Facebook Likes are a cancer on society. They glorify feels and enervate reason. They abet lies and exile truth. But they do perform a valuable service for the keen observer of civilizational decay. The FB Like, and what gets Liked most, are revealing glimpses into a nation’s character, and especially the character of its women, for whom Facebook Likes are happy drugs for their gluttonous egos. Remove the Like, and severe withdrawal symptoms manifest, similar to the effects one sees from the psychological damage that incurs after an extended stint in an isolation chamber.
A reader passes along two telling examples.
I found these two pictures today on my FB friend’s feed. (They aren’t my friends, fortunately, but they are friends of friends.) Both got lots of “likes” and supportive comments. I thought of you as soon as I saw them.
Since most of Facebook is a wasteland of middling SMV women patting each other on the backs for awe-inspiring accomplishments like getting knocked up by a black guy or sucking down in one gulp a boat of sugar through a straw, it’s fair to say that what gets Liked is what American women like. And what American women like is, to put a coarse point on it, a mountain of shit.
What do American women and their yappy beta orbiters like so much that they feel compelled to craft a public consensus of their PC boilerplate?
- Mystery meat fetuses.
- Interracial dating.
- Male empathy pregnancies.
- Fat chicks.
- Fat chicks feeding like swine on ice cream sundaes that could sustain a family of four for a week.
- Fat chicks feeding like swine while insouciantly arched eyebrows that demand acceptance leap from their bloated brows.
Could this country and its people be going down the shitter any faster? Forget Rome’s historical precedence. America is in double-time decline, setting new records of scraping bottom as we speak. I think I will dub this Millennifag cohort the Like Me Generation. “Like me, because if you don’t I’ll have a mental breakdown as the realization that I’m a mediocrity sweeps over me. Nothing less than total unanimity in judgment of my awesomeness and the rightness of my knee-jerk emotional opinions will keep me alive another day.”
Yeah, no. I think instead I will take this shiv and give it an extra twist in your guts, just because I like… yes, Like… watching you effete nancies and spluttering mutants scream bloody murder. And you know what? The country will become a place truly worth liking for your suffering.
Have you ever wondered what drives some women to the cult of feminism, when every real world observation refutes nearly all the foundational premises of feminism? Why do so many women cleave to such a wrong-headed, insipid ideology?
Chateau Heartiste explained the phenomenon of feminism as shivvily as possible:
The goal of feminism is to remove all constraints on female sexuality while maximally restricting male sexuality.
Feminists, in other words, nurture a fantasy that by sheer force of blather they can remake the sexual market to suit their every whim and desire while curtailing to the maximum extent possible any romantic choice enjoyed by men.
This theory neatly clarifies the motives of all sorts of poopytalk that dribbles from the cheetos-stained lips of feminists. To wit:
Indignation over fat/slut shaming = Demands to be simultaneously as physically repulsive and depraved as one wishes while remaining attractive to any man one desires, regardless of men’s wishes to the contrary.
Social conditioning of sexual preference = Religious belief that men’s sexual preferences can be changed to find fat, ugly or old women attractive, while at the same time any preference women enjoy is empowering and immediately satisfiable.
Patriarchal oppression/privilege = Unfalsifiable rationale for the depressing consequences that unattractive women endure in the sexual market. Promotes idea that low SMV women can be happy once “male oppression” is defeated.
Rape culture = Limitless choice to women to redefine their sexual experiences however they please, (and to benefit from the labeling as they see fit). Men, in contrast, are burdened with automatically impugned guilt for any sexual transaction they may enjoy.
By the Beard of Amanda Marcotte, alongs comes ♥♥♥science♥♥♥ to slurp the CH knob to completion.
Value-added commenter (yes, value-added… hint hint to you dopier commenters) chris writes,
My God. I think he just described feminism here:
Second, high status and very attractive women need less help and protection from other women and are less motivated to invest in other women (who represent potential competition). Thus, a woman who tries to distinguish or promote herself threatens other women and will encounter hostility. According to Benenson, a common way women deal with the threat represented by a remarkably powerful or beautiful woman is by insisting on standards of equality, uniformity, and sharing for all the women in the group and making these attributes the normative requirements of proper femininity.
He is talking about this study here:
Throughout their lives, women provide for their own and their children’s and grandchildren’s needs and thus must minimize their risk of incurring physical harm. Alliances with individuals who will assist them in attaining these goals increase their probability of survival and reproductive success. High status in the community enhances access to physical resources and valuable allies. Kin, a mate, and affines share a mother’s genetic interests, whereas unrelated women constitute primary competitors. From early childhood onwards, girls compete using strategies that minimize the risk of retaliation and reduce the strength of other girls. Girls’ competitive strategies include avoiding direct interference with another girl’s goals, disguising competition, competing overtly only from a position of high status in the community, enforcing equality within the female community and socially excluding other girls.
So feminists’ promotion of anti slut-shaming and anti fat-shaming and anti ugly-shaming and anti single-mother-shaming etc, is really just an execution of women’s intra-sexual competitive strategies. It’s the bottom third of women versus the top two thirds. Or perhaps it’s the bottom quarter, as if I remember correctly only 20-25% of women identify as feminist.
With knowledge such as this, you can easily reframe any leftist/feminist argument about a war on women as instead a war by the bottom loser women against the top successful women.
It’s the SU’s (Sluts & Uglies) versus the HB’s.
The benefit of such tactical reframing is; what woman wants to be seen as a loser (ugly and slutty) and not as a winner (beautiful and lovely)? What woman wants to belong to the bottom quarter and not the top three quarters? To admit this would be to destroy their feminine egos. With such reframing, you could get the hamster working for you.
Great stuff. It’s a nifty addendum to the CH Theory of Feminism above. Low SMV women embrace feminism as a social mechanism to alternately decrease competition from more beautiful women and increase the sexual choice of, and the access to societal (read: male) resources for, uglier women.
Elevating the status and the perceived value of the ugly and the monstrous, and simultaneously disparaging the normal and the healthy, is the true motivation of feminists. Their nefarious goal is the renormalization of society and the sexual market to a lower aesthetic; one that is more congenial to the fates of the unloved women.
Feminism is not about a war on women; feminism is a war OF women. Womano-a-womano. All that bleating about equality and judgmentalism and slut shaming and the patriarchy is just the squid ink ugly broads expectorate to give them a fighting chance in the all-against-all, zero-sum competition for mates.
Feminists will lose, of course. The sexual market cares nothing for sophistry. In the final analysis, only the boner and the tingle matter.
Interestingly, a case can be made — hell, a case WILL be made — that the American obesity epidemic and quack-wave feminism have risen in lockstep out of necessity. As the population of reproductive-age women has increasingly become fatter and uglier, the number of women needing the equalist semantics of feminism to assure their place at the sexual market table has grown (heh) accordingly. More fatsos = more equalizing cant.
So you see how obesity, feminism, and equalism intersect, interweave, reinforce, and gluttonously feed each other. CH makes no glib assertion when we compare the obesity plague to the ugliness and lies of feminism and equalism. They are all born of the same toxic mentality, issuing from the breast of the Lord of Lies himself, and their waste and foulness and repugnance and stink and deception flows outward like hellshit, suffocating truth and beauty under an ash cloud of offal.
To the casual observer, a random fat chick may seem to have no relation to, say, anti-white animus. But they are connected in ways deep and true, even if the players themselves remain unaware of their invisible binds. This is why, when you fight one, you fight the other. Strike a shaming blow against obesity, and you draw blood from a degenerate open borders scumbag and a screaming banshee pushing for women at the front lines.
As a count or countess of CH, your enemy is, and should always be, the enemies of truth and beauty.
Occasionally, barely concealed incipient concern trolls will ask why CH gives so much shit to obstreperous fatties instead of just leaving them to their moribund misery.
The answer — besides a vigorous reminder that CH is not a camp of saints — is that loud and proud fatso promoters deliver a caustic, soul destroying message that will increase the total amount of ugliness and unhappiness in the world should women reading their lies start to believe them. Fat apologist feminists who insist on writing manifestos excusing or rationalizing or glorifying their fatness, or slandering anti-fat crusaders, will get, and do very much deserve, both barrels of the shivgun. Call it environmental activism. Call it the penile erection protection program.
Lies must be met with truth. Ideally, that truth comes packaged in stylistic ordnance that explodes in a shower of entertaining dazzle for fence-sitting gawkers and liquidates the central processing egos of the blubbery lie machines. Utterly annihilated, their demolecularized fatty essence scattered to the wind, the suffering fat chick (and it’s almost always a chick claiming fatness is fine, which should tell you something) howling in pain and impotent indignation serves as an example for the others: If you spread filthy lies that cause, intentionally or consequentially, women to be stripped of their beauty and thus men deprived of their happiness, CH will be here at the ready, the tip of its nimble hate spear plunging deep into your ululating hindbrain, probing, excavating, and finally stabbing with the force of a thousand unleashed hells the heart of your scarred, coal black id.
Fat shaming now, fat shaming tomorrow, fat shaming forever! MOOAH!
Vox has a post about identifying future female fatties which references a study that found differences in MRI scans of the brains of women when viewing food or exercise. Women whose brains essentially bellyached at the sight of exercise were more likely to fatten up for the pig roast.
CH would like to e’er so ‘umbly suggest less invasive, and perhaps equally predictive, methods for determining which girl you date today has a good shot of becoming a gross fatty tomorrow.
There are four tests, listed in descending order of predictive power.
1. The Mom Test
If her mom is fat, she’ll be fat. If her mom was fat in old pictures of herself, she’ll be fat REAL SOON. The Mom Test is about as close to a guarantee of future daughter fatness as you can get. Prepare yourself for the inevitable by acquiring new numbers and warming up your texting-while-dumping thumbs.
2. The Wrist Test
She’s thin where it most counts but her wrists are old growth logs. Watch out! The wrist bones are a dead giveaway that she has the sturdy frame to support future poundage. She might not bloat to Jabba proportions, but she will “fill out”, to use a transparently softening euphemism.
3. The Diet History Test
Does she have a history of dieting? This may take some digging to uncover, but girls who have dieted in the past are prone to dieting in the present, and they will self-incriminate about previous attempts to lose weight, failed or successful. Naturally and durably slender women rarely, if ever, actively diet. “Actively” is the key word here, since it is possible to “diet” by simply choosing certain lifestyles without making a consciously pained effort to do so. A woman whose past is littered with the detritus of planned diets is one weak moment away from turning into a post-blueberry Violet Beauregarde.
4. The Unprompted Exercise Test
Does she jump into exercise without being prompted by external influences such as peers, scheduled class times on her phone calendar, or gym fads popularized on celebrity websites? Does she undertake exercise with a smile rather than a groan? Then she’s a thin-for-life keeper! But be careful about using total exercise hours spent as a measurement of a thin girl’s propensity to stay thin. If she has to be pushed into exercise, then she can just as easily be pushed out of it by eviler life influences. And many fat girls do log impressive amounts of time curling 1 lb pink dumbbells and strolling on treadmills at the lowest speed setting. The crucial variable, then, is a girl’s eagerness to exercise, and especially her eagerness to exercise alone. This is a girl who moves her body not to lose weight, but to stimulate a dopamine rush. Happily, a welcome side effect of that dopamine craving is a slenderness that just won’t quit.
So there you have it. Tally your girlfriend’s score.
Would you bang her sexy mom? Check.
Are her wrists like songbird legs? Check.
Is her idea of a diet not eating like a hog? Check.
Does she run five miles without advertising it to the whole world, or making a Hollywood production out of it? Check.
Congratulations! You have a girl whose tight hourglass bod will hold up for years, and even decades, to come. I’d say slap a ring on it, but that’s the one test that will reverse the positive result of passing all four of the above Future Fatty Tests.
Things that I wish I deluded myself with earlier. Things that I’ve learned in online life, where babbling nonsense can never be fact-checked. Things people really need to talk about more, until they start to believe their own bullshit:
Everyone has rolls when they bend over. Everyone.
Yes, it’s true. When women hug their knees they show tummy rolls. ALL OF THEM HAVE TUMMY ROLLS. Of course, some rolls are tiny miniature baguettes that have to be coaxed out with extreme physical contortion and some are sun-bleached whale carcasses that protrude at the slightest exertion. And some rolls are so mighty they undulate even when the woman is standing straight. Not that any of this should make a difference, Judgy McJudgidouche. Everyone is equally sexy to the opposite sex. Except for creepers and nerds.
When people say “you’re gorgeous”, believe them.
Because if you start doubting the sincerity of random strangers who just want to make it through the day without starting fights with hair-trigger, insecure fatties, you’ll get depressed and think about killing yourself. (Protip: Don’t embarrass your family by having your dead body airlifted through a hole in the roof. Do the dirty deed in an empty field, preferably downwind of major population centers.) When well-meaning friends genuinely compliment your looks despite all evidence to the contrary, it’s because they see all of you. I mean, they see ALL of you with assistance from fish-eye lenses. So they know how to tailor their lies accordingly.
“Arm flab is embarrassing.”
No it’s not, go fuck yourself. Arm flab is romantic. Think about all the songs written about boys dying in your arms tonight… from asphyxiation.
You’re not stunning despite your body. You’re stunning because of your body.
That’s true. When a fat woman embraces you with all the inner beauty she can muster, you will be stunned and gasping for breath as your spine cracks. If you start to see a white light at the end of a tunnel, you’re not having a near-death experience; that’s just a flashlight she lost six months ago wedged in her cleavage. I am of the firm belief — much like the firmness with which creationists hold their beliefs — that every person is beautiful (except for the aforementioned creepers and nerds), and so this leaves the inside to be the part that is most telling when it comes to true “beauty”, which I have put in scare quotes because there’s no such thing as beauty, except for the even harder to discern stuff that exists on the inside. Presumably somewhere in the mitochondria?
A guy can pick you up off your feet, and it won’t break his back.
It won’t, I promise! Getting picked up by him won’t cripple anything but perhaps his ego as he struggles to deadlift a weight well above his one rep max.
True story. This just happened to me for the first time in… six years? I’m considerably heavier than I was 6 years ago (like… 70 pounds heavier) and so when I ran up to my friend Eric for a hug and he picked me up with my heels in the air… it left me breathless. I had forgotten that it was possible; I had accepted a life void of being lifted. So exhilarating. Eric didn’t suffer any lasting injuries that I could tell and he walked away pretending to be Ok, before spending the evening alone icing every joint in his body.
You don’t need to exercise every day in order to feel better about yourself.
You could get your dopamine fix with a tub of butterfat, for instance. You don’t owe it to anyone to look good for them, unless you want to be noticed by normal men with functioning libidos.
You’re allowed to fall in love with yourself. I promise.
This will be the scariest thing you will ever do, because there will be some moldy fungus colonies in your belly folds that will be very hard to love. It will also be the most amazing (albeit super delusional) experience you will ever have. It doesn’t make you narcissistic. It doesn’t make you vain. It makes you blind to reality, and that’s liberating in every nuance of the term.
It’s also okay to have days were you don’t love yourself.
It’ll take a long time to reverse the effects of self-hate indoctrination and brainwashing by hanging out on feminist fat-acceptance websites where you can indulge self-love indoctrination and brainwashing. It’s going to take a lot longer than you think to reverse this thinking, because the non-rationalizing part of your brain knows that fatness kills romance dead. So give the media the finger, and move forward into a different media that tells you what you want to hear.
Everyone’s boobs are uneven. If you have a lot of boobs, they might be way uneven.
If you have a lot of boobs. you may want to see a doctor. Superfluous boobs are weird. But if you have just two boobs, and they’re uneven, worry about other things. Unevenness is not as much of a turn-off to men as are hanging sacks of seal blubber pendulously slapping the top of a fupa.
There are people who prefer large ladies. And I mean all sizes of large.
I thought that my best bet in life was to find a partner who accepted my fat. Pause. Give me a minute to hang my melonhead and shake it at myself. Not only are there people who adore “thick” women, but a LOT of them who prefer it. By “people”, I mean loser men with no options. By “LOT”, I mean one or two weirdo fatty fuckers.
Here is what you need to know: you do NOT need to settle for a lover who is “okay” with your body. You have the right (and millions of imaginary opportunities) to find someone who is infatuated with your body. You deserve to be worshiped by a freak fat fetishist who wants to masturbate into your chins, woman!
Fat chicks bang hot guys… ALL. THE. TIME.
If my proof by assertion doesn’t convince you, there’s always Hugh Jackman. And a million indiscriminately horny black men who would bang your back tits in a drunken haze.
“Girls” showed what society thinks about that when Hannah’s character has a weekend romance with an attractive and wealthy doctor. People flipped their shit. It was like seeing a beautiful woman in the arms of a pimply brony with a stutter. It violated too many rules about how the world really works. Never mind that the show is a vehicle for Lena Dunham’s wish fulfillment feminist fantasies, the message to us fatty fats is a positive one, and should remind us that hot guys aka socially awkward rejects will settle for dumping their tepid crippled seed in our distended porcine holes when the couch crease stops looking attractive.
Exceptions prove that the rules don’t apply to US, ladies. Now let’s group hug with our T-rex arms.
Riding during sex will NOT collapse his insides.
But it may kill him just the same.
Wearing whatever you want is a political statement.
Join the revolution. Throw style rules out the window. Wear the tutu. Wear the horizontal stripes. Wear the turquoise skinny jeans (shoe horn included). Wear the see-through blouse. Wear the bikini (sans bridge). Wear the sweat pants. Wear the shirt that says “Does this shirt make me look fat?”. Wear whatever it is that makes you happy, even if that’s the four-person tent tarp. This is your life. And it’s the life of everyone else who will mock the Mariana Trench plumber’s crack of your revolutionary posturing.
You are fucking beautiful.
I’m saying this with a straight face and seriously meaningful look where I maintain eye contact for an uncomfortable amount of time, because these are the immense efforts I need to make to convince myself as well as you of an absurdity that is so transparently false to anyone with the eyes to see. I know you don’t feel like you fit into the category of gorgeous that our world aka immutable biological reality creates. I know that its hard. I know that its a daily battle to adhere to proper grammar. But fuck their fascist beauty standards, replace them with your own fascist beauty standards. The second you stop looking for a skinny model in your funhouse mirror and start looking at YOU… is the second you will start to appreciate the solitary life of the manatee. Stop looking for folds. Stop looking for canyon-sized dimples. You are perfect in the middle of a polar vortex where your layer of insulating fat gives you a survival advantage. You are more than enough for that all-you-can eat brunch buffet. You are the best thing that has ever happened to discarded piano cases doubling as coffins. And you are fucking beautiful to hungry predators looking for immobile prey and an easy week-long meal.
Say it with me, because no one of sound mind will say it with us.
“Thing #1: You’re fucking repulsive to the human eye. Oh shit! How did that get past the hamster editor?”
Beta George Zimmerman’s wife when he was a nobody neighborhood watchman trying to do some good for his community:
Alpha George Zimmerman’s girlfriend after he killed a thuglet, endured a mass media circus, became infamous, earned an army of wannabe vigilantes, got that cold thousand yard stare from his ordeal, armed himself to the teeth, and took off on a cross-country journey while picking up a couple of speeding violations and domestic abuse charges:
Lesson #1: A significant rise in male social status and perception of badness will allow a man to trade up a full 4 to 5 SMV (sexual market value) points in girlfriend quality. Zimmerman took advantage of his increased mate market options and dumped his UG2 fat wife for a 6.5 girlfriend with admirable titties.
Lesson #2: Women with higher SMV want infamous badboys. Women with lower SMV must settle for invisible neighborhood rent-a-cops.
Lesson #3: Fat chicks who claim that their beta schlub boyfriends are proof that there are plenty of men who love fat women don’t comprehend the nature of the sexual market. Options = instability. When tragically sad beta or omega males experience a sudden rise in status or desirability, it’s Bye Bye Fatty! The very few exceptions to this rule (Hugh Jackman, possibly gay) are cleaved to fat women’s pendulous breasts like cherished infants, swaddled talismans against the suffocating encroachment of ugly, hopeless, relentless reality.
George Zimmerman’s girlfriend — who authorities said accused him of pointing a shotgun at her — no longer wants him to be prosecuted, and wants to resume their relationship, according a new motion.
A sworn statement made by the girlfriend, Samantha Scheibe, was attached to a motion by Zimmerman’s lawyer seeking to modify the conditions of Zimmerman’s bond in his domestic violence case.
In the statement, Scheibe says she felt “intimidated” when police questioned her about the Nov. 18 incident that led to Zimmerman’s arrest. She adds that she “may have misspoken.”
“I want to be with George,” Scheibe says in the statement, adding later: “I do not want George Zimmerman charged. I make this decision freely, knowingly and voluntarily,” and without coercion, she says.
If a woman thinks you’re an alpha male, however flawed, she will move heaven and earth — and even deny her own words — to be with you. What’s a little shotgun-waving tiff between two lovers?
A shambling cloverfield has drawn up a list of pretty lies she wishes people would stop saying to her. As a big beautiful person of convexity, she has accepted her fatness, and she wants you to accept it as well. I agree. We should all accept that fat people are fat, and not mince around it. (Which would take years and grappling hooks, anyhow.) So in the spirit of her post, here are the 11 things you should always say to a fat girl to let her know you accept that she’s fat and you won’t patronize her by acting like you don’t notice her fatness.
1. You’re fat!
You are fat. It’s just a descriptor. If you’re calling yourself fat, I will gladly agree, because lying with a straight face takes energy. Hopefully my refreshing honesty will feel as good to you as it does to me.
2. You have such a fat face.
There’s a chance you have a pretty face, but I can’t tell under all that blubber. You also have a banging body hiding somewhere in there, like a tiny nested doll—it just happens that your outer body is bigger than what any normal man finds attractive on a primal, biological level. Now, do a shimmy for me so I can record it and make a funny gif called ‘Twerking Walrus’.
3. Oooh, let’s go to Lane Bryant!!!
You cannot fit into anything at Bebe. You probably can’t fit into anything at Lane Bryant either, but the only other choice is the REI camping department.
4. You need that candy bar.
It’s delicious, and how else will you sustain your massive corpulence that is the envy of no one anywhere? Open your piehole and accept the candy bar, the same way you accept your hideous visage.
5. You’d look better if you were thinner.
Why beat around the fupa? Yeah, your fat makes you unhealthy, but no one really gives a shit about your blood work or what some fat female doctor reassuringly told you to keep you coming back for more high-priced office visits. Aesthetically, you’re a mess (trust), and the only thing that will change that is losing weight. It doesn’t take a medical degree to know what vomit tastes like at the sight of you.
6. Phew, I’m so thin.
I won’t talk about being fat around a fat person when it’s obvious I’m not fat. Instead, I’ll tell it like it is (the way you like it), and express my utter relief that I don’t look anything like you. So I will talk about how great it is to be thin in your company and the implications should work themselves out.
7. That half mile of slow jogging you do isn’t going to make up for the calorie surplus you regularly run.
Yes, I know you do yoga and swim—that’s where you sit on your ass on a mat and break one bead of sweat and float in a pool like an otter that swallowed a beach ball. Yes, you have a gym membership. Very good, now you’ve found a venue to pound energy drinks and baby walk the treadmill while totally ignoring the weight room. Reward yourself later with a tub of ice cream for your hard work.
8. Nah, I don’t want to borrow your clothes.
You don’t wear clothes, you wear fabric bundles. I suppose if I want to borrow a car cover, I’ll give you a call.
9. Have you gained weight??
I mean, honestly, at your size it’s kinda hard to tell either way.
10. Dieting is for unhappy women who worry about their looks. That’s not you.
Dieting sucks and it doesn’t work the way you do it, before any hunger pangs are actually felt. It’s obvious you’ve stopped that dieting b.s. You just want to be happy and unhealthy, and one of the best ways for you to do that is to not stress so damn much about your repulsive fat folds. Is that a cheeto under your third chin? Embrace it! It’s a victory over dieting and anorexia, a small token that reminds the world what a confident, accepting fat woman looks like. Thar she crows!
11. I’m not trying to help.
When I start offering good advice you didn’t ask for, you don’t feel cared for. You feel humiliated. I don’t want to shame you, so instead I will love you as much as you claim to love yourself. I will shout to the world how gloriously fat you are, and how it doesn’t matter at all because you’re at peace with the rearview mirror you must use every time you have to wipe. I will shake your round belly and say “This belly is accepted by its owner. This belly is loved so much it gets more food than it can handle.” That’s all that matters, right? Your acceptance, my acceptance. Our acceptance. And what’s more accepting than dropping reality on your bowling ball head and not worrying if it will crush your soul?
12. You should be an orbiting space station model.
Acceptance level 99 achieved.
Sometimes you just want to go home, but you’re stuck being a man in public.
You get on the train after a long day. The doors are trying to close and a big fat woman jams them open with her bulk, unintentionally letting on another guy. A man in a military uniform takes his earbuds out and says to the obese door-blocker, “Don’t hold the door open.”
“What did you say?”
“Don’t hold the door open.”
“Did you just touch me? That’s sexual harassment!”
You can’t help staring at the scene, like a rubbernecker slowing down to check out the carnage surrounding a car accident, and unfortunately the nasty fat woman catches you gawking at her. You take a seat as far away from her monstrous apparition as possible and try to disappear into your Kindle, averting your eyes. Everything finally calms down.
The door-blocker, who’s already proven herself to have zero qualms about confronting normal-sized people, is looking at you. You can see her in your peripheral vision — she’s hard to miss – and you can feel her looking hungrily at you.
You’re at a distance, but your suit is faddishly undersized and you’re wearing Sex Walrus cologne so you know she noticed you. Keep reading, keep looking down. You briefly wish you were less attractive or a woman or that you were wearing a rainbow flag t-shirt so she would stop thinking you were interested in her. She keeps looking at you. There is nothing worse than an ugly fat woman with delusions of attractiveness and a penchant for false eye rape accusations making life uncomfortable for you, the average man in public.
The person on the inside of your seat needs to get off. You hold your breath as you let them out and you move in, thinking of all the things you’ll say and do when she tries to plop down next to you like a tranquilized elephant and talk to you when you just want to avoid that gross feeling of a ham-shaped arm pressing into your side.
You exhale when an older woman rushes to take the seat you’ve vacated. You’re safe and insulated by the window now.
Door-blocker exits at the next stop and the imaginary sexual tension leaves with her.
It’s only been a few minutes, but this is what goes through your head when you’re existing as a man in public and ugly fat women assume you want them, when all you were really thinking was “why is this fat bitch hyperventilating?”.
Originally published at the fittingly named Jezebel Groupthink blog.