They're blaming their bulging bodies on Big Mac attacks.

The fast food burgery should post signs of warning that super-sized fries and three greasy meat patties, two slices of cheese, three strips of bacon fat and a glob of mayonnaise between two buns of bread will make folks fat. That's Mickey D's responsibility, fat folks say.

Now, I can boldly stand on groaning scales and say there's not a word of truth to that.

I've never eaten a fast food burger in my life and, Olive Oil, I am not.

But, a growing class of fat folks has decided to blame their obesity on the fast food burger flippers that super size on demand.

It all started back when some wacky woman pulled through the drive-thru at McDonald's and poured a cup of hot coffee in her lap. Sitting there on the hot seat, she saw dollar signs. She sued Mickey D for burning her bottom and won. Now, she's sipping cappuccinos and cruising the Caribbean.

But, that was just one greedy hand in the grease pot.

Now, hordes of hamburger hungry folks are hollering fowl. They say the fast food industry should police its counters like a bartender in an upscale &uot;establishment.&uot; The kids behind the counter should cut customers off if their hips are too large or refuse to super size anyone with love handles or a bulging belly. It's the sole responsibility of the fast food folks to regulate the size of its customers, they say.

Customers bear no responsibility.

Hogwash!

Obesity has reached epidemic proportions in the United States, but who's to blame?

The fast food fellows?

No. We're the ones to blame. We're the ones who want to be super sized and we're getting what we're asking for - super sized i.e. fat.

We can't be satisfied with a burger unless it's dressed to kill, literally.

We can't be satisfied with fries unless they're drenched in chili and cheese.

We can't be satisfied with pizza unless the crust can be dipped in butter.

We turn a healthy salad into a bowl of fat and cholesterol by topping it with a cup of Ranch dressing.

Never in my life have I had a gun put to my head by a restaurateur and forced to &uot;Super size or else.&uot; I am responsible for what I eat. And, I believe so is everyone else. We're not a nation of forced-fed folks. We choose to live to eat rather than eat to live.

Then, we resort to fad diets to take it off PDQ so we can have the pleasure of putting it right back on again.

Every friend I have is on a diet of some kind. Even the not-so-stout ones.

Not me.

If I'm on a diet, others expect me to lose weight. So, I say I'm just cutting back, eating healthier. If I lose a pound or two along the &uot;weigh,&uot; good. If not, I never expected to have wiggle room in a 9-inch PVC pipe anyway. And, too, eating's fun. It's recreation. It's entertainment.

My friend Tea Cakes and I are planning a trip to Wisconsin. On Friday night, were going to eat haddock at a fish shack out in the boonies. On Saturday night, we're plan to eat walleyed pike at a &uot;supper club&uot; in the middle of nowhere. On Sunday, we'll go to a family reunion feast. On Monday, we'll shop for world famous Wisconsin cheese and bacon cured with apple wood.

If we have any time in between, we might see some of the sights. Then, on Tuesday, we'll roll in home - literally.

And who will be to blame, Mickey D or me? The answer is obvious.

It is our own hands that feed us, not the cook in the kitchen.

And, as a little food for thought, why, if so many of us Americans are overweight, is every rack in every mercantile store filled with clothes for folks the size of a celery stick?

&uot;Well-nourished&uot; folks are discriminated against. We're forced to shop at places with names like &uot;The Stout Shop' and &uot;The Mature Woman.&uot;

We lollygag around outside the shop, pretending we're waiting for someone, looking this way and that. When the coast is clear, we dart in like a mouse and crouch behind the racks like a tiger hoping no one will see us in the full-figured store.

We're the ones who should be filing a class action suit, but not against the food folks. We need to sue the clothing stores that single us out and make us cower around like we've got way too much to hide.

Count me in on that one. It suits me to a tee.