come if he gets his fat butt in the gym; the 44, well, his back would need to no longer be the size of a Michelangelo canvas. It can happen!

Where Poor William gets into trouble other than the obvious–heredity–is when advertisers use language as a tool of the devil. For instance, he was in a whole foods store in Memphis recently, lusting after item upon item on every shelf.

The legendary Hog Heaven was finally attainable and Poor William was just the fellow to be granted unmitigated entry, since he was not found inadequate and wanting for such a grandiose honor.

The packaging was beautiful, the verbiage enticing, the color of the vegetable chips were as Joseph’s robe of many colors set against a black background with fonts scripted in colors found only in nature. In yellow, it gently entreated me, “New Size, Great Price.”

What was this product beckoning Poor William to make a Faustian bargain with the serenading siren of the healthy snack world? Terra Exotic Mediterranean Vegetable Chips.

Whole Foods and the chip distributor, Hain Celestial Group, Inc. had Poor William at Hello. Celestial even has to do with the heavens.

How could a man who loves words and who likes living large, the firstborn offspring of a man named Roundman, turn down the command to:

“Savor the finest flavors made famous in Mediterranean sunshine, a superb balance of garlic, oregano and a hint of olive oil. Simply feast your eyes upon the vibrant colors of Terra’s original exotic array of root vegetable chips–taro, sweet potato, yucca, batata and parsnip. Feel the natural texture of nature’s specially selected roots. Hear the crispy crunch that accompanies every bountiful bite. Lose yourself in the unmistakable aroma. And finally, taste this tantalizing culmination of the senses…Mediterranean Terra Chips.”

Lord have mercy, Po William was done for. He never stood a chance. He cried, “Take me home, Daddy!”

It even was advertised as being “from the earth.” What was a visceral cat to do but plunge in headfirst with wanton and reckless abandon?

The problem with the somewhat healthy snack arose when Poor William couldn’t just eat one of the healthy, from-the-earth chips. No, it was the number-two washtub full of chips that did the poor fellow in. Even healthy things en masse can kill you.

Thankfully, Poor William is perfectly formed! He is gonna be alright! After all, he is a 30, 40, 50!

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