Posted by Vladimyr on Wednesday, January 28 2004
I’m not overly familiar with what does and what does not constitute a handicap for an individual. I don’t know whether it is simply old age and a bad case of arthritis, an old football injury that makes your knee give out or being dependent on a wheelchair. I’m sure all of those apply. After all, the minimalist image of a person in a wheelchair is what we all know as the sign for a handicapped individual. That being said, since when does eating five times your daily caloric need and ballooning up to a size that your legs can no longer support make you handicapped? You’re not handicapped; you’re a disgusting mountain of lard.
Do we need to cite examples? A man who lost his legs in Vietnam would be handicapped. A woman who has to turn sideways to fit her ass through a standard doorway is not handicapped. A young child with cerebral palsy who is bound to a wheelchair and has a colostomy bag is handicapped. A man whose tits rival Dolly Parton’s and whose stomach has smothered his penis to death is not handicapped. Are we clear? Good. Let’s move on.
Wouldn’t it make more sense for fat-fucks, as I so affectionately call them, to have special parking spots out at the very farthest reaches of the parking lot? The upper body is too fat and the legs are too weak so we force them to walk to get to the store, both strengthening the badly atrophied muscles of the legs and burning a few of the 6000 calories they consume every few hours. It’s a reward system. I know it’s like a grapefruit on two toothpicks, but I’m willing to bet they could walk with great gusto if that was the only way for them to reach their precious food. Well, at least until they reached the inside of the store and they could plop their huge asses into a motorized cart. Are we trying to keep these people fat or what!?
Okay, Fatty McGee, listen to me between your wheezes. People with no legs, severe bodily injuries or debilitating diseases need those parking spots to be able to access businesses. However, since you’ve purposely made yourself into a fat sack of monkey shit, we’re going to allow you to take said spots. Not only will we let you park three feet from the entrance, but once you manage to waddle in to the store and catch your breath, we will give you a very small, yet apparently quite strong, motorized cart to carry you around the store. Hell, we might even give you a complementary Twinkie tray, just for good measure.
The truly fucked up thing is that the previous paragraph isn’t fictitious.
