I have never been gifted with clever use of the written word. Being an almost utterly logical individual, as well as not truly buying into the idea that anyone would care to read about the mundane happenings of my daily existence, I was, currently am, and ever shall be reluctant to commit my thoughts to any form of permanency. However, after being repeatedly taken to task by one Dorge Kas concerning the possibility of producing my very own salute to creative self gratification, I have finally swallowed my self doubt and decided to attempt what he has been hounding me about for so very long.
So Dorge, this is for you and, just remember: You asked.
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This afternoon I bore witness to a sordid little scene outside of the Emergency Room at a local hospital. Approximately ten disgustingly obese individuals had gathered to share what I took to be the mutual sharing of grief at the admission of a "loved one". While I was passing by I managed to discern that this collection of mewling piglets were distraught over the fact that one of their own had suffered a massive heart attack that morning, was not expected to live through the night, and the remaining members of the clan were crying out to God to grant the afflicted a few more years of meager, petty existence. Their groveling was abruptly cut short by another Jabba the Hutt impersonator who stopped long enough to deposit fist fulls of greasy double cheeseburgers from the local fast food garbage dump. I could only take it as an offering of "comfort food". Something to try and ease their woes while they groveled before their Almighty.
While hearing this kind of pseudo-spirital tripe is certainly not an uncommon occurrence in such places, it did give me pause for thought while I went about my assigned tasks.
1) Judging by their behavior upon receiving the latest offerings from the homo sapien pig trough, the lot of them were not long for their own turn in under the knife while Med school graduates did their level best to pay off that totally "boss" 911 Turbo. Every last one of their number almost immediately ceased their sniveling and proceeded to shovel in their latest helping of inevitability. My hypothesis was solidly reinforced by the behavior of a pasty, slug-like little turd who I assumed was the eldest son. As I watched in amused bewilderment, he began to complain that he wanted four bypass deluxes, not three. (Jesus, Mom. Weren't you listening?)
2) It also called to mind the unfailing stupidity of Michael Bloomberg. This politically ham-fisted cunt has reportedly succeeded in banning sugar laced drinks that exceed the quantity of 16 ounces in his home cesspool of New York City . As if, by curtailing this kind of gluttonous instant gratification, he could make his environment better by denying the water-headed specimens of our race the essential tools they need to clear the way for slightly less functionally illiterate fucktards.
3) I thought about the voracious health care debates that took place not so long ago. It seems there are those in this country that want free medicinal attention whenever they desire at no personal cost to themselves. While this is certainly not a bad idea, the mini-drama unfolding before my eyes made my next and final epiphany hit me like a jacketed hollow point between the running lights: I don't want boobs like this to have health care. I want them to die.
So yes, by all means, get the extra mayo and bacon on that sandwich. And while you're at it, refill that super-sized Diet Coke that you have convinced yourself is necessary because it completely negates the effects of those four bowling balls in your colon. God, you swinish, puerile fucks have no earthly idea how much I'm going to jerk off at home tonight while I fantasize about all the room you're going to make for the rest of us who understand something besides coal mining and NASCAR.
/Rant
