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I've recently started to develop the idea of Fat Dawson's Creek. It is a shot-for-shot remake of the entire series of the late-1990s teen drama Dawson's Creek but entirely cast with fat people. The idea came upon me as I was flopped and half-there on the couch, watching a channel on my television that only plays Dawson's Creek. The show was popular when I was in high school, but I never watched it. I felt it was too vacuous and mannered and didn't seem to contend with the unanswerable questions of living—or if it did, it was facile and too defined. But as I sat on the couch now, all these years later, I thought of the word crapulence. Crapulence, as in a sickness caused by excessive drinking and eating. Of which I might've been guilty of. But I wasn't thinking of crapulence because of my disorder—it was because, in my own lazy crapulence, I misspoke the word to mean "the high essence of crap." As in when I whispered at the television: "This show is such crapulence." But then, because my mind hadn't been totally seized yet by the actual crapulence, I thought of the word corpulence. Corpulence, as in the state of being morbidly obese, or fat. Crapulent or corpulent—one seemed to follow the other. And then, it was in this moment of total clarity that I had a vision. A vision of the people on this television show as enormously large people. Engorged, pudgy people. Some of them fat. A few of them merely husky. Fat Dawson, Fat Joey, Fat Pacey, Fat Jen. Fat Grams. Fat Jack. Yes, the entire population of Capeside would be corpulent giants, trouncing their humongous ounces through the lacy and delicate fabrications of teenage melodrama. Why? Why, in my evening crapulence, would I undertake such a project? Devote, on the spot, my life to it? Because it felt necessary. It felt true. It felt like it was solving a very serious problem.
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