Breaking News---FAIL

This morning I'm at the gym, dominating per usual.  Finishing out on the Stair Climber, when I see a BOMBSHELL of a news story blow up on the screen, via Rob Elgas.  Apparently in Oregon there is a massively obese cat which has been taken in by the Humane Society.  He needs a fucking new workout partner!!!  This pussy needs to lose some weight, stat.  The cat needs help.  Why this story wasn't the lead for today's morning news is beyond me.  We've got a morbidly obese cat trying to pave the way for CBS's newest hit, "Biggest Loser: Feline Edition", and you are burying this golden shit behind some Nancy-pants shooting on the west side and 9 car crash on the Eden's Expressway.  I wish someone would make me CEO of NBC5 News right now.  I'd call everyone in the main conference room, from the CIO right down to Holga the night janitor, and tell them they have 30 minutes to pack their fucking shit before I release the hounds.  "Oh, just a story about a goddamned sumo cat right here in our own country, not some place where freaky shit happens every 30 seconds like India and China.  Let's put in on minute 57 of a 60 minute telecast, sound good?"  "Sure Larry, works for us.  We don't even have to work it in at all if you think people won't be interested in a story about an obese cat who has made up his mind to get fit before it is too late?"  Did I mention.....no, I'm quite certain I've not yet mentioned....that the cat's name is Walter???  Fuckin'-A right man, dude's name is Walter for Christ's sake.  Not some lame ass name like Mittens or Pawsy or Patches or anything.  Completely awesome name: Walter.  Who the fuck is in charge of putting together a show over there, the heroine addict who hangs out next to the dumpsters in the alley behind the studio? 

And this isn't even close to the worst part of this abomination of a telecast.  Are you fucking ready for this shit.......Rob Elgas explains the story, in full, and then with a totally straight handsome face looks into the camera and says, "We don't actually have a picture of Walter."  What.  The.  Fuck.  Are.  You.  Talking.  About.  Ass.  Hole!  You don't have the picture of the most obese cat on the planet who is trying to Jared his way into stardom?  SWEET FUCKING STORY BRO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  Seriously, everyone there is sacked, with prejudice.  What is the point of even bringing this up without the picture?  Actually, don't waste both our time trying to think of an answer, because there is no fucking point.  Look above.  I found the picture.  It took me 7 seconds.  My resources were a shitty (and I mean shitty) PC and Google.  Rob, you goin' into battle with this type of support team?  You're rollin' in there naked pal.  If these fuckers can't even get you a photo of Walter, then let me explain how you can do it:  Go over to your computer, the one you use to email pictures of your boner to summer interns.  Double click on the blue, lower case "e" with a gold ring around it.  In the white box at the top which probably has the NBC5 News address, erase it and type in http://www.google.com/.  Then click on the "Images" link.  Now in the search box type in "obese cat oregon" and depress your Enter key.  The first one is Walter.  Hold your cursor over the picture, and double-click your mouse.  With Walter on your screen, go to the top and click the icon that looks like a printer.  Then in the pop-up, click "OK".  Now walk to the printer.  No, not the one you made Emma the intern copy her beaver on by telling her she had to in order to "get anywhere in this business".  That is the copy machine.  Look around, it will be making noise and an image of Walter will be sliding out of it.  Take the picture, put it on your anchor desk.  When you talk about Walter, hold it up next to your face.  You have to turn it around so the image is facing the camera.  Good job, now we can see what the fuck you are talking about.  I get it, you are handsome.  You are the money on the show, not the fucking immigrant laborer.  But this time you should have taken the bull by the balls and done a little ground work yourself.  No Pulitzer for you, bandejo.

You can't make an impact with a fat story unless you can back it up with photo documentation.  Here is how you handle your business properly:

1999.  My roommate goes to Hilton Head for spring break.  When he returns, he has a story, as do others on the trip, regarding this epic whale he harpooned.  To protect him, I won't use his real name.  It rhymes with Will Pagoda, so we'll call him that.  Will Pagoda was no Captain Ahab chasing down whales obsessively--this one was purely for sport.  Everyone told me, "You can't believe how huge this walrus was that Pagoda banged!".  You are right, I can't believe it, because all I have are reminiscences from drunk dudes already a week old.  One crafty fellow says, "Just wait", all cryptic-like.  Well he delivered.  For all the young readers out there, around the turn of the millennium, you took pictures, then went to a business such as Walgreen's and had people "develop" them.  I know, this is some old-timey shit we're about here.  So this fine fellow presents the photos, and we have our Zapruder: Another colleague of ours slipped into the crime scene early the next morning, while both the hunter and Shamoo were still snoring.  He took a photo holding her jeans.  Well, they were jeans in the purely academic sense.  There were two legs, a button closure, a zipper, made of denim, of a blueish hue, etc.  However, they looked more like the curtain on Broadway.  And this savvy young lad had the wherewithal to not only hold them up, but he put them on.  One leg, that is.  As in he is holding up the jeans and standing in them; his entire lower body in just one of the legs.  You read that right, ONE FUCKING LEG.  There are many who can confirm this story and I do pray the photo still exists for posterity's sake.  We wouldn't want this lost to history or stolen by Nazis.  I am not talking about some elf or spright either.  The guy standing in the jeans is probably 5'10" or 5'11", with a stout, athletic build.  Yet he could fit entirely in one appendage of this basking shark's cellulite retainer.  Now I ask you this, Rob Elgas.  If a group of some of the drunkest frat guys in the state of Ohio (and if you know many people from Ohio, you realize that this puts them fairly high in the running for drunkest frat guys nationally), using 13 year old technology, can nail a "You aren't going to believe how fucking fat this ______ is!" story to the wall AND paint it.....then why can't you?  You make me sick.     

   

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.   

Why Does Society Treat the Handifat like they are Actually Disabled?

I'm so sick of this shit.  I for one am not treating these people with kid's gloves any longer.  If you've eaten yourself into a lack of mobility, then fuck you, get out of the way and ideally quit breathing valuable oxygen.  I'd say quit drinking valuable water, but the Handifat don't drink water, unless you are including the water used to make XL Diet Cokes they are so fond of.  You know, the giant Diet Coke that is somehow going to erase the Biggie Size Big Mac Extra Value Meal you just crushed?  Why are people giving these selfish assholes the right of way, opening things for them, letting them go first, helping them in any way?  I don't see anyone helping crack heads out with anything.  "Oh, I'm so sorry you smoke so much crack.  You poor thing, let me help you with that door."  No, people treat crack heads like they have 1st degree leprosy and aggressive B.O.  But why would you treat the Handifat any differently?  They more than likely DO have B.O.  And at least I understand crack, it actually gets you HIGH.  Eating too much makes you feel like shit.  But because they have so little self control we are supposed to carry on as though they deserve our pity, respect and assistance?  Bullshit.  You deserve our indifference, possibly our scorn.  What triggered this diatribe?  Well, #1 I'm a dick.  It is that simple, I'm an asshole.  Guilty as charged.  #2 is the loathsome bitch that takes the same bus home with me nearly every day.  She has eaten her way to such success that she can barely walk anymore and has to move around with some sort of walker type device.  She isn't old, she isn't handicapped.  She is Handifat sure as your Sister Susan.  Really though, that is okay, live and let live, I never say.  But it is her absolutely fucking belligerent miserable cunt attitude that is so unacceptable.  Because she has the air of real, tangible disability, some poor new sap each and every day tries to be nice and let her walk onto the bus first.  Poor bastards!  Those of us who ride with this wretch daily know you are in for a tongue lashing when you try to be polite: "No! You go ahead, they are gonna have to lower it anyway!".  As she blubbers this chastisement she waves her pork fat arms to and fro in most alarming fashion and has the face of a sinister wraith.  To clarify, when she says "They are gonna have to lower it anyway!", she means that the driver is going to have to lower the bus and deploy the ramp, due to the fact she cannot separate her tree trunk legs more than 1cm from the pavement.  So once this poor individual has been made to feel like shit for trying to be polite to this salty bitch and boards the bus, the rest of us follow.  And she stands and watches.  Check that, she doesn't watch, she glares.  The most menacing glare she can muster, with head shaking in constant disapproval of us all.  Her tormentors.  We who have not disabled ourselves through gluttony.  And when we've all boarded, it is time for the bus driver to get a taste of her fat aggression.  It does not matter if the driver does or does not know what she wants.  It does not matter if the driver has already started to deploy the ramp before the last mobile rider has paid.  No matter what this driver does, Cunthilda is going to cast her evil countenance at them with hurricane force and yell, "You have to lower it!"  As she slithers aboard she flashes one last mean-spirited glance in the driver's  direction before shaking her head in disgust and waddling toward two seats.  Did the bus driver tether you against your will on a daily basis and force-feed you for years, ala Kevin Spacey in the movie 7even?  No, they are doing their job and you are cattle.  This is not their fault.  And once she inevitably eats her way onto a Rascal, watch the fuck out, because she's going to be an even more insufferable twat.  I am friends with a guy who is legitimately disabled.  And if he could, he would get up and slap the donut out of your Handifat mouth. 

In summation, could we organize a mass Handifat drive (e.g. cattle drive) to herd them and their Rascals into their natural habit; West Virginia?  I will gladly ride my bicycle along the periphery of the herd, cracking a whip to knock the Cheetos from their engorged hands, all the way back to Huntington and beyond.       

Why Would You EVER Hire a Fat Personal Trainer?

I've never understood this phenomenon.  It reared its ugly head yesterday at the gym, as I was forced to listen to some obese asshole chastise and "coach" some old man through a pathetic work out which would not have produced sweat if it was conducted on the 50 yard line of Death Valley.  Why would you ever listen to that you might ask?  Why not just crank up your iPod volume and ignore it?  I'll tell you why: I am currently on my 4th iPod Shuffle, and those devices are utter pieces of shit.  Not a single goddamn one of them has made it to year 2.  You can set your watch to those mutherfuckers breaking 2 hours after the warranty has expired.  If there is some currently unbeknownst to me conspiracy theory regarding Apple programming them to break the day after the warranty expires, then consider me as "Liking It" on Facebook, or whatever it is the kids do these days.  I personally don't Facebook (and by "I don't Facebook" I mean "I've hit the refresh button on the News Feed 14 times during the scripting of this paragraph), I'm above such shenanigans.  But back to Porky McPorkroast and the poor uninspired social security recipient he was condescending to.  The old timer was in 10 times better shape than the trainer, who needed to lose 75 pounds (and I'm being very generous here).  Why would you choo-choo-choose this asshole?  "Excuse me sir, who would you like to assist you shopping for a new wardrobe today?"  "Hmmm, I think I'll choose the guy with the hair plugs, wearing the No Fear t-shirt tucked into acid washed jean shorts and Teva sandals with black dress socks.  He seems to know his trade."  And an even bigger question might be, why is the East Bank Club (totally name-dropping the fact I've joined a hoity-toity gym so I could play "rich guy" for a few hours a week before I go back to my "poor guy" reality) employing fat ass trainers?  If you are going to make a career out of fitness, shouldn't you maybe look the part or live the lifestyle?  Deciding on a career in fitness when you hate working out and love mayonnaise is like choosing a career as a symphony conductor when you hate Beethoven and love RATT.  No one is going to believe in you.  

If you are a Big 'Ol Fat Person, is a Poncho like the Top thing you can Wear?

It has to be. It does not inhibit the natural ebb and flow of the fat as you waddle about your day. It lets air circulate to various underfat regions that would otherwise be suffocating when wearing clothes not designed for Mexican cowboys. Essentially you just grab a big blanket and stick your giant melon head through the hole in the middle, and you are ready to rock. Another feature is the ease with which you can brush off hot dog toppings, pepperoni, cookie crumbs, pie fillings, globs of mayonnaise and french fries which miss your gullet in the frenzy which occurs at the mouth. You can just wipe that shit right off with a ham hock-swipe of the arm and not worry about buttons, cuffs or tucking in. The Poncho says "Laid back and unkempt", but without sacrificing "Ready to go to a jam-band concert".

The reason I ask is that there are two women who work in my building that wear a poncho most days. Yes, two. I don't know which company(ies) they work for, but they are in my building. How do two women over the age of 30 find themselves employed in the same building in downtown Chicago at the same time, both adorned in Ponchos you ask? That is a question for Stephen Hawking or perhaps Jean Paul Sartre, not me. But they are here. Both carry themselves with an air of slovenliness and lack of hygiene, though they take different routes to the same destination. One gal opts to shower, but never comb or in any other way take care of her own hair. The other rather looks showered, but always with hair that looks as though it was doused with bacon grease each morning and combed straight back, like a longer styling of Pat Reilly's. The latter is also seen loitering about local businesses and common areas, eating and drinking Starbucks milkshakes. She is perpetually running her ample mouth, voicing her disdain for everyone in her personal life and her coworkers. I imagine that she is an incredibly popular person in the office. My guess is that the only time anyone speaks to her is at the annual office Christmas (sorry, Holiday--thanks feminists) party when the veterans try to see if they can get the Fuckin' New Guy drunk enough to roll in the straw with her. Say what you will about their hair or their personality, you cannot say these two lasses aren't comfortable under their well-worn wool ponchos in festive Mexican stitch. Whether its riding the bus, sipping your 6th Venti Frozen Caramel Macchiato of the day, or just hanging out in the lobby bitching up a storm, you can go about your day unfettered by the likes of the vile sleeve or the sinister button. And when Cinco de Mayo rolls around each year, you're fucking well ready.

PS--The first person to comment with the correct origin of the line: "Oh yeah. Isn't she a big 'ol fat person?" wins absolutely nothing.

Does Fat Insulate?

I pondered this question as I sat, shoulders dislocated inward with knees locked tightly, on the bus this morning. I entered the bus today with a strong determination to find a seat. I eagerly sought refuge from my pathetic, miserable, workaday life in the pages of a fiction novel I've been reading. I like to disappear into such stories on the way to and fro my godforsaken workplace. As I scanned the bus right, left and back, I saw but two openings. Or what appeared to be openings. See, they were not normal seat openings, but rather appeared to be half-seats. I quickly surmised the reason; in the seat connected to each empty half-seat sat a heifer of epic proportions. I did not let this dissuade me from my mission to sit and read. I scanned the bulk and the face which sat atop it of each Jersey cow. It appeared the pig on the right might also stink. Why? I don't know, a hunch I guess. She appeared to be someone who stinks is all I can say. Resigning myself to my fate I seated myself next to pig port-side. I made several attempts at asserting myself physically to gain some small portion of my seat back, but to no avail. Each time I thrust an arm and elbow into the mound, the space created was slowly taken back as the pork flesh oozed to fill all voids. Not wanting to strain my shoulder in this losing fight I took out my book and huddled between Tons of Fun and the aisle. It was at this point I noticed the starboard swine was wearing a colossal down parka. I glanced right to see that the pig I went home with also wore a gargantuan down coat. It is 45 degrees today. Certainly not warm, but at least 25 degrees too warm for down parkas. Looking at these women one would think it were colder than a well digger's ass. Others were appropriately dressed, your protagonist included. Maybe I'm wrong, but I thought that fat insulated? I thought the morbidly obese were chronically overheated, foreheads beading sweat as they sat near motionless eating hot dogs at a football game on a 12 degree January day. Perhaps I'm wrong. What I do know is that the rest of us suffer when someone of this stature multiplies their own ample girth with unnecessary goose fill.

Its High Time we Impose a Ceiling on Pant Sizes

The G8 nations need to make this priority #1 in the next gathering. They can get to boozy dinners and whoremongering after a decisive vote is cast in this all-too-important issue which could ultimately lead to the demise of planet earth. I don't know who makes pants which would come close to fitting pigs such as this, but it is time we impose some ethical guidelines on them. We simply cannot be exposed to such human carnage as in the example to the left. I was in line buying a banana for breakfast on Friday morning, getting money out of my wallet at the checkout counter, and as my gaze raised in a trajectory from pocket to register there encountered my sightline a vision most ghastly. A woman (or sow, depending on the setting) was buying her "breakfast" at the same location. Her legs looked like someone was trying smuggle in 100 pounds of raw dough in two 20 pound sacks. I don't know by what miracle of modern Chinese fabric-making the fat was held at bay by the fiber, but a mere touch of the pant at any spot with a pin knife would have resulted in an explosion of pillowy flesh sure to have concussed the knife-wielder instantly upon contact. The only comparison I could make was walking into an Italian deli in Cleveland's Little Italy when I was younger and seeing the driying cheeses and meats hanging from the ceiling in cloth sacks. That is precisely what it looked like. The brutal assault on my eyes was by no means concluded. The two aforementioned bufala mozarella sacks gave way to an ass which simultaneously defied Darwin, Einstein and God. I'll refer to it reverently as "The Continental Shelf". You could have literally taken a cafeteria tray full of food and a pint of beer and set both comfortably and safely on the "top ass", taking your repast at leisure with no fear of spillage, lest Oprah say something funny to our heroine and cause a ripple of pig flesh sure to send your meal into outer space. If you laid her on her stomach (and mind you, we'd need two well-outfitted Land Rovers with sharpshooters and rhino-tranquilizers at the ready to accomplish this) and tried to measure the height of her ass from floor to its lofty apex, we'd need not a ruler nor yardstick, but rather a small ladder and tape measure. I do not know who would create pants with such unearthly demensions, but damn that company to hell and back. It was no shock to any unfortunates present what she sought for sustenance: A ham-product, egg and cheese croissaint; a danish so large as to prevent closure of the plastic container which sought to control it; and the final insult--a bottle of water. As if causing all who view you to want to race for the nearest log fire and use the reddest of burning embers to smote their eyes from their skull weren't enough, you have to fucking clog landfills as well in a piss-poor attempt at "eating light". Back with you beast! Back to Tanzania and the Serengeti plain to wrestle with your equals the hippo, the croc and the wildebeest for prime sunning upon an exposed rain pool rock! Let not us, the innocent tax payer, be burdened with the cost of sawing off your diabetic limbs. Let the noble croc relieve you of your foul-smelling foot when blood ceases to make its way to that formerly useful appendage. But alas the weak-willed take no responsibility for their own gluttony. Therefore I look to the pant-maker to end this travesty. Force these beasts into REI to buy tents to cover themselves and thus disallowed in respectable establishments.

As she wallowed off to her cubicle to enjoy her 2,500 calorie breakfast I was on the floor dying rapidly like Colonel Kurtz, able only to utter the phrase, "The horror! The horror!".

Hey, Guess Who I Saw at the Gym this Morning?

Thats right, one fat fucking asshole after another. The New Year's Resolution shitheel crowd is officially upon us at the gym. I say it every year: If you rely upon a random day in the Roman calendar cycle to improve yourself, you've already failed. Please do everyone a favor and take your ample girth and lack of self-control back home and modify your New Year's resolution to something that better synchs with your lack of will, like becoming the best Grand Theft Auto player in Chicago. The gym management loves you. You show up, pay for a year's membership, put 4.5 weeks worth of wear and tear on the equipment, and then never show up again. You might be management's wet dream, but you're everyone else's worst nightmare.

Whatever Happened to Honesty and Integrity in the Pan-Handling Business?

If you are starving, then look fucking starving. When you are trying to sell me your starvation 150 pounds overweight and wearing brand new retro Air Jordans, pardon fucking me when my heart refuses to bleed and my wallet remains sheathed. When you walk the streets of Chicago, you see a lot of the gentleman in the lower photo asking for help to get something to eat, but very little of the gentleman on the top asking the same. There used to be integrity in pan-handling. I recall a time that when approached by a pan handler you had to really consider if that person was starving or just in dire need of some Thunderbird. I'd respond much more positively if a vagrant walked up to me, said "Pardon me (and not in that woe-is-me pussy assed way, but like you meant it) sir, but I'd like to smoke some rock today and wash it down with a couple of 22-ounce pounders of Steel Reserve. I'm currently underfunded and seeking some start-up capital. Are you interested?" Depending on my mood I'd say there is a 30% chance I'd give him $1. That is a much greater chance than the 0% you have when you are built like Fat Albert and tell me "Can you help me get somethin' to eat?". No, I can't help you Pigman. It appears you've plenty of help in stuffing your fat gullet. Now fuck off. If you want me to buy that you're starving, you've got to sell it. Be skinny. Be frail. Look wild with hunger. Try to entice a fly to land on your eyeball. Have a distended belly. Look a little more like Gentleman A on the top above. There is too much dishonestly in the world today without the noble pan-handler reducing himself to running Ponzi schemes.

Season Premier of "The Biggest Loser" Tonight!

And it doesn't matter who wins, because you're all still fucking losers. These are truly some of the most miserable pieces of shit our planet has to offer. I would love the shit out of this show if they got these heifers together and force-marched them through the deep south, depriving them of food and encouragement. March until everyone is dead save one. Then that person gets locked in a cage next to a river subsisting on reeds and rat meat until they have an acceptable BMI. Everyone has some goddamned crybaby story that supposedly justifies their selfishness and lack of will. "My dad was an alcoholic so I ate to cope. Wahhhhhh". "My family was poor and I had to go with my mom to local fraternity houses on the weekend nights and watch her suck frat dick so we could make ends meet. I ate food to forget the laughter of the frat bros as they came. Sniff, snort, blubber, sniff, tears". You have no excuse piggy. You look like a bean bag with eyes because you are weak and lazy. Begin your path to redemption by telling the truth: "I am a fat disgusting fucking pig because I eat like a fat disgusting fucking pig". The only worthwhile person on this show is Jillian because she sees through these piles of fluffer nutter's bullshit and tells them everything they don't want to hear: "You are fat because you are a coward." "Your personality is repellent and people despise you." "You can finish the mile out because I have the treadmill set to 4.5 and you aren't a quadriplegic." I do not watch this show for stories of personal triumph. Rather I watch for the same reason Nascar fans watch the race. I want to see a hideous 11-car pile-up with much mutilation.