Peter McKay

In recent weeks, I've noticed a secret campaign being waged behind the scenes by our media elite. They're not trying to get poor folks health care or stop pollution. No, this campaign is aimed at getting out-of-shape young people, or just sloppy-looking people, who used to be in shape — and now not so much — to give up being ashamed and free themselves by letting it all hang out, right where we have to look at it. The message is clear: Let your flab flag fly.

A recent New York Times piece reported on a growing hipster trend involving young guys giving up their soul patches and instead growing "Ralph Kramdens." Named after Jackie Gleason's burly bus-driver belly, a Ralph Kramden is more than a paunch, but not yet a real beer belly. If it were a person, it would be a 15-year-old, not a kid anymore, but clearly going to grow into something. Something big. And they're flaunting it. A jelly belly is the new status symbol.

Like everything involving hipsters, this somehow has social significance. When my friends and I started to thicken up, it was because we were stressed or lazy or just plain pigs. I personally took the opportunity to gain weight every single time my wife got pregnant. It wasn't some psychological bonding thing: it was just that she would legally be precluded from complaining about my gut while hers looked like one of those cheesy globe bars where they hide scotch and whiskey. But when she lost the baby weight, I kept mine in case I needed it later.

But for these hipsters (the term seems a little ironic when you can no longer see their hips), it's supposedly a reaction to pressures from society, and from women, that they maintain a six-pack. By eating a few more Snickers bars, and finishing their days with heaping bowls of sugar cereal downed by beer, they're declaring their freedom from expectations. I am belly, hear me roar.

Or maybe they're reacting to our new president, who has been photographed at the beach with his six-pack abs, walking on water.

Woman, too, are jumping on this bulging trend. Last month, Glamour magazine published a nude photo of 20-year-old model Lizzi Miller sitting on a bench. She's a beautiful young woman who modeled in the past, with a radiant smile, but in this picture she has a gut that looks like she now works as a truck driver. Basically, she's pretty, but it ain't. (If you're a truck driver, and you're offended by that remark, I'd only say 1) you know it's true, 2) You sit all day in that big, comfy seat and eat only food that's bad for you, and 3) I kind of envy you.)

The point of the picture was that flabby people are just as beautiful as people who are in perfect shape. And if that's the case, we should show our flab for the whole world to see.

Maybe we're not getting smarter about this. Maybe we're getting dumber. Maybe in the old, old days — when people covered everything up and it was shocking just to show a bit of ankle — it wasn't modesty at work, it was just brains. Most of us (admit it, you included) look a lot better with clothes on.

One hot night a couple weeks ago, my wife and I had gone to bed early, and I realized that I'd forgotten to plug in my cell phone. I sighed, jumped out of bed, and trotted down the steps in just my boxer shorts.

As I plugged in my phone in the kitchen, my 13-year-old daughter, who had come down for a drink of water, came into the room. Confronted by the image of middle-aged dad in just his boxers, in a brightly lit room, she stopped, made a gagging sound and put her hand to her throat.

"What's the matter with you?" I said, getting just a little offended. I looked down. My Ralph Kramden was on its way toward being a John Goodman.

She shielded her eyes, almost running into the kitchen table.

"Nothing," she answered. "Just a little too much 'Dad' going on there, Jelly Belly!"

I stomped up the steps.

"Just wait!" I called out. "Next month I'm on the cover of Glamour magazine!"

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