Fat people arent always jolly.
Today I begrudgingly stumbled into work and was immediately greeted with a three page report suggesting that the Fuck-up Fairy mustve pulled a double shift overnight. After about three hours of 12point, Arial hell I reach for my as yet unused coffee cup and cereal bowl and head into the lunchroom to make some breakfast. No milk. No coffee. No tea. No scotch. No fucking way.
I trundle down the shop in the work car, intentionally grinding each gear and picking away at the loose threads on the seats. Low blood sugar brings out my goblin-esque habits.
The shopping was uneventful; coffee, milk, tea and at the last minute a back-up toothbrush made the cut. The checkout however, was a totally different matter.
Before I continue, Id like to say, being a beefy-boy myself, Im the last person to make fun of someone for being overweight. Well, maybe not the last but at the end of the queue. Towards the end part anyway. Last third of it at least. But, this woman was heee-uuuuggggeeee. Her little electric buggy used to facilitate journeys over 30 feet looked to be powered by a CAT560 diesel. And struggling.
Fat is fat though, it means little about who a person is. However when this amorphous mass wobbled its way with surprising agility to cut in front of me, I was immediately taken off side.
She is not my friend.
I had four items; she had about two dozen in her basket (that fit around her wrist like a bangle three sizes too small) and thats not counting the ones that shed accidentally collected in her folds and gravitational wake as she ambulated down the now proportionately narrow aisles.
She is my enemy.
She shoehorns herself into the checkout spilling over the little rails that separate aisles. As her triple-crunch, deep-fried, rocky-road, cookie-dough, two gallon, now with a bonus 20% more tub of ice-cream is packed into a bag and strapped to the back of one of six sherpas whom obviously lug her shopping home for her, she opens her purse. Her shopping comes to $80 exactly. She reaches past the cash in her purse, (I counted $320 in various denominations) and goes for her credit card.
She is my nemesis.
Then the immortal words, Oh, try this one. It probably wont work though.
I wish you had a terminal illness.
Its declined and she reaches for another. Also declined. When the third one comes out of her purse I feel its time to let fluffy off the chain. Look, I say trying to disguise my agony at her existence. Can you maybe pay cash or choose a card that you know is going to work. Ive got stuff I should be doing now so if you could please hurry up Id appreciate it.
I wish you were on fire.
You may expect an irritable or curt response to this statement. I did. What I got however was pure rage. She screamed and huffed like an asthmatic rhinoceros and threw lolly-pops at me, (They mustve been on the counter, unless she distilled the sugar stored in her finger fat into pure glucose) and hurled abuse.
I wish David Attenborough was here.
Dumbfounded at her reaction I took a step back and almost smiled in disbelief. At this moment an elderly Japanese man Kosami (Sam), whom had preceded Jabba through the checkout turned and said, You should take it easy. Lady as big as you, have a heart attack if not careful. She immediately wailed at him like some racist banshee, Fuck of back to your own country you yellow shit!
Sam didnt even blink before he said, In my country, we would harpoon you for scientific research.
I almost cracked up at this comment. Sam is 82 years old, has been in Australia since 1965 and has for 2 years been unsuccessfully trying to teach me to make an origami swan. He is a Mr. Miyagi, but I am no Daniel-san.
Infuriated, this gelatinous juggernaut shot out a stubby, pudgy battering-ram like arm and hit Sam in the chest, sending her 100lb, 82 year old opponent into a display shelf. I heard something make a hollow crack as he hit the ground. Hip. Had to be.
The lady behind the checkout ran to the store phone and called for help, I hurdled the other counter and ran over to Sam. He looked as much surprised and amused as he was in pain. At the same time the shaved down sasquatch started to make her get away by frantically straddling her buggy. It protestingly hauled her bulk away and she wheezed and spluttered more abuse as she escaped out the door of the shop.
Fortunately the coppers called it through to local security patrol and they found her 15 minutes later, and only about 500 yards, down the road escaping at about 3mph.
So there you have it. Sams hip is indeed broken and hes undergoing surgery tomorrow, but says he is really enjoying the pethadeine. The police have identified the malicious, human beach-ball that assaulted him but havent laid charges yet. I left the coffee and milk in the shop (not having much luck with milk) and all this before breakfast.
Today I begrudgingly stumbled into work and was immediately greeted with a three page report suggesting that the Fuck-up Fairy mustve pulled a double shift overnight. After about three hours of 12point, Arial hell I reach for my as yet unused coffee cup and cereal bowl and head into the lunchroom to make some breakfast. No milk. No coffee. No tea. No scotch. No fucking way.
I trundle down the shop in the work car, intentionally grinding each gear and picking away at the loose threads on the seats. Low blood sugar brings out my goblin-esque habits.
The shopping was uneventful; coffee, milk, tea and at the last minute a back-up toothbrush made the cut. The checkout however, was a totally different matter.
Before I continue, Id like to say, being a beefy-boy myself, Im the last person to make fun of someone for being overweight. Well, maybe not the last but at the end of the queue. Towards the end part anyway. Last third of it at least. But, this woman was heee-uuuuggggeeee. Her little electric buggy used to facilitate journeys over 30 feet looked to be powered by a CAT560 diesel. And struggling.
Fat is fat though, it means little about who a person is. However when this amorphous mass wobbled its way with surprising agility to cut in front of me, I was immediately taken off side.
She is not my friend.
I had four items; she had about two dozen in her basket (that fit around her wrist like a bangle three sizes too small) and thats not counting the ones that shed accidentally collected in her folds and gravitational wake as she ambulated down the now proportionately narrow aisles.
She is my enemy.
She shoehorns herself into the checkout spilling over the little rails that separate aisles. As her triple-crunch, deep-fried, rocky-road, cookie-dough, two gallon, now with a bonus 20% more tub of ice-cream is packed into a bag and strapped to the back of one of six sherpas whom obviously lug her shopping home for her, she opens her purse. Her shopping comes to $80 exactly. She reaches past the cash in her purse, (I counted $320 in various denominations) and goes for her credit card.
She is my nemesis.
Then the immortal words, Oh, try this one. It probably wont work though.
I wish you had a terminal illness.
Its declined and she reaches for another. Also declined. When the third one comes out of her purse I feel its time to let fluffy off the chain. Look, I say trying to disguise my agony at her existence. Can you maybe pay cash or choose a card that you know is going to work. Ive got stuff I should be doing now so if you could please hurry up Id appreciate it.
I wish you were on fire.
You may expect an irritable or curt response to this statement. I did. What I got however was pure rage. She screamed and huffed like an asthmatic rhinoceros and threw lolly-pops at me, (They mustve been on the counter, unless she distilled the sugar stored in her finger fat into pure glucose) and hurled abuse.
I wish David Attenborough was here.
Dumbfounded at her reaction I took a step back and almost smiled in disbelief. At this moment an elderly Japanese man Kosami (Sam), whom had preceded Jabba through the checkout turned and said, You should take it easy. Lady as big as you, have a heart attack if not careful. She immediately wailed at him like some racist banshee, Fuck of back to your own country you yellow shit!
Sam didnt even blink before he said, In my country, we would harpoon you for scientific research.
I almost cracked up at this comment. Sam is 82 years old, has been in Australia since 1965 and has for 2 years been unsuccessfully trying to teach me to make an origami swan. He is a Mr. Miyagi, but I am no Daniel-san.
Infuriated, this gelatinous juggernaut shot out a stubby, pudgy battering-ram like arm and hit Sam in the chest, sending her 100lb, 82 year old opponent into a display shelf. I heard something make a hollow crack as he hit the ground. Hip. Had to be.
The lady behind the checkout ran to the store phone and called for help, I hurdled the other counter and ran over to Sam. He looked as much surprised and amused as he was in pain. At the same time the shaved down sasquatch started to make her get away by frantically straddling her buggy. It protestingly hauled her bulk away and she wheezed and spluttered more abuse as she escaped out the door of the shop.
Fortunately the coppers called it through to local security patrol and they found her 15 minutes later, and only about 500 yards, down the road escaping at about 3mph.
So there you have it. Sams hip is indeed broken and hes undergoing surgery tomorrow, but says he is really enjoying the pethadeine. The police have identified the malicious, human beach-ball that assaulted him but havent laid charges yet. I left the coffee and milk in the shop (not having much luck with milk) and all this before breakfast.
About your journal entry...did that shit really happen? That is hysterical! You should be a writer *checks your occupation* nope doesn't say "writer". Seriously though, did you write that? Awesome!
But you know, she might have been having a really shitful day and you were like, the last straw y'know? I try to remember that about angry strangers, I always tell myself "Hey, maybe they just got diagnosed with terminal cancer, what the hell do I know?"