Dear Fat Fuck,
I first caught glimpse of your enormity while sitting in the Starbucks cafe within a Barnes and Noble bookstore. Your four chins were addressing a young girl who was doing her best to make your sugar-coated fat-girl drink (with soy milk of course – we must watch our health!)
It seems in your mentioned five-year attendance, “no one” ever charged you for soy. Well, I call shenanigans. I’ve (raises nose) been frequenting Starbucks/Barnes cafes (not to be mistaken for standalone Starbucks – different savings card, bitches!) for at least ten years, so there. I used to order soy in my coffees and got charged each. time. If you raised your fat fucking head and chins above eye level, you’d see there’s the price for added soy right there on the big fucking sign that says ‘Cafe Menu.’
You grew loud, almost crying (maybe talking is exhausting for you) to point out you (now) did not want to pay for the drink, based solely on the fact that you were being “ripped off.”
You were ripped off, fat girl. The agreeable and happy life your thin self would of had was robbed and eaten by the bulging, misanthropic piece of shit you see before you each morning in the mirror.
It sucks. I know. I’m emotionally intelligent. I don’t go around bragging about it, but I can smell shit before it emanates from the ever-hungry mouths of people like yourself. You’re sad…you’re fat. So, rather than turn that disappointment inward or take it out on your pizza with extra sausage and cheese, you lash outward.
After mentioning you did not want it, you couldn’t help but focus your fat face on the already-made drink. Your stomach spoke up. “We did get ripped off $.50 for soy, but fuck it. I want that syrupy deliciousness, you bitch. Just pay the girl at the counter and give it to me!”
I’m a moody bitch myself, usually too busy making sarcastic statements in my head, but you awoke the slumbering, oft-disinterested dragon inside me. My dragon prefers fresh vegetables and fruits, which does well for my body shape, but I digress.
I waltzed up to the counter. Another woman, standing behind your enormous ass (in yoga pants for added grossness), grew irritated, storming out of the cafe and the front door of Barnes and Noble. B&N can’t afford to lose customers, you fat ass, especially in the middle of an early lunch rush.
While your imbecile brain debated whether to save yourself $.50 or gobble that shit down, the young girl did her best to appease you. You grew increasingly disrespectful and irritated your fat cells were screaming for company.
You anxiously watched as the young girl stirred in added syrup. Somehow, the fat cascading down from your forehead over your eyes cleared enough so you could see the girl’s finger tips (may have) touched the top of your drink.
Now, there was even more reason to take your fatness out on the young girl. As you said, “I can’t believe this. I don’t want it now. Hurry up and charge my card back the money so I can pick up my daughter at school. She’s waiting for me.”
Bitch, I assure you that your daughter can wait a few more minutes. Maybe even do some jumping jacks or run in place while she waits for you. To no one’s surprise (your fat ass had everyone’s attention within ear shot now), you started barking at the girl for taking too much time to charge your card back, making a carping remark about her intelligence and then asking to speak to a manager.
When the manager arrived, you greedily took the opportunity to make the worker look bad, telling her manager she was rude and could not understand simple suggestion. Really? Here are some simple suggestions your sausage-fingered-mind cannot grasp.
- Stop fucking eating.
- Then, you wouldn’t hate yourself so much and take it out whenever your broken and overworked heart felt like it.
- Try it. (Seriously- I’m trying to help you help yourself.)
After looking upon you with added disgust, I mentioned that I’ve always been charged for soy and if she had not been previously, she should thank her lucky charms with added marshmallows she had been getting hooked up, indirectly placing her in a better position to buy more sausages and cheese.
You didn’t like my participation, likely because you sensed I’m the kind of guy that can see through your gelatinous exterior, into your soul. I know people. As the manager, Kevin, was tending to your card, I reminded him that the young worker did nothing wrong short of staying on that side of the counter and not slapping the fat bitch in the face. (I didn’t say ‘fat bitch’ out loud – I’m respectful.) I did however, say that some people are just miserable and need to take out their personal frustrations on others, especially during times of short-term power, such as being a customer in line at a Starbucks cafe. Make them eat cake, fat bitch; hopefully, there’s some left for you. I know you want some.
By the fat changing around your eyes, I sensed you didn’t like me unearthing that truth that’s as old as you are fat. After, you took pains to walk a few feet to the stairs and carefully descend as not to put even more pressure on your aching limbs that succumb to the weight of a human elephant with each step you take.
WE ALL LAUGHED AT YOU AFTER YOU LEFT. Not because you’re fat and disgusting; that would make us as puny and as socially insignificant as you. We laughed at the obvious fat person who had to take out their frustrations on someone receiving low wages in exchange for serving people like you. You saw a window, that your fat ass could not go through but shitty attitude could access, and like an infinite number of dollar dogs at a baseball game, you snatched at it.
I hope you were on time to pick up your daughter, who will likely grow up to act similar to you, perhaps sans a pound or two. In the end, was $.50 worth robbing your stomach of the scrumptious sugar it wanted so badly? I’m pretty sure I know what your small-nation-sized tum-tum would say. But, I’m emotionally intelligent.