Category — Attempts at Social Responsibility

I did it! I convinced a fat coworker to add Gillian Michael’s 30 Day Shred to her Netflix Queue. I feel like fucking Santa Claus.

As I was walking home from the mall today, shopping bags draped from my arm and the word “sucker” apparently tattooed on my forehead, an older gentleman stopped me to ask a question. Let me briefly describe the scene:

It’s windy and dreary outside, the lingering effects of the Nor’easter that swept through the area over the past two days. The man is holding  a styrofoam plate in one hand, on top of which are three bare chicken bones and a piece of white bread, and beneath which are two boxes of Krispy Kreme chocolate glazed donuts. In the other hand, which happens to be speckled with pieces of chicken fat, he is holding a drumstick and is intermittently nibbling it as he asks his question.

But before getting to the question, which is obvious before the asking, he explains that he’s homeless and hungry and this recent storm has felt like another Hurricane Katrina. I knew he was throwing that last bit in for good measure, and I’m not unappreciative of such things. To show my compassion, I opened my wallet and dumped in his hand every last penny I had, which probably totaled about 78 cents.  Then I kicked him in the shins and ran off with his Krispy Kreme donuts because I’m fucking hungry too.

Every day, I hike five long blocks to work from the parking garage and five long blocks back to my car when I leave. As if this walk wasn’t miserable enough, my mean homeless friend recently drew the word FOOD on the street in giant letters and with permanent marker that refuses to fade. He also accented the double OOs with a smiley face so it looks less intimidating. I think he’s on a mission to get me to face my fears and overcome my eating disorder. I knew I shouldn’t have confided in someone who doesn’t starve by choice.

I absolutely had to borrow this image from People of Walmart to highlight the horrors of back fat, which are here compounded by an utterly misplaced and fucking ugly tattoo. I have to believe that she’s confused bat wings with buffalo wings, the latter of which would have been more appropriate, unless she’s got a sweaty scrotum and I’m not ruling that out. You just never know with Wal-Mart shoppers.

Some repressed idiots decided it’s necessary to preface a show about indigneous peoples on the Travel Channel with a warning about “indigenous nudity.” I had no idea there were different types of nudity. Of course, if there is such a thing as indigneous nudity, I’m totally against it. And for what should be obvious reasons.

A woman I know expressed disbelief over a statistic she recently heard: that 60% of Americans are overweight or obese. She was sincerely baffled and exclaimed that she would never expect that to be the case by looking at the people in her workplace. I’ve seen the people in her workplace and I cannot abide such ignorance. So I felt it my duty to inform her that people are, for the most part, fat asses.  She looked at me as though I were the grinch who stole Christmas, and that’s when I snatched the rose-colored glasses off her naive little face and asked her if she still believed in Santa Claus too.

My dangerously obese friend has done it again. He who once compared God’s love to bacon posted this recent status update on a social networking site:

Nutella equals clear evidence that God exists and loves me.

I’m desperate to tell this lost soul that if there were a God, I’d hope he’d be compassionate enough to eradicate world hunger than hide out in a tub of Nutella or pig fat.

Today I came face to face with one of the scariest looking anorexics I’ve ever seen in person. I gaped at her or him (it was indistinguishable) for 10 seconds before I ran away as fast as I could. This person had taken anorexia to an obscene and unncessary level. If you want to be anorexic, please aim for the level of emaciated depicted on the new Beverly Hills 90210 series. There is no need to frighten women and children.