Yo' mama is so fat that she can no longer bear to look at herself in the mirror, no longer button the top of her pants. She ties a sweater around what used to be her waist so that nobody can see the fly from which a distended, stretchmarked belly balloons. She faces slight resistance from the doorframe against her drooping, engorged saddlebags, and has to ignore the stares as she goes about her daily, sedentary business. Her office job doesn't help her weight. She is a telemarketer, and a bad one at that - whenever anybody hangs up on her, she cannot help but shovel into her mouth yet one more handful of cheesy, salty snacks that she keeps in a Costco bucket underneath the desk.
Yo' mama is so fat that in her cubicle she has thousands and thousands of Cathy cartoons papering the walls that peel slightly from the fomcor in the humidity - having Cathy tell her that ack, she doesn't fit into her swimsuit anymore, either makes her feel infinitesimally better about herself. With the advent of the internet, she began using search engines to find images of those with impossibly perfect bodies - the movie stars, the porn stars, and the photoshopped alike.
Yo' mama is so fat that when she gets home from work that night, she thinks of how papa left. You left her too, you know - not in the same way, but everyone left her just the same. She sighs when she looks at the wedding photo (everyone looks so happy) that she still keeps on the mantle, and fingers the colt pistol in her meaty hands, and tosses it nimbly between shaking, sausagelike digits.
Yo' mama is so fat that she puts the muzzle in her mouth, and her swollen finger pulls flaccidly at the trigger.