In a room that smelled of grease, onions, sweat, and dust, Angela Delgado-three hundred-fifty pounds and five-foot-three all the way around-waddled to her easy chair in front of the television.

"Why doesn't that damn man pick up after his self?" she said, kicking a couple empty beer cans out of her way. "What does he think I am, his friggin' slave?"

With fingers as plump as short hotdogs, Angela flicked an oily lock of hair out of her eyes, then lowered herself into a well-worn recliner. The sagging vinyl cushion let out an unseemly hissing, farting sound. Angela reached into the chair's side pocket and pulled out the remote control at the same instant she reclined, and her legs raised a foot off the floor.

Seconds later, the larger than life, leering face of Geraldo Rivera filled the TV screen.

Geraldo was such a great guy, Angela thought, smiling. He was a friend who never made her feel bad about being overweight, never chided her because her breath stunk, never pointed out the hunks of food and plaque between her teeth, never suggested she shower, and never once complained about the supper she made. Instead, Geraldo was so very kind-really just the perfect friend.

Angela had other television pals as well, though none quite as dear as Geraldo. She was as much a resident of Llanview, Pennsylvania as all the cast members of One Life to Live. Too, she was a full-fledged citizen of Port Charles, New York. In fact, she was on such an intimate basis with the characters of General Hospital and her relationship with them so deep and loving that she'd written to many of them, advising of plots against their lives and warning of others' infidelities. In appreciation for her concern and as a token of their love, many of the cast members had written back and enclosed autographed pictures of themselves, which Angela framed and displayed.

Sighing now as she thought about all her television friends, Angela turned her attention to the TV just as a smiling Geraldo started speaking to his audience. For close to six minutes, Angela stared slack-jawed at the screen. But then she tensed when the commercial came on. The thin, beautiful woman holding an OB tampon felt good about using them because she was "being good to the environment."

"Big whoop," Angela said under her breath. "I wish my damn Tony went on the rag once a month. I don't think he'd care about 'being good to the environment.' The pig! I have to bleed every month and does he care? Does he even know what it feels like to have a wad of material stuck up you? Hell no!"

General Hospital's Doctor Alan Quartermaine smiled at Angela from his framed tomb on the wall.

Angela returned the smile, all the while picturing Tony with a tampon sticking out of a slit cut under his testicles.

Geraldo, mouth flapping, reappeared on television.

"Today our show focuses on lazy, good for nothing, alcoholic men who don't appreciate their wonderful wives. The Homer Simpson Syndrome on this edition of Geraldo."

The picture shifted from Geraldo, to the stage, and then back to Geraldo. "In our studio, we have an especially repulsive bum named Tony Delgado."

Angela's jaw dropped as her husband took a seat center stage.

How dare Tony not tell her he was going to be on TV! She'd had no warning at all. In fact, the TV guide said today's Geraldo would feature gay women with AIDS who wanted to adopt children. So what was Tony doing on the show?

"Keeey-rist on a stick," Angela said, shrieking at Alan Quartermain. "Look how he's dressed. Damned greasy overalls, and he didn't even wear a clean shirt."

What would the folks in Port Charles think now?

Geraldo turned full-face to the camera. "You're right, Angela, Tony didn't tell you he was going to be on TV. But here he is. I'll bet there're lots of things he doesn't tell you." Geraldo's voice seemed to have taken on a condescending tone he usually reserved for pathetic women over whom he felt so superior. Surely he was using that tone in error.

"Do you think I'm path-"

"You thought Tony was at work," Geraldo said, "didn't you?"

Angela nodded at the television. A drop of saliva rolled from the right side of her mouth, down her chin, then plopped onto her ample bosom.

"He's not at work, Angie dear. You don't mind if I call you Angie, do you?"

Angela shook her head.

"Good. Okay, Ang, Tony's with us because he's a drunken bum and he wants to get fired so you'll have to get a job to pay for all the food you eat."

The audience gasped.

The camera panned away from Geraldo's grin, then zoomed in on Tony who, holding a can of beer in his right hand, sat dressed in boxer shorts and an undershirt, a pack of cigarettes rolled up in the left sleeve. His overalls lay waded by his feet. Tony now looked like he did most evenings after dinner.

"I've had it with you, bitch. It's about time you get a job. Why do you think you look like such a fucking pig? Because you sit around all day in a stinking bathrobe and EAT!" Tony was seized with a fit of coughing that terminated when he hocked up a wad of green phlegm, which he spat on the floor. He took a long pull from the beer, then let out a long belch.

For a minute or so afterwards, the stench of burped beer prickled Angela's nose.

"I'm going to quit my job as soon as I leave here. Then I'm going to go to the track and lose all my money. You're going to get a job, and I'm going to sit around and watch TV."

Tony drained the last of his beer, smashed the can, then tossed it aside. "I'm outta here, man." Tony stood up. "You'll have to do this by yourself, Geraldo, old pal. The track's calling my name. Oh Ang," Tony said, suddenly turning toward the camera and flashing a toothy grin, "save me a Twinkie."

He tittered as he walked off the stage, the camera catching the last of his swaggering steps.

The camera found Geraldo again, this time looking at the floor while he walked toward the audience. "My, my, my," he said, shaking his head. "Stand up here, ma'am." He stuck the microphone in a black woman's face. "Tell me what you make of all this. What's your take on the situation?"

"You'd best figure a way to keep Tony from quitting his job." The woman looked straight at Angela. "He's a loser, girlfriend. I wouldn't lie to you, honey. We women have to help each other out."

"Yes." Angela nodded. She was right.

"You know what you have to do, don't you, Angela?" Geraldo reappeared on the screen, thrusting the microphone out in front.

Angela leaned toward the proffered microphone. "I gotta protect myself," she said, robot-like.

The audience broke into spontaneous applause with wild, unrestrained hooting. Obviously Angela had made the right decision.

"And we'll be back after this commercial break," Geraldo said.

The television screen darkened. When it lighted again, The Pillsbury Doughboy walked across a tabletop, extolling the virtues of crescent rolls.

Angela's stomach squeezed hard, then growled, as she contemplated biting the head off the doughboy. Although he didn't really look that tasty, he reminded her of uncooked cookie dough, which inspired other runaway food thoughts. Each new commercial offered further suggestions of tasty treats. Even the Pedigree dog food looked good.

Another long stomach rumble sounded. She needed food, and she needed it now. Breakfast had been nearly two hours ago, after all.

Angela glanced at the clock, squeezing the chair arms. Would lunch-time ever come?

Oh God, the TV now featured a cake commercial with loads of icing. Angela's mouth watered. An image of a walking Twinkee slammed into her mind. She could almost kill for that Twinkee, which had to contain at least a pound of white fluffy filling. Maybe death by Twinkee wouldn't be such a bad way to go.

"Help me, Dr. Quartermain." Angela sought out the hanging face of her savior.

"Help yourself, bitch," Tony screamed from within the frame.

Angela closed her eyes and began to shake.

When she opened her eyes sometime later, Geraldo had his arm around the shoulder of a masculine looking woman, who was talking about how she contracted AIDS.

Throughout the next three hours, Angela occasionally looked at the handsome face of Doctor Quartermaine. Surely he knew what she was going through and how hard it was living with Tony. He had to know about her sadness and that she didn't really want to be fat. Thank God she wasn't alone in all this. The doctor would make everything right.

When the noon news came on, Angela turned off the television, and with great effort, hoisted herself out of the chair. Finally, it was time to eat.

Beer cans, along with remnants of other meals, littered the kitchen counters and table. God, someone needed to do something about Tony and his messes.

"That bastard's such a slob." Angela grabbed a few of the empty forties and tossed them into the overflowing garbage.

A cockroach ran from the trash pail, escaping under the baseboard. "It's his job to take the garbage out and look at it," she shouted to no one.

From the freezer, Angela pulled out an almost empty container of chocolate ice cream. The perfect lunch.

She opened the dish cupboard. Of course, it was empty. Shrugging, she reached into the cold, slimy sink water and pulled out a bowl from some previous nights' dinner. A hint of chili residue clung to the inside.

She rinsed the dish under cold water-the hot water took too long to start flowing-then plopped in the remaining mounds of ice cream.

As Angela prepared to eat the first bite of lunch, the air rippled slightly, as though a breeze fluttered through the unopened window. When she looked in that direction, a pudgy Oprah Winfrey smiled at her.

"Save some ice cream for me, girlfriend," Oprah said. "And then you and me, we need to talk about dear, old Tony."

You can email Lauran at Laurans@hotmail.com.