You know what grinds my gears? Hippies. Oh, and obese people. I’m not saying if you’re “circus fat” and eat granola, you should die, I’d just rather you not be alive around me.
Tonight, a hefty, hefty, hefty messenger dropped off a box where I work. I removed what I needed from the box, and when I looked up, he was still there. I probably should have thrown my lunch out the door to get him to leave.
He asked if I wanted the cardboard box. I don’t have a strong preference on boxes, apparently this guy did. Maybe I was getting hosed on the deal, and the box was owned by Grover Cleveland’s dog groomer. If I’d taken this box to Antique’s Roadshow, some appraiser with a Snidely Whiplash mustache might look upon that box as if it was the 2nd coming. I didn’t care, it was just a box. On a scale of 1 to 10, I’d give this box a 4.7. If this box was a Baldwin, it would be Stephen.
Sorry about that, back to the story. I told the guy it was fine, I’d throw the box away. No muss, no fuss. I could not have been more wrong. He proceeded to look at me like I’d eaten all the candy from his Lucky Charms. (I assume this is a fat person’s nightmare) Senor Chunky said: “OK then, I’ll just take it back to our warehouse, we recycle.” Like I’m the bad guy in this equation.
Again, I dislike looking at larger people, so I nodded to Fudgey the Whale, and he waddled on home, with his fancy old box. Now I’m worried that he’s going to do horrible things to that poor box. Maybe he’s one of the dognappers from 101 Dalmations, and he’s going to toss a new litter of puppies in the box to take to Cruella. Maybe he’s going to smother the box in lard and do some voodoo with it, causing all of the world’s thin people to gain 40lbs. It’s all my fault, guys. My bad.
If you recycle, that’s awesome. I’m happy there are some do-gooders left, but don’t fool yourself into thinking that driving a beat up piece of cardboard back to your home planet makes up for the gaseous fumes you leak after your fifth trip to Del Taco. Earth has been around for a long time, she knows what she’s doing. Don’t make me feel like a loser for thinking a box is just a box.
For all the hippies and tubby mole-people I’ve offended by this post, please band together and form one giant blob to beat me up. I guarantee the ravages of anemia and diabetes will finish you off worse than I ever could. Oh, and I’ll be there when it happens. Playing the tuba.
Paul doesn’t feel as bad as he thought he would for writing this post. Actually, I feel pretty good. I just did some pull ups. Because I don’t weigh 400lbs.