Lean, Mean, Shopping Machine
I admit it, I don't like fat people.
I know that fat is the new trendy social pariah, right up there with smokers and cell-phone talkers, but I'm still going to hate the fatties all the same.
Now this isn't the normal fat. The kind of fat that can be hidden by a long shirt or a good belt. This is the kind of fat that disturbs the elderly and mesmerizes the children. The kind of fat that comes with labored breathing and a tumultuous relationship with easy-chairs.
Now, to clarify, I don't hate the people PURELY because they are fat. I know that we are all snowflakes, each one of us different. It just so happens that sometimes some of us end up being snowballs instead of just a flake. The ones I don't like are the human glaciers and avalanches. The big ones that are either incapable of moving at a scientifically measurable pace or those that can't seem to stop their own forward momentum.
Proportionally speaking, I run into the dislikable fatties most often at the grocery store. Their docking station in life; the grocery store is where they come when not buying porcelain clowns on eBay. They slug through the aisles confused and confounded by the choices that unfold before them. Their minds locked into a swirling cyclone of pancakes, pastries, and pies. They're typically unaware that they're now pushing their cart through everyone else in the store. Children are caught by the wheels and pulled under the cart. The elderly are crushed into the stacks of Cap'n Crunch and Pop Tarts. Like a ship run aground, crushing, heaving, and destroying the beach as it ploughs through. The S.S. Lunchbox has claimed another dozens souls in the Pickles Section; lost to the brimy deep.
There are also the ones who have merged with machine. Their gelatinous bodies envelope metals, steels, and sprockets in an attempt to adapt to a fat-bigoted world. The lucky ones are still able to gain locomotion through their own flabby muscles. These are the ones that lean heavily onto the shopping car. They foist their chests and bellies onto the handles and child seat, grappling the front handle in a lose-or-die bear-hug. Barely able to keep their head up from the crushing effects of Earth's gravity, they scan the horizon through their sweaty brow. The legs kick and push this shopping cart humanoid along in a vain effort of mobility. The shopping cart is their steam-punk walker; they are the Pudgie-Borg.
We're just about at the focal point of my disdain for these people. You see, even now, as they surpass humanity and become a caricature of obesity, I still don't hate them. The tipping point for the scales of sympathy lie in their attitude. They glare and stare at everyone else with a look on their face that just reads "Fuck you, you're in front of my food." They wander down the very exact middle of every aisle, shifting their heft from side to side, making the waters unnavigatable. There's only room enough in the frozen food section for one of you, and damned if you'll come between them and the Hot Pockets.
At any moment, they jack-knife like a tractor-trailer on the highway if they need to. "This isn't the Syrup Section!" Damned be all those around them! Women, child, and the rest can all go straight to Hell if it means they don't have to circle through the cereal aisle.
Perhaps it is the low blood sugar with the temptation of being at the sweet spot in the carbohydrate mecca or that this world was designed around the single-serving pedestrian. Or perhaps the fact that even light cannot escape their gravity that the world seems just too dark and bleak. Something has made them miserable and tired and you've just become one more speed bump in their parking-lot of life.
It is for their hatred of me that I hate them.
That and they're just too damned big.
Okay, I'm done here.
I know that fat is the new trendy social pariah, right up there with smokers and cell-phone talkers, but I'm still going to hate the fatties all the same.
Now this isn't the normal fat. The kind of fat that can be hidden by a long shirt or a good belt. This is the kind of fat that disturbs the elderly and mesmerizes the children. The kind of fat that comes with labored breathing and a tumultuous relationship with easy-chairs.
Now, to clarify, I don't hate the people PURELY because they are fat. I know that we are all snowflakes, each one of us different. It just so happens that sometimes some of us end up being snowballs instead of just a flake. The ones I don't like are the human glaciers and avalanches. The big ones that are either incapable of moving at a scientifically measurable pace or those that can't seem to stop their own forward momentum.
Proportionally speaking, I run into the dislikable fatties most often at the grocery store. Their docking station in life; the grocery store is where they come when not buying porcelain clowns on eBay. They slug through the aisles confused and confounded by the choices that unfold before them. Their minds locked into a swirling cyclone of pancakes, pastries, and pies. They're typically unaware that they're now pushing their cart through everyone else in the store. Children are caught by the wheels and pulled under the cart. The elderly are crushed into the stacks of Cap'n Crunch and Pop Tarts. Like a ship run aground, crushing, heaving, and destroying the beach as it ploughs through. The S.S. Lunchbox has claimed another dozens souls in the Pickles Section; lost to the brimy deep.
There are also the ones who have merged with machine. Their gelatinous bodies envelope metals, steels, and sprockets in an attempt to adapt to a fat-bigoted world. The lucky ones are still able to gain locomotion through their own flabby muscles. These are the ones that lean heavily onto the shopping car. They foist their chests and bellies onto the handles and child seat, grappling the front handle in a lose-or-die bear-hug. Barely able to keep their head up from the crushing effects of Earth's gravity, they scan the horizon through their sweaty brow. The legs kick and push this shopping cart humanoid along in a vain effort of mobility. The shopping cart is their steam-punk walker; they are the Pudgie-Borg.
We're just about at the focal point of my disdain for these people. You see, even now, as they surpass humanity and become a caricature of obesity, I still don't hate them. The tipping point for the scales of sympathy lie in their attitude. They glare and stare at everyone else with a look on their face that just reads "Fuck you, you're in front of my food." They wander down the very exact middle of every aisle, shifting their heft from side to side, making the waters unnavigatable. There's only room enough in the frozen food section for one of you, and damned if you'll come between them and the Hot Pockets.
At any moment, they jack-knife like a tractor-trailer on the highway if they need to. "This isn't the Syrup Section!" Damned be all those around them! Women, child, and the rest can all go straight to Hell if it means they don't have to circle through the cereal aisle.
Perhaps it is the low blood sugar with the temptation of being at the sweet spot in the carbohydrate mecca or that this world was designed around the single-serving pedestrian. Or perhaps the fact that even light cannot escape their gravity that the world seems just too dark and bleak. Something has made them miserable and tired and you've just become one more speed bump in their parking-lot of life.
It is for their hatred of me that I hate them.
That and they're just too damned big.
Okay, I'm done here.
4 Comments:
: )
I don't think it's that bad. I feel like you are over-reacting.
he's not overreacting, i've personally witnessed a human blubber-monkey on one of those 'scooter' devises pull himself along the candy aisle while wheezing and sweating like a rapist.
it's traumatized me and i cannot eat peanut M&M's anymore.
Another example of these fine specimens of society takes us onto the aircraft.
How many times have you heard, and felt smited by the words: "Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. We are now boarding flight [insert favorite flight number here]. Those people with small children and people who need assistance may now board."
I'm all for it. These people need assistance, and the small children can be a handful at times (but when they are 12+, it looks more like an excuse to get to the front of the line - that's another discussion entirely).
I will now tell of the experience I had. One flight to a resort down in the Caribbean, one of these privileged people to be pre-boarded was a 350 pound monster of a, what looked like, a woman. Again, she needed the assistance. She could barely walk, let alone squeeze her ass into the inhumane seats that the charter flights expect the average person to fit into. So, all goes well, despite the aformentioned pseudo-envy of them being boarded first.
Well, the flight was mostly uneventful, except for witnessing 2 meals being scarfed down by this person, and the distinct smell of the combination of licorice whips and axel grease (I really don't know how to discribe the smell, but I can assure you, the majority of people around the person were experiencing their gag-reflexes).
Again, at this point, I don't really have a personal problem with the person. They live their life that way, so how can I be judgmental?
Well, here comes the kicker. Despite the announcement by the flight crew for people who need assistance disembarking to remain seated until the rest of the plane has emptied, this 350 pound heffer managed to wriggle her gigantic ass out of the one seat (I felt really sorry for the person beside her). This was by no means an easy feat. The arm rests for the row all needed to be lifted. Oh, and the SMELL when she got up... No... I won't try to describe it. During all of this, the people were already starting to disembark, and needless to say, she held up everyone behind her.
I agree with Mike. It's not the fat, it's the personality. These people think that they have the same rights as people that can do the same thing in half the time and less than half the smell.
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