Whipped?; or, John's Taking Me to the Beach This Weekend in Return for This Entry
I hate fat people.
Now don't get me wrong; normally I have no problem with them. I'm not into size-ism, or whatever bigotry these whales claim is exercised upon them as they simultaneously shove Big Macs down their gullets and sue Micky D's for daring to expand their waistlines. I love my Cinnabons and Haagen-Dazs as much as the next person. Usually I'm pretty friendly towards fat people, because let's face it, they make up two-thirds of the population so it's a social necessity, and let's face it, they make me look better by comparison.
But the minute they lumber onto a plane and squeeze their junky trunks into the seat next to mine is when all my sympathy for these heifers promptly 'chutes up and plummets out the emergency exit. And I always end up next to these guys, because karma's a bitch on her period and I'm withholding brownies from her.
Mmm, brownies.
So these hipporific porpoises shovel themselves into the neighboring seat and of course they need to fold up the armrest to accommodate their spacious badonkadonks. Said badonkadonks then proceed to pan out and comfortably settle onto a good portion of MY seat, so now I've been restricted to half a seat on the plane when I specifically remember paying for a whole one.
I try to take a nap in an attempt to momentarily escape from this ordeal, my face practically plastered against the window because I'm now confined to a little sliver of seat starting from the middle of the SkyMall catalogue in front of me and ending at the wall of the plane. I start dozing off only to be jolted awake by the stench of a gym sock soaked in sour milk and the feel of a soft, gross entity brushing against my shoulder. I squint and set eyes on a doughy pink arm oozing out of a taut sleeve and spilling over onto my seat like a massive over-leavened baguette. It's not wearing deodorant. And it's touching my shoulder!
The most horrible thing about this event and others like it is that I'm powerless to say anything. "Would you mind scooting your ginormous flank over a bit?" "Would you please rearrange your expansive rear end so I can have some room to uncurl my toes?" "Move over, fatty!" There's no way I'd ever be able to say these things. All I can do is contort my body to make it as compact as possible so as to reduce the frequency of shoulder-on-baguette contact and wait till I get home to voice my frustrations in a seldom-read journal entry.
Now don't get me wrong; normally I have no problem with them. I'm not into size-ism, or whatever bigotry these whales claim is exercised upon them as they simultaneously shove Big Macs down their gullets and sue Micky D's for daring to expand their waistlines. I love my Cinnabons and Haagen-Dazs as much as the next person. Usually I'm pretty friendly towards fat people, because let's face it, they make up two-thirds of the population so it's a social necessity, and let's face it, they make me look better by comparison.
But the minute they lumber onto a plane and squeeze their junky trunks into the seat next to mine is when all my sympathy for these heifers promptly 'chutes up and plummets out the emergency exit. And I always end up next to these guys, because karma's a bitch on her period and I'm withholding brownies from her.
Mmm, brownies.
So these hipporific porpoises shovel themselves into the neighboring seat and of course they need to fold up the armrest to accommodate their spacious badonkadonks. Said badonkadonks then proceed to pan out and comfortably settle onto a good portion of MY seat, so now I've been restricted to half a seat on the plane when I specifically remember paying for a whole one.
I try to take a nap in an attempt to momentarily escape from this ordeal, my face practically plastered against the window because I'm now confined to a little sliver of seat starting from the middle of the SkyMall catalogue in front of me and ending at the wall of the plane. I start dozing off only to be jolted awake by the stench of a gym sock soaked in sour milk and the feel of a soft, gross entity brushing against my shoulder. I squint and set eyes on a doughy pink arm oozing out of a taut sleeve and spilling over onto my seat like a massive over-leavened baguette. It's not wearing deodorant. And it's touching my shoulder!
The most horrible thing about this event and others like it is that I'm powerless to say anything. "Would you mind scooting your ginormous flank over a bit?" "Would you please rearrange your expansive rear end so I can have some room to uncurl my toes?" "Move over, fatty!" There's no way I'd ever be able to say these things. All I can do is contort my body to make it as compact as possible so as to reduce the frequency of shoulder-on-baguette contact and wait till I get home to voice my frustrations in a seldom-read journal entry.