Every couple months or so, I get a nastygram. Sometimes they’re warranted, most times—ref. the infamous Hänni Horseface— they’re not. And the topic that gets folks most hot and bothered is the assumption that I, your kind and gentle mistress, have an unfair bias.

Shhh, the critics say, George Bush may hate black people, but …

*gasp*

Hänni hates fat people!

… And I’m sorry, but that’s just not true.

Not even a little bit.

Seriously, eff that shit.

On my list of things Hänni hates, fat people don’t even rank. Look:

If you examine figure A. Retarded.Graph, you’ll notice there’s no “fat folks” on it. Know why? Because—unlike the cocktail wieners that are contributing to my irreconcilable bitchiness—those of us who are overweight do not give me particular pause.

And I resent people accusing me otherwise.

The god’s honest truth is, I don’t care if you’re seven pounds or 700 pounds—If you think fart jokes are funny, then you’re alright with me.

A hannihaus reader asked, what’s my beef against fat people?

My answer is pretty simple: I don’t have one.

On a walk the other day, I crossed paths with an acquaintance. We’ll call this guy, Senor Pantalone.

Senor Pantalone has always struck me as strange. To start, he’s got this Charlie Brown face—completely nondescript and entirely featureless save for two black holes where his eyes should be. And when he walks, he often stumbles. It’s like there’s a hiccup in his step, it’s like he’s a wind-up toy running out of motion.

And I don’t know S. Pantalone that well—like I said, he’s an acquaintance—but what I do know is, his peculiarity extends past his faceless face and the stop-and-go gait.

Case in point: the other day, out on the walk, I noticed he was wearing lady’s pants.

And not just any lady’s pants.

The Senor, (who is fairly slim), was wearing lady’s fat pants.

Said pants were pastelly gray and made of a cheap, stretchy knit most commonly seen in the women’s athletic department at stores like Wal-Mart, Target or Sears. The legs, straight and long were stovepipe style with no taper at the ankle—a look favored by those XX’s who are reticent to accentuate meaty calves.

Yes, dear hannihaus readers, the Senor’s pants were strong enough for a man, but made for a woman.

*ba dum bum ching—thank you, I’ll be here all night*

But yeah, we parted ways and I didn’t think any more about S. Pantalone’s pantalones … until I saw him next … and he was wearing lady’s fat pants again(!).

These ones were identical to the first, except for the color which was pale lavender/light denim.

And I wondered, where on earth was this man getting these large lady’s pants?

The most obvious answer was that the pants belonged to his wife. The only problem with this theory is: dude is divorced.

But still …

Though I never met the missus, the children—the little Pantalones— they are chunky monkeys. If forced to wage a guess, I’d say their mom was too.

Senor Pantalone *had* to be wearing Mom’s pants.

And I bet those stretch pants are what sent the couple careening toward splitsville.

Here’s how I imagine things went down:

One night, deep in conversation, Senior Pantalone probably told his wife he wanted to wear the pants in the family.

And that would’ve been fine by wifey except …

the pants S. Pantalone wanted to wear were hers.

And she probably wasn’t into that.

But I digress.

Today marks the third time in six months that I have, at other’s requests, removed a post from this blog. The Ghost Post—like its twin predecessors—was deemed to be “Too Hot for the Haus” by people I love IRL.

And while I may be good at quite a few things—Re: googling my own name, eating organic raisins, or fawning over boys who wear makeup, I’m really no good with apologies.

Because seriously, I *heart* every word I write. And I don’t know about you, but I think this blog kicks a$$. Plus it’s totally saved my life … like three times.

… But actually that life-saving thing isn’t true. But what is true, what is so very real, and what I would shout from the rooftops if I weren’t afraid of heights is this:

More than pixels and fonts and an electronic framework, this blog is a love letter. And it’s written to commemorate my life.

Even with all its shit-talking irreconcilable bitchiness.

And sometimes I include things about people I hold dear, my mother or father, sister or ex-boyfriend, because—like veins converging at the heart—their stories are often inextricably intertwined with mine.

And I’ve probably been insensitive a time or two or twenty. But it’s just that I don’t think what I write on the Internet should be a cause for offense.

The Internet is not the Real World after all; it’s simply the Real World Wide Web.

When people freak about something I post or tell me a story sucks, I take it personally. Seriously, I’ve spent many-a-sleepless-night wondering “did I go too far with that diarrhea diatribe?”(Undoubtedly, the answer to this question is yes.)

This worry about self-censorship, about always being so-funny-Haw-knee has made me wishy washy.

Sometimes, like today, I feel I should stop causing myself the grief.

I think maybe, just maybe, I should stop blogging.

And this thought makes me incredibly sad. I hope it makes you sad too.

So I’ve done some reflecting and I know I can’t quit this blog. It’s my retarded child—sure its kind of effed up, but I’m so totally in love with it that sometimes I just wanna cry.

Yes, I am that lame.

Now I’m not a big fan of making rules. After all, I’ve been a Rebel with a Clause all my life. But today I’m going to set some.

From here on out, anything that gets posted to the haus stays on the haus. Although I will attempt to exercise restraint for those folks who don’t want the world to know they hooked up with a Thai stripper (Hi G!), I will no longer remove any posts, period.

I won’t even remove the crappy ones … and there are quite a few of those.

If you don’t like what I’m posting, I encourage you to fight back. Start your own blog. You can call it “STFUHANNI!!!” and you can use it to berate me, via your keyboard, on a fort-nightly basis.

In concluding this post, I would just like to remind you, dear hannihaus readers, that my blog is meant to tickle your gigglebone and does not (typically) cause headache, nausea, vomiting, or oily anal discharge.

That is all.

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Update: OMGWTF!

Somebody who reads this blog is an evil genius … and he totally sent me that link.

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I don’t know about you, but after posting this shit, a drink sounds really good. Why don’t you pick one for me? AI Cocktail Countdown in the sidebar.

And that post probably took me like three hours to write.

And that post was awesome, except for one thing—it didn’t exist.

Nope, you didn’t read anything here.

You’re just mentally confused.

(And that’s why you visit the haus in the first place.)

God bless you and good day.
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Drinks in the sidebar. You know what to do.