In defense of Greg Sgammato (occupation: hating fat girls)

Controversy can be a good thing, but stirring the pot towards an audience that proves too delicate? It can be disastrous. So much stirring in fact, and suddenly you’re hated on a cyber-wide scale.

That’s what happened to Greg Sgammato. He wrote an article for the Johns Hopkins newsletter, an article about the following (for compelling excerpts, see here):

-The tragedy of fat girls being friends with hot chicks, which gains all these “hippos” easy access to frat parties

-The tragedy of fat girls showing skin, since this horrible display can damage the delicate frat-boy retina

-The tragedy of delicate frat boys being forced into getting drunk, as it’s their only medication against the retina-crushing “elephants” mentioned above

The editors of the newsletter mostly defended his writing, with the always handy mention of  “satire”. That’s nice, but is it really enough to rescue this unfairly maligned genius?

NO!

So here I come, his female-knight-in-shining-thong, ready to save him with words (and also with my warm and snuggly bosom, should he find it extra-large enough).

The truth is, I was Greg Sgammato, and his heart-wrenching problem was mine in the early 2000′s…

…Our sorority was booming. None of us were incredibly hot, in fact some might say we were objectionable in appearance. But we belonged to a sorority, dammit. We had matching jackets, we had booze, and we only asked one thing of our party patrons:

-Be a treasure trove of sexy men. And be this sexy for free. All the time. Thanks.

In a startling act of defiance, rule-breakers popped up left and right. But how? The rules were pretty simple, as stated in our “Scavenge-for-Sausage” flyers: be shirtless, drench yourself in baby oil, have an eight-pack (because AS IF we would settle for a borderline fatty six-pack), and make sure your “junk outline” is visible through your jeans.

I mean it’s not rocket science.

Instead we were flooded with mediocre atrocities or worse.  My nastiest memory? Some average-looking dude approached me at the vodka-and-vodka punch bowl. Not only was he wearing baggy jeans, but the jerk was even wearing a shirt! How was I supposed to judge his abs if they were blanketed in cotton? The worst part of course was when the words began to spill from his mouth. “Current events” this, “reading books for fun” that, it was a full blown conversation.

And I threw up in my mouth.

After that debacle, our guests were always judged before we ever let them in (uggos to the left, hotties de-shirted and oiled on the spot).

It was a great four years, but only because we were vigilant. So Greg Sgammato? Yes I feel your pain but the advice is simple: tighten up the damn security! And create narrow doorways so the “elephants” can’t squeeze in!

Again, it’s not rocket science.

Before I conclude, I will calmly look into Greg Sgammato’s (and any frat boy’s) future, with some solemn words of advice…

…When you enter the real world, like the office world as an example, there are no lingerie-themed parties. Sometimes women wear top-to-bottom suits. And in the winter? You might find that women wear sweaters SO big and bulky, that they don’t even betray the booby outline, let alone the silhouette of a nipple.  And this goes on for a full eight hours a day! The craziest twist of all? Sometimes women get jobs based on qualifications, without even having to submit a sexy photo (I know dude, audacity much?). You know what all this means don’t you? “Elephants”, “bisons”, and “blimps”, infiltrating your world for forty hours a week.

Bonne chance, mon ami…bonne chance.