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.
