Nobita shuffled in through the school fence, clothes sagging off him like he’d lost a fight with gravity. P.E. hour loomed, the one where Gian bulked up like some pint-sized god, Suneo preened in his snazzy gym kit, and Nobita? Two loops around the track, and he’s gasping, cheeks flaming, lungs burning. “Why always me?” he griped under his breath, hitting the dirt while the teacher yapped on about grit. Deep down, though, it wasn’t the slacking—it was those late-night fridge dives, the piled-on plates of rice and stew that stacked the weight quicker than his ignored chores.
No breather at home either. Ma nabbed him halfway through doughnut number three, arms crossed tight. “Nobita, get your act together or you’ll never snag a date or dodge those thugs!” Sting. He dashed upstairs, door bang, and dove onto the mat face-down. Doraemon, sprawled out munching his pancake thing, flipped a page in his comic. “Tough go? Lay it out.” Nobita buried his mug in the cushion, spilling the beans on the chub taunts, the flop runs, the nonstop chow urges. Cat would’ve perked those missing ears. “Buddy, I got the cure. Tech from tomorrow’s your ticket.”
Out popped the Flavor Flipper from that endless gut-sack—a clunky zapper with knobs and switches, straight outta a toy lab. “Aim at grub, twist to ‘nasty,’ and poof—every bite hits like rotten gym socks. Kicks the binge habit cold.” Nobita’s peepers sparked like bottle rockets. “Cravings gone? I’m in!” He blasted his snack apple: one chomp, and it’s sour sludge. “Blech—nails it!” Doraemon snickered. “Light touch, though. Don’t crank wild.”
Dawn broke, Nobita sauntered to class, stomach rumbling but head high. Lunch rolls, crew ripping into lunches like wolves, him picking at grains like a finch. “Yo, tubby, playing rabbit now?” Suneo jabbed. Nobita straightened up. “Damn right, and it’s paying off. Bet I smoke you in tag.” Snickers rippled, but he felt the win bubble. Shizuka even shot a grin. “Way to go, Nobita!” Break time, he’s lapping the field steady—no wheeze. Magic hour, for real.
Nobita gonna Nobita, though—he jacked the knob too high come evening. Kitchen rice ball? Zinged to toe-jam tang. Go-to noodles? Pond scum. Panicked, he stashed the Flipper under the bed, swearing off the extreme tomorrow. Yeah, right. Supper’s call: Ma’s killer grilled bird, crispy and hot. Sniff hits, gut revolts. “Pass, Mom—not famished.” She scowled. “You hardly touch food lately! Something’s off.” Nobita played it cool, ducking to his spot for “rest.”
Lights out, and the famine slams like a gut punch. Rumbles louder than the cat’s wheezes. He glared at the gizmo, itching to chuck it, but ego dug in. “Push through,” he grumbled, gnawing a veg stick that smacked of scorched tires. AM crawled up queasy—head spins, fingers jittery. Class swam; algebra, thunk—forehead meets table. “Nobita, snap to!” sensei barked. Murmurs buzzed: “Kid’s vanishing…”
Doraemon pinned him at midday, Nobita jabbing a limp sub. “Pal, you’re all bones now. Flipper’s slick for trim, but famine’s dumb.” Nobita fessed the overkill, the foul chow fest. Cat huffed, swiping the toy. “Rule numero uno: Balance. Tomorrow’s toys ain’t shortcuts for smarts.” They tuned it mild—meals tasty again, Nobita metering mouthfuls like a champ. No beams required.
Seven days on, gym showdown: Nobita dusted Suneo, weaved Gian’s shots, slapped Shizuka’s palm after. “Whole new you!” she lit up. He beamed, hand on a middle that rode lighter all ’round. The Gobbler? Reined in, not rigged. Doraemon shot a sly eye from the bag perch. “Told ya. Tools nudge, you drive.”
After, Nobita’s pad kept the munch spot, brakes on. Flipper? Shelf warmer—a nudge that some itches scratch solo, bite by bite. Bullies? Zipped it when the “chubby one” pulled ahead.
(Cooked this from the silly core of Doraemon’s third outing, appetite vs. gadget in prime gut-bust humor.)
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