Look, I’m not a great looking man. I don’t even consider myself particularly handsome. But compared to the train population, I’m prime rib, baby.
This is not a statement about myself, only about the people I see on the train so ding me for being shallow but I got pushed over the edge today.
I sat in my normal spot with the little table with the same hope that I could get through the two stops between mine and my destination without anyone wanting the other side. This rarely happens but I can hope, can’t I?
Today was no different except the example of human/gnome cross-pollination that slumped into the seat across from me. This may sound harsh and it is but I just couldn’t help at marvel at the startling ugliness of this woman.
If it was just her size, so be it. People are fat. Hell, I’m not svelte as I want to be by any stretch of the imagination so no big deal. But what caught my soon-to-be watering eye was when she placed her arms on the table.
They were hairier than Mel Gibson’s. Like Robin Williams-level; big course hairs against doughy white skin. I felt my stomach turn a little.
OK, OK, I hear what you are saying; people can’t help these things. I know, I know and maybe she is a working single mother or a cancer patient or something so I’m going to hell for being disgusted by her. But then, while I was trying to ward off this shallow judgment running through my head, she pulls out a BIG bag of McDonalds.
Out came the hash browns. OK, no big deal. It’s a pseudo-breakfast item.
Then Sasquach downed it in like two bites.
Then came out the Egg McMuffin, and into the cavern it went.
Breath, Bertha. For crissakes, say moo or something.
Dear, you DO know you weigh like 300 pounds, right? And you DO know you are downing Mickey D glutton-buttons like they’re Tic Tacs, right? You do realize that these things make you FAT. I mean, I’m over here trying not to judge, trying to give you the benefit of the doubt that you have some medical problem that prevents you from keeping the pounds off but then you turn into a deep-fried breaded Crisco-ball vacuum cleaner right here two feet in front of me.
Stop it, Jason, you have been known to devour more than a few Krispy Kremes at a sitting.
Yeah, but I don’t do it in public. I HIDE my shame. And I run a bazillian miles to pay my penance for such weakness. Something tells me Bessie here hasn’t seen the business end of even a trot since Ho-Hos went on sale down the street.
I get control of myself and try to ignore her. After all, it was just a hash brown and Egg McMuffin and despite her eating it like it was crack and that it was from the single most horrid fat-factory on the planet, it WAS a weak facsimile of a breakfast.
Just when I thought it was over, she pulls out to coup de gras.
A two-foot Slim Jim.
You have GOT to kidding me.
Tell me, tell me oh Faticus Maximus, that you are NOT tearin’ open a Slim Jim at 0800 in the morning. And not just the normal one, a big monster Costco-version that looked like the trunk of a small tree.
Oh, but she was. For all to see. Ignoring the fact she has beastly arms hairier than mine, ignoring that she’s busting springs out of scales, ignoring that she is uglier than the sediment at a sewage treatment plant…. You gotta help me, lady. You cannot continue to be utterly revolting in every aspect and expect me not to cringe in your presence.
Obviously she doesn’t care what other people think so I’m gonna comment. If she did, she wouldn’t share with the public her grazing habits.
“I don’t know why I can’t lose weight.”
Want a list?!
And for the love for all that is good in this world, wear long sleeves! You don’t see me wearing half shirts, do you?
I’m done.(drops mic)