Oh Pork Arm, Why So Serious?

You clutch that hand rail with all your strength, Pork Arm.  You glare at us all.  Your tormentors, your oppressors.  Those who entered the bus before you, taking those empty seats.  You got on the bus too late for open seats, Pork Arm.  So you stand, and you glare.  You are mad that we sit, that we comfortably read, that we rest our weary feet at the end of a long day toiling for the man.  But most of all, you are mad that our arms are not ham.  Being the sassy little swine-arm that you are, you've chosen to celebrate this warmer-than-usual autumn day with sleevelessness.  You let the world bask in the briny, basting glow of your ample tricep fat.  As the bus heaves to and fro, so to does your meat wing, but in opposite directions.  Each person who, through no choice of their own, accidentally makes contact with you as they pass, unable to avoid such an eventuality due to the width of bus aisles and your ample girth, is met with a scowl, a grunt, a pork-push-back.  But Pork Arm, stop.  We, your fellow bus patrons, do not hog(double entendre anyone?)-tie you to your sofa day in, day out, feeding you salt chips and ice cream against your will.  No one wants to touch you, trust me.  So calm the fuck down and take your fat aggression out on something which isn't innocent, like Domino's or mayonaisse.  Cheer up Pork Arm, brighter days are ahead.  Not for you so much, but for others.