Draft Dodger (Fat Friday 5.23)

Link: https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/4y7pbn4rplrgdr06k1gqr/Draft-Dodger.MOV?rlkey=ml5ss7a78tarz620g3i6dxuur&st=gz0hwe3u&dl=0

Password: toofattoserve

Companion Story:

Miles Carter stared down at the thin envelope on the kitchen table like it was a bomb. The return address read: Selective Service System. He didn’t need to open it to know what it said. His number had been called.

His mom wept softly behind him. His dad patted him on the shoulder like he was already dead.

Miles wasn’t a coward — not exactly — but he wasn’t a soldier, either. He hated conflict. He passed out at the sight of blood. He barely survived gym class, let alone combat training. And the idea of being dropped into a warzone with nothing but a rifle and a prayer made his stomach twist.

That night, he scoured the internet. He dug deep into message boards and old forums, looking for a legal way out. Asthma? No. Flat feet? Nope. Mental illness? Already tried that during high school — no dice.

Then, buried deep in an old post from a decade ago, he saw it:

"If you're too heavy to meet physical standards, you can't serve."

His heart skipped. He clicked.

“If your BMI is high enough, they’ll boot you. Usually anything over 30+ and they start looking at you funny. Get it to 35+ and you're a medical liability.”

Miles sat back, blinking. His lean frame couldn’t have been more than 150 pounds soaking wet. He’d need to gain at least 60 pounds.

And fast.

WEEK 1: MISSION INITIATED

It started innocently: milkshakes for breakfast, second helpings at dinner, chips between meals. Miles told his parents it was "bulking season." They didn’t question it.

But it escalated quickly. He downloaded a calorie tracking app — only in reverse. Instead of limiting, he challenged himself to exceed 6,000 calories a day.

His pantry became a fortress of processed glory: jars of peanut butter, tubs of cookie dough, gallons of chocolate milk. He blended butter into his coffee. He ate ice cream straight from the tub at 2 a.m., belly round and tight beneath his hoodie.

The first five pounds came easy. The next ten, harder. But he kept going.

WEEK 3: STRAINING THE SCALE

Miles now struggled to fit into his jeans. His thighs rubbed when he walked, and his t-shirts rode up, exposing a soft underbelly that jiggled when he moved.

He waddled to the bathroom, out of breath from a flight of stairs. The scale blinked up at him: 192.

Still not enough.

He looked at his reflection. Puffy cheeks. A curve forming at the base of his chin. His stomach pushed forward like a dome, soft and heavy.

He smiled, a little proud. But also nervous. Could he keep this up?

WEEK 5: FINAL COUNTDOWN

His draft physical was a week away.

He weighed in at 217 pounds.

Not quite the golden number.

So he pushed harder.

Every morning, he force-fed himself breakfast until his belly gurgled. He took to walking around shirtless in front of the fan, letting the air soothe his stretched skin. He groaned after every meal. His belly now sat firmly in his lap when he slouched.

Three days before the exam, he stepped on the scale:

228 pounds. BMI: 35.4.

He'd done it.

D-DAY: THE PHYSICAL

Miles waddled into the processing center in basketball shorts and a too-tight hoodie, sweat already beading on his forehead. He felt eyes on him as he stepped onto the scale.

The nurse squinted. "Height?"

"Five-nine."

She tapped her tablet. Then looked up again.

"You're... technically obese."

Miles played dumb. “Really?” he asked, licking donut glaze off his thumb.

She frowned. “We’ll need to evaluate your fitness. Wait in the next room.”

AFTERMATH: DISCHARGED

Three days later, Miles received another envelope. He tore it open with greasy fingers.

“You have been placed in Review Group Bravo due to exceeding maximum BMI standards.

You are not cleared for active duty at this time.

You are required to attend a Second Fitness Evaluation in 90 days. If weight and health benchmarks are met, you will be reclassified for service.”

He blinked.

“No,” he muttered. “No, no, no—”

They hadn’t discharged him. They’d just... shelved him. Put him in a fat-boy purgatory.

Inside the envelope was a printed schedule for “Weight Rehabilitation,” along with an XL army-green uniform that looked like it had been fished out of a surplus bin.

He tried the uniform on. The waistband dug into his soft stomach. The buttons strained across his chest. He could barely pull the pants up over his thickening thighs. He groaned.

Tucked into the packet was a diet plan:

“Low-calorie, high-protein regimen. No sugars. No processed foods. Mandatory weigh-in at second evaluation.”

Miles stared at the meal list like it was a death sentence:

• Boiled chicken

• Steamed broccoli

• 30-minute cardio daily

They wanted him to lose weight. To undo everything he’d worked so hard for.

Absolutely not.

If he wanted to stay free, he couldn’t just stay fat.

He had to get too fat to fix.

WEEK 1: BULK MODE REACTIVATED

Sitting on the edge of his bed in the XL uniform, belly flopped over his waistband, Miles made a new vow:

He wasn’t going to lose a pound.

In fact, he was going to gain so much that by the time they saw him again, they’d have no choice but to mark him “unfit for service. Permanently.”

He renamed his phone’s meal tracker app to “Freedom Fuel.”

His calorie goal? 10,000 a day.

He joined an online community called “Delisters United” — full of guys like him doing the same thing.

They shared tips:

• Drink heavy cream with every meal

• Fry everything in bacon grease

• Eat right before bed

• Never walk when you can sit

Miles followed them all.

By the end of the week, his face was rounder, softer. His belly pushed out further, and he could feel it bounce when he jogged down the stairs — which he now avoided.

WEEK 4: SIZE XL ISN’T ENOUGH

The scale read: 248 pounds.

Miles rubbed his swollen middle proudly. Each pound was another bullet dodged. Another mile between him and the frontlines.

Even simple tasks felt different now. Getting off the couch meant grunting. His stomach pressed into the steering wheel. He had to lean back after meals, his belly too tight and bloated to sit up straight.

And he loved it. He was safe. Growing.

WEEK 9: TOO BIG TO IGNORE

His friends barely recognized him anymore. His old shirts? Gone.

His new ones? Already tight.

Even walking had changed — his gait widened, his hips swaying under the bulk.

He weighed in at 273. BMI: 42.

Obesity Class III. "Morbidly obese" on paper.

He read medical blogs and found exactly what he wanted to see:

“BMI over 40 with comorbidities often results in permanent disqualification.”

“Mobility impairment, hypertension, and rapid gain patterns may be flagged as long-term risks.”

He leaned into it.

Stopped going outside. Ate more sodium. Skipped water and doubled his calories.

He wanted them to look at him and see liability.

D-DAY 2: THE SECOND REVIEW

Miles waddled into the processing center in sweatpants and a size 3XL hoodie stretched to its limit. His gut spilled out under the hem, thick and pale, bouncing with each step. He was sweating before he even got to the scale.

The nurse blinked at him. “Miles Carter?”

He gave a lazy salute and exhaled hard. “Present.”

She scanned his chart, then his figure. Her eyebrows raised slightly.

“You were 228 last time?”

“Yeah,” he said, leaning against the wall. “Guess I didn’t follow the diet.”

She led him to the scale. It groaned under him.

285 pounds.

BMI: 44.2.

The nurse stared for a long moment. She typed something, sighed, and then handed him a sealed folder.

“Report to Station B. Medical Evaluation.”

ONE WEEK LATER

A final letter arrived. Thick. Official.

He opened it with trembling hands.

"Carter, Miles – Status: Permanently Disqualified from Service.

Reason: Chronic weight gain pattern, severe obesity, and comorbid conditions incompatible with military duty.”

Miles didn’t even read the rest. He leaned back into his recliner, pulled his belly out from under his shirt, and grinned.

He had done it. Outgrown the system.

And he still had half a cheesecake in the fridge to celebrate.