Touchdown Syndrome

 So here's the thing. I'm at the corner store earlier, trying to procure a Monster (not the little penny ante can, either, the big fucker) and something to munch on to help me trudge through an already exhausting day, and these giant fat fucks, (that's right, I said fat, go ahead and try to bust me for a hate crime, you litigious self righteous assholes!) in a display that is at the apex of knuckle-dragging douchebaggery, decided to clog the one and only aisle to the register so they could discuss... you guessed it... FOOTBALL!

 Really?

 Is that really fucking necessary!? Okay, I get it, this is America, and in America, we don't go out and play demanding sports, or engage in strenuous activity, we pay people gazillions of dollars so they can do it for us while we sit at home stuffing our faces with nachos, small pieces of mechanically separated chicken that come in ever growing buckets, beer, and on occasion, our own fingers (since we're not paying attention to anything aside from the big apes wearing the pretty colors on T.V.), but what, pray tell, is the logic behind parking your otherwise sedentary ass in my way to discuss and debate how aptly the team you prefer performed against the other team? It was like a damned poorly written skit; two sweaty, gihugic fuckers in sweatpants and hoodies adorned with their precious teams' logos like they're being sponsored in a knock down, drag-out, gasp-for-air-fest.

 If these guys were waiting for something from the deli, I could understand, but they weren't.
 If they were waiting for their counterparts to check out, I could understand, but they weren't.
 If they'd had the civility to move when I asked politely if I could get by, I could understand, but they didn't.
 If they had let me go on about my business without trying to engage me in their nonsensical debate, I could understand, but they didn't.

 So what did they do to incur my ire?

 They mocked me.

 At first, it was a simple inquiry as to which team I preferred. I informed the gorillas that I don't follow football, and that was met with disbelief and a healthy dose of scoffing. I shrugged. I just wanted to get back to what I was doing. Then the smaller one, let's call him Jabba junior, turned to face me, thus COMPLETELY blocking the aisle with his overflowing girth (yes, the same aisle, if you remember, that I was trying to pass through to get to the register) to ask me if I lived under a rock.

 "I can assure you that I don't live under a rock. I simply don't enjoy watching a bunch of jocks run around after an oblong ball, and getting paid millions of dollars to play a game. Frankly, it pisses me off. If you could do me the kindness of moving, I'd like to get back to work now."

 He asked what I do. I told him. I write.

 I was not aware that writing is such a mirth inspiring occupation. Granted, I do on occasion attempt to entertain, but not by the simple fact of announcing my livelihood. I was not aware that so many jokes could be made about writers. I was not aware that as a writer, I was beneath them. I was not aware that collecting disability was a far nobler vocation (and yes, I asked them, and that's what they both do). I was not aware that I needed to apologize for insulting football players by claiming that they make too much money to simply play a game.

 Why, if someone can tell me, is it still okay for GROWN FUCKING ADULTS to act like high-schoolers? I wasn't entirely sure I was going to get out of there without having to defend myself from a swirly. This is what is wrong with people these days. Forty-somethings can be bothered to congregate in the single thoroughfare of a convenience store and get red eared and bluster about whichever professional game player they favor, yet disturbing them while idle for any cause of actual importance is of no use.

WHY?!

Perhaps I am socially retarded. I just can't wrap my brain around the fact that people will sequester themselves indoors to basically watch grown kids get paid a fuckload of money to play in an oversized sandbox, then venture out of doors to annoy people who have lives with their ceaseless prattling, yet if you ask them for any sort of action, be it taking action to try to better society, or something as simple as floating the fuck out of my way, such a request is met with scorn and mockery.

 So, I'm sorry, fellas, for making you stretch the elastic on those sweat pants just a hair more. Didn't mean to make you sweat as you plodded over three feet so I could get by.

 I will not, however, apologize for not sharing your views.
 I will not apologize for not enjoying your sport.
 I will not apologize for having something to do other than sit in a lazy boy and yell at my T.V. while my defeated wife keeps her mouth shut and brings me more sammiches.
 I will not apologize for my opinion, and I will never ask anyone else to do it either.

 You want to know why jocks get such a bad rap? It's because of paint chip eating neanderthals like these.

Those Genes Look Terrible on You.

 Let the hate mail begin. I'm truly getting very fucking sick and tired of people getting offended by other people cracking wise about their weight. Yeah, I said it. Look, I'm not talking about thick, chunky, husky, rotund, robust, rubinesque, jolly, big-boned, fluffy, hefty, stout, or sturdy people. I'm talking about the angry, misanthropic, rude, half-ton behemoth sloths that like to throw their weight around simply because they have so much of it. Thanks a lot, Cameron Manheim. Look, I can say, "please don't misunderstand me" till I'm blue in the face, but I know it will be to no avail. The fact is, though it hasn't always been, that America is the most obese nation in the world.

 In.
 The.
 World.

 I'm seeing and hearing ads on T.V. and the radio (yes, I still listen to the radio, remember that magical box from whence emanated melodies and the humorous jibes of AV nerds?) With some
 <ironic quotation mark>witty</ironic quotation mark>
narrator pretending to be "soda and juice drinks" (complete with requisite melodramatic inflection) deceiving the poor, unknowing children and parents of this country into buying their sugar-riddled products instead of healthy drinks. Are you fucking kidding me?! Seriously!? If you are unaware that soda and some juice drinks contain an unholy helping of sugar, you have other, far more pressing problems... like missing chromosomes... and you shouldn't be breeding in the first place.

 The fact that your children are blowing up like genetically altered KFC chickens can NOT be blamed on them, their lack of informed decision (let's remember, they ARE children, and it isn't their responsibility, yet, to make those decisions), or [swelling orchestral dirge] the evil carbonated beverage industry. It's because YOU, the PARENTS of those children, are making the WRONG decisions FOR them! With the exception of ALMOST 1% of the population (being affected by actual disorders that cause drastic weight gain, as opposed to self-inflicted ones), your children look like this because YOU look like this! You're FEEDING them the damned genetically altered KFC chickens, assholes!

 Again, this doesn't pertain to the slightly enlarged. It's the massive, grotesque five-hundred pound people with the equally large attitude crying, pissing and moaning about their weight, and pointing their engorged sausage fingers at everyone else that piss me off. Take some fucking accountability! You can't blame genetics in an overwhelming majority of cases. What you can blame, however, is your desire to lead a sedentary lifestyle and blame doctors, your parents, the FDA, the government, the restaurant industry, television, Rachel Ray, Coca-Cola, Frito-lay, and the makers of the couch you can't eject yourself from (because it's too comfortable to get out of. It must be their fault!)

 This does not come from some scrawny, world-saving, hipster vegetarian, either (they're another faction of myopic asshats in my cross-hairs). I'm stocky myself. Always have been, probably always will be. But you know what? I was stockier. No, fuck that, I'll own it. I was fat. I was a big fat fatty. I didn't blame anyone else, I didn't gripe, and cry, and whine, and blame others. I didn't get angry and offended, and defensive when people I hadn't seen in years said, "Jesus Christ, you got fat!" (and many did), and I didn't get up on a soapbox and tout the benefits of being hefty, either. I realized I had to get in shape, for my own benefit. For my own health. And I did it. It truly is, in most cases, a matter of willpower.

 I may lose readership over this, but it has to be said. The whole idea of  "big is beautiful"  is an excuse. It's used as a phrase of absolution for the lazy. It does not absolve you from taking care of yourself. Gone are the days when corpulence was a sign of wealth, power, and good breeding stock. That being said, big can be beautiful... in proportion. There are absolutely drop dead gorgeous big girls out there, but big is not, and shouldn't be, synonymous with fat. There's a difference. A rather large one (pun completely intended). Diabetes, heart disease, gout, high blood pressure, a shortened life expectancy, and gynecomastia are not beautiful. That being said, lose the fatittude.

 *The preceding rant is in no way intended to express the views of any individual or agency aside from me. If you happen to be large and jolly, suffer no health risks because of your size, or are simply "heavy," then please, please continue to be you. If, however, you are a member of the "fat and proud" faction that insists on yelling and screaming at the top of your lungs, and believe that when it rains and you get wet it's because god is making fun of your weight, I do suggest downloading and re-reading this article until it finally sinks the fuck in.

~So sayeth the Mofo.