Simba continues to enjoy the delights of his Oasis vacation, but Timon and Pumbaa start to see the impact to his waistline. Enjoy!
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The strange box left out in the middle of Timon and Pumbaa's oasis was a mystery to Simba; every day since he began his long-awaited vacation, he took his fill of several rich, succulent meats that were just there for the taking; for the first time in his life, he didn't need to do anything for his food. Not even during his days as a cub living with Timon and Pumbaa, he still had to go out and forage for bugs, but there was nothing to this— the meat simply refilled in the strange, magic box each night, skinned and ready to eat for him by the pound.
It was a type of luxury that, as a King, he never could get away from— while it was the duty of the lionesses to hunt, it would be a bad look for the King to take his fill without doing anything to earn it himself. But with no one else laboring on his behalf, and with Timon and Pumbaa hardly to be the ones to lecture Simba about moderation, Simba just indulged. Each day he ate to his pleasure, leaving him full and drowsy, and spent the rest of the day lazing by the water and sunning himself— it didn't take long for the indulgence to manifest itself on his body. With so many rich meals and no activity to offset it, Simba's finely sculpted, warrior-like build soon became soft and flabby, a round, butterball gut slowly growing more and more profound until it pressed up against his fine clothes and began to spill over the sash wound tight around his widened waist.
Timon and Pumbaa watched their sometime ward grow larger and more fat with each passing day, and the warthog began to grow concerned. "Gee, Timon— Simba's getting a little… uh…. Y'know…"
"I know you aren't calling Simba fat, Mr. Pig," Timon scoffed.
"Just, I don't know… shouldn't we be concerned?"
"Ah, come on Pumbaa, no worries! If he's getting this fat, maybe, y'know. He might want to stay around longer— and we both want our boy to stick around, don't we?"