| Written 13th December 2009 by Rich |
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Inside every fat person... is a Twix.
Stereotypes keep life predictable.
I know without even looking that when I'm stuck in a long queue of traffic, that car whizzing down the empty outside lane with its indicator on, trying to push into my lane, will either be a BMW or a 1999 Vauxhall Astra in silver driven by a twenty-something bloke in a beanie hat.
I know without looking that anybody with Manager in their job title will not be able to talk more than a few words without spouting buzzword bullshit at me. I honestly, genuinely, do not care about your synergy. No, nor your blue sky thinking, and I have no interest in the dynamics of your ducks.
Just say what you mean FFS.
And I know, without looking, that every fat person is on the hunt for their next meal, even though they've either just had one, or are still finishing off one.
God, I hate fat people.
If you think I'm being unfair I ask you this - next time you're walking up a supermarket aisle and you walk to one side to ensure that the foot-traffic remains bi-directional, make a note of the stature of the person who waddles up the middle of the aisle bumping into everybody on the way and swinging their lard-filled basket like it is a weapon.
They will be a fatty.
Next time you're cut up by a driver not through haste, but through stupidity or lack of care, I promise you, it will be a lapsed member of Fat Losers watching the road over the crimped crust of a Cornish Pasty.
And finally, if you're finishing shopping at your local shopping centre as I was last week and you're heading for the door to the car park, take extra care...
I was walking in a straight line towards the doors, clearly in a rush as I was on my lunch hour and not making any ambiguous direction changes. A bloke looking like the bastard love child of Elvis during the Burger Days and John Prescott walks in carrying the obligatory pie.
He's not looking where he's going. He seemed transfixed on something just beyond the fleshy mass that made up his right shoulder.
I keep walking expecting some kind of glance in his direction of travel...
Any second now, I try and convince myself as we continue to converge... he's going to look at me, realise I'm in his way (and that I'm not edible) and will evade me with all the grace of an elderly uncle trying to dance after dinner on Christmas.
But he will evade me...
Wont he...?
Oh God...
The distance between us dwindles and I am forced to take evasive action as he still remains totally engrossed in his shoulder.
Diving to the right, his left, I swing my shopping against the wall in the hope it will pull me away from his enormous gravitational moobs pull.
It works too, just.
"Oi, watch it, tubby," I say with all the political correctness of Prince Philip.
But then I see it, positioned just to the right as you walk in the door from the car park.
...A chocolate vending machine.
The fat f*cker couldn't tear his cholestrolly-charged eyeballs away from the frickin' refridgerated Kit Kat box for even a second.
It's not the Government that makes this country so crap.
It's all the fat people!!!
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