A genuinely obese hirsute sumo-wrestler is lying on the floor. He wears a pink sumo-thong. The air-conditioner isn’t working. It’s hot. Real hot. Little drops of sweat pour down his man-cleavage…
Read more about the uncanny dream, after the jump.
The poor sumo-wrestler in question is so morbidly obese that he cannot move on his own. A blob, he is. In fact, he is so fat that an actual Sikh has to move his fat-butt. He rubs him with oil, then massages him.
Someone pinch me!
His smile testifies: the sumo-wrestler is happy. He enjoys the kneads and gentle pinches. He is, as a matter of fact, delightful at his state. Every single time his assistant The Sikh changes his position, he giggles:
“Heheheh Sardar ji!”
The unrestrained giggling combined with the weight of his man-boobs form a dismal picture. His boobs giggle in sync with his high-pitched hehes.
“Awais! It’s time for lunch now! Get off the bistra and do something useful!”
Gynecomastia. Look it up.