Fat People.
I feel like I ought to start by saying that as a whole I
have very little against fat people. I appreciate that “God made us all
differently”. (He didn’t because he is a completely fabricated entity, who was
created to keep the sheep sheeping, and the church taking money, and lives, and
robbing small children of their dignity and bumginities, but this is about fat
people, not Catholicism or organised religion, so I will get back to the matter
hand.) I am also aware of the old saying that “it’s not what’s on the outside
that’s important, its what’s on the inside that really matters”: To gauge the
truth in that saying perhaps we should or could ask John Merrick, Simon Weston,
and Steven Hawking if people generally subscribe to that ideology – I wouldn’t
mind betting that sadly, it just doesn’t work that way. The reason for my
latest rant is that I have over the past few weeks been inconvenienced by
massively fat gigantoids on my commute on one too many occasions, and I feel
the need to convey my annoyance through the medium of angry blog posts.
I ought to clarify this isn’t aimed at 95% of people. It’s
not even aimed at 95% of people who consider themselves a bit portly, or aim to
lose a few pounds. This is aimed at those members of society who have binge
eaten, and dodged exercise for so long that they have reached such a size that
they cannot easily fit their massive frame onto one seat on the train, or in
any type of vehicle without literally overflowing onto the seat next to them. I
have written this for those people who are now so fat that it does not only
affect them, but are so fat they inconvenience others around them, namely me. Plenty
of things about these fatties annoy me, but the aforementioned seat issue makes
me really angry:
This seat does not belong to me, although I’ve paid for my
ticket, in much the same way that your wife does not belong to you, although
you paid for your wedding. My penis is part of me, the same as your rolls of
blubber, which mushroom-top over your trousers, and out of your short sleeves,
belong to you. As your insulating layer of fat is now on my seat, in my
personal space, I feel like I ought to put my penis in your wife’s personal
space. Seems fair when you consider that logic, no?
Personally I was all for it, until I considered what the
wife of a zephyr man might look like. If she is anywhere near as fat as you, I
think I will respectfully decline and keep my penis to myself, but If you are
fat, and have a beautiful wife (unlikely, but possible) and you feel the need
to “flab out” on me on my journey to work, there is a very real possibility
that I will follow you home, set up camp in your garden, scout out your house,
and your family, and your life. I will then profile you in a massively detailed
way. I will wait till you have left for work, and over a period of two weeks I
WILL seduce your wife. Whilst you are in the work canteen stuffing 4 blended courses
into your mouth (which has evolved in a hugely shortened period to open like a
flip top bin, to allow for you literally pouring liquidised food down your
gullet) I will put the moves on her. I will stop at nothing, to penetrate the
love of your life, and perhaps then you will learn that is not ok to infringe
on my seating arrangement, simply because the part of your brain that deals
with self-respect has not developed as quickly as your improved mandible
design. I will pull out all the stops to ensure you are as inconvenienced as I
have been. If I need to serenade your wife naked, with a bunch of roses
protruding from my urethra I will. I will teach you a lesson, you fat fuck –
and If I destroy your life in the process, causing you to lose 3 stone through
the mental breakdown you suffer as a result of my revenge moves you can thank
me later, and live safe in the knowledge
that I won’t make sweet skinny man love
to your wife, again.
That may seem a little over the top. A bit of an overzealous
reaction to something that is in the grand scheme of things very very minor,
but I disagree. It’s about respect. Respect for themselves and the people
around them. I wouldn’t get on the train
in one of those sumo seats, huffing and puffing, and barging peoples bags,
shoulders and laptops as I squeezed my massive load down the aisle between the
seats. Upon reaching an empty seat, I wouldn’t literally throw my sweaty bulk
down, completely devoid of any consideration for the person next to me, their
space, or their belongings, but these people do. I wouldn’t roll in dog shit,
and smear freshly chopped onions over my person before sharing personal space
with someone on a packed out bus or train, but again, these selfish people do.
Fat people do these things, perhaps not literally and perhaps not
intentionally, but we all know that in the heat of summer, on London’s
overcrowded transport system (see Fuck You Boris, at the bottom of this page),
we sweat and we perspire, and as a result we suffer from bodily odours. I am a massive hypocrite, because I like
nothing more than discreetly farting in public, and observing peoples facial
reactions whilst trying to hide my own, but I do not want to smell someone
else’s unique mix of Nitrogen, Carbon Dioxide, Hydrogen and Methane, in much
the same way I do not wish to smell your sweat, because you avoid the gym,
consume 15,000 calories a day and neglected to apply a generous coating of antiperspirant
to your impressive bulk before you left the office today.
I saw a program once about a woman who was massive, like
actually huge; too big to bath and what not, and she said that the sweat in
between her rolls of fat would turn to a mayonnaise like consistency if she
left it there for longer than a few hours, and that has always stuck in my
mind. Sweat paste FTW. Whilst this could be a money making opportunity, surely
this should or would have served as a wakeup call, to change, and to improve
your life. As far as I can see (although regular readers of my blog might be
surprised to read) life is above love and happiness, and if you are of certain
disposition reproduction; to bring another person into the world and to teach
them, and nurture them. If you are so fat that you cannot wash, and sexual
intercourse involves rolling you in flour and finding the wet patch, or going
down the rolls till you taste shit and then going back up one, how on earth are
you going to firstly find a partner, and secondly do the do. By indulging
yourself and feasting near constantly these people are killing themselves, and
I cannot find it in myself to respect anyone who would do that.
Another thing that I have come to hate is people who, when in
travelling groups, walk 2 or 3 abreast. Be it old people, young mothers, or
over dressed, overpaid, suited grey-faces travelling to their places of work
all over London’s “Zone 1”. Fat people also seem to travel in packs, and feel
the need to walk in a horizontal line, just far enough apart that no one can
move through the gaps between them, like some sort of Roman troop formation,
operating defensively all over the slopes at Waterloo East train station. Perhaps
it’s a safety in numbers thing. I used to dream about stabbing these people in
the back of the head in much the same way cows are administered the lethal bolt
into their skull’s at the abattoir, however I’ve since changed my mind a
slight. I would actually prefer a more brutal, one stroke multiple kill.
Samurai sword, waist height, one swift motion: Outcome = 3 pair of legs that
now resemble the massive doner kebabs that are proudly displayed in kebab shops
across the land, and 3 massive upper bodies, which look a lot like the top half
of Mr Blobby’s costume, devoid of the pink and yellow dots.
When I told a few people I was writing my latest offensive
drivel post about fat people they asked if I would take the “Fat people are
rinsing out the NHS” stance, and whilst I agree that they probably are, the
fact remains drug addicts, smokers, and alcoholics probably use up as much of
the NHS’s resources as the fatties, and in fact probably a lot more. All of the above, the obese included could
have at one point or another had an opportunity change their ways. I’d be happy
if someone in the know presented me with figures to either prove or disprove
this, but at the moment I am working on pure assumption but either way a 10
year course of methadone must cost a great deal of money, in the same way a
gastric band treatment, a liver transplant, or extensive lung disease treatment
will cost an arm and a leg.
If fat people were as jolly as the stereotype makes them out
to be I would be probably be a bit less angry. If they smiled, and whistled and
giggled at nothing, and handed out pieces of chocolate to the people around
them that they were inconveniencing with their massive bulk and questionable
hygiene I wouldn’t mind so much. I’d probably accept their chocolate and giggle
with (/at) them. If they dressed up as Father Christmas every year at the work
party, and let me sit on their knee, whilst making telling terrible seasonable
jokes and acting like a small child because of my relative size that would be
cool, however they don’t. And that’s partly where the problem lies.
So I do have one final message for the fatties: IF YOU DO
NOT LOSE WEIGHT YOU WILL DIE. AND THEN I WILL HAVE SECKS WITH YOUR WIFE.
Safe.
