A big thank-you to the 400-pound woman in the low-cut mini-skirted witch costume, sitting across from us in the Pizza Hut tonight: we didn’t stop for ice cream on the way home because your image was tatooed across our brains.

I never thought I’d say this about a woman that big, but honey, fish-net stockings might have been an improvement.

At least in those, all those dents and convolutions pock-marking those immense flabby thighs of yours, would have been covered up. Or at least camouflaged.

And a word of advice from one fat chick to another: when your thighs start to fall down over your kneecaps, NOBODY wants to see it. Cover it up. Please. (Much appreciation from the known universe. . . .)

Thank you very much, in anticipation of a more appetizing view next Halloween.

I have now seen what a Butterball turkey would look like, in drag. Big boobs. Big thighs. No taste.

And the only thing worse than having no taste, is having no shame.

(On consideration, most males in drag have exquisite taste. And better legs than most women.)

Nobody wanted to bring the leftover pizza home this time, either.

In fact, I don’t think any of us will ever eat again.

Not for a few hours, anyway.