Fat women love stalkers and rapists.

I know what you’re thinkin’ homie, “what tha hell, you crazy Nigel?” Word, I gotcha, but hear me out son. Listen to this.

Have you ever hung out with some girls and the fattest one says, “hey, this guy keeps stalking me” or “this guy keeps grabbing my ass”? Do you ever turn on the news and the story of the night is that a woman got raped in the next county — they show her picture, and she’s a fat as fuck, 78 year old grandmother? What’s goin’ on here? Are rapist and stalkers really gettin’ together, conspiring to victimize fat bitches? Yeah right, and the tooth fairy flew into my bedroom one night and gave me a rimjob while I was asleep. Actually, the answer is a big fat fucking NO. These pussy ass wannabe rapists and stalkers couldn’t wrestle a hog in the mud, much less ride a wild buffalo. If anything, these rapists and stalkers are just jealous that they can’t handle a big woman. So why in the hell are these fatties screaming rape and accusing random men of stalking them?

Nigel has been thinking about this shit for a while.

I’ll tell you why, because big bitches want stalkers to rape them. It’s disgusting I know, but we live in a disgusting world, so you gotta man up to that challenge or fade out. Since most men out there aren’t making moves on fatties, these big women have got to invent their stalkers and degrading rape stories to tell their best friends forever. They don’t want to feel left out and less sought-after when their girlfriends get together and talk about dating and sex, so they tell tall tales — to boost their ego with lies rooted in their deepest sexual fantasies. Some of these bitches are so desperate they take their bullshit to the news stations; they need the whole world to know that they got gang raped and gagged with a twinkie. Bitch please, who you foolin’?

Yes it is! She isn’t just dreaming, she’s using a falsified signal as a means of begging for cock while simultaneously fattening her ego.

The truth: when fat women cry and complain that they got stalkers trying to rape them, it’s a signal that they aren’t getting any dick. They’re advertising their desperation by pretending and announcing that the total opposite is true. It’s that plain and simple. They want dick by any means necessary, even if it’s imaginary; but they want the real thing by force, they’re that fucking desperate. This bullshit is so bad that innocent brothers are getting locked away in the pen; so I’m doing my part to fix this problem, thank the Lord that I found a solution.

Captain save-a-hoe to the rescue. When I realized this shit, I put on a trench coat and went out telling fat bitches I was a detective. I told them I was looking for this known stalker who is also wanted for rape and on the run from the FBI. Each and every fat hoe I questioned immediately piped up said she was one of his victims, a victim of the exact same stalker/rapist I was looking for. Man, what a coincidence! I invited each one to my white van for further questioning to help with the investigation, they all agreed. Once I got them in the van, I told them to take off all their clothes so I can gather some DNA evidence. Clothes come off, I bend the bitch over, and made some new DNA evidence. Botta bing botta boom botta bang.

Now things didn’t always go down smoothly in the white van. Sometimes I’d get a hostile fattie telling me that she needs to see my badge and shit, and that she ain’t snitching unless I’m for real. This is when I ask her what the rapist looks like. As she’s giving me the description, I put on my ski mask and say, “did he look like this?” Then I whip out my cattle prod and tase the fuck out of her until her pussy glows in the dark, and proceed to harpoon her face with my chocolate yardstick. After the zap and tap session I dump her ass off in front of the homeless shelter so my buddies can finish her — I’m all about recycling — and by sharing that ass I protect myself legally. This is what I call forming an LLC (Limited Liability Cooperation) because the liability (blame) is spread out. I’m not the only rapist one involved. She won’t be able to remember and report all of us. Furthermore, the cops aren’t going to believe another epic rape story anyway.

 

follow me on twitter for more big game advice @NigelBigGame

From 1 to 10 – the Fat Rating System.

Time to lay down the pipe where it COUNTS. Where does it count? You need some quality control: a rating system. Now, before anyone gets all butt-hurt, my 1 through 10 rating system for hoes isn’t really 1 through 10. It’s 5 through 10, because all women are beautiful in their own way; and it’s really because it would be cruel to label a woman as anything less than 5 — that damn #5 bitch might kill herself if I do that. We’re measuring slabs and flabs here, big chunky ass butts, thunder thighs and potbelly guts. Trust me, I can smell the thick sweat off a buffalo-slut hundreds of paces away; it’s like a 6th sense that helps in assessing her quantitative or rather qualitative value. I mean, I also got a magic measuring stick in my head to accurately guesstimate her BMI, number of rolls and weight — it’s like I’m spider man with his spidey senses.

First comes first though, I have to give credit where it’s due. Shout out to the most pimped-out motherfucking player of all time, the most qualitatively quantitative man ever, representin’ Sesame Street. My man Count Count. He taught me to count when I was growing up, and how to evaluate things numerically. Slab by slab, I’ll share that knowledge with you. Let’s put his lessons to work.

Count on Count Count.

First we’ve got the 5 and below. Now I told you that I don’t rate bitches anything below a 5, cause that would be mean as hell. We’re trying to make women feel beautiful and love all of God’s creatures, like this bundle of bones:

This bag of bones is in the -5 range. I’ll throw her to my pit bulls, woof woof!

Man, I think her boney ass would stab me. Fuck that shit, bones are for dogs, but I prefer hogs. Next we got us a 6!

A classic 6.5 hoe. She’s done up well, but not enough ass-cushin’ for my chocolate torpedo to explode.

666 is the number of the beast, but she is just one lonely 6. So I guess that’s 1/3rd of the size of the beast then? Oh well Satan, I’d still hit that — slay that bestial pussy in the name of Christ, Amen.

Next we got us something like a 7:

Class 7 cargo right here. I’ll keep her around until I run out of ice cream.

I hate it when my one night stand (typically a 6-7 like above) tries to make me breakfast in the morning, trying to win me over by playing with my emotions and shit. Nice try bitches. This is why I get up earlier and convince her to go to Denny’s for breakfast instead. Then I bounce, leavin’ her moderately-fat-ass at the restaurant with her pancake ice cream special. Good old hump, plump and dump. Bitch ain’t thick enough for me to sport at the hungry hippo ball.

On to an 8:

The freighter has arrived with our 8. She’s here to feed Africa, and I’m African 😉

Oh man… god dayyyyum. Look at those slabs, each crevice or cut in between each slab is like one giant tight pussy for my chocolate stick to cuddle with! Wrap it around me baby, wrap it around and take it down town. Get snuggie with my joint.

Just when you didn’t think it could get better:

Mrs. 9 needs to ride in the back of the truck if you want to bring her home to fuck.

Good thing my joint is so big and hard that it turns into a rigid black crowbar, pryin’ open heavy asses like you’d open a crate at a warehouse, Nigel’s warehouse. Nothing turns me on like sweaty flab so heavy I gotta work my jackhammer-pelvic muscles drillin’ that ass for gravy. Gotta pull that forklift-doggystyle on her.

And finally 10:

Cottage Cheese is good for ya

All I can say is, thank God I live in Louisiana.

 

follow me on twitter for more big game advice @NigelBigGame