I was on the train with the Voat Fat People Hate girl. She was so angry that I thought she was a lot older. I couldn’t believe that she was only 24. She was a young investment banker. Making quadrillions of cimolians in fat loot. She was only doing writing as a ‘thing’.
Most of her writing was psychotic raving. She lacked the cool, hip-hop, modern beatnik rhythm and style of the ingenious Pittsburgh wordsmith Brian Celio, author of the quasi-punk masterpiece ‘Catapult Soul’. She also lacked the deep mystical vision of ‘Outworld Cats’ Hiroyuki’s favorite book.
“Total weight loss 52.6 pounds. Total average reduction in 5k time over ten minutes. Worst 5k 48:31 down to 31:40. Total inches off of bloated, fat waist: 8.25 inches. Current weight 231.4. Only 1.6 pounds from escaping the dreaded BMI obese category.”
I watched someone wear their earbuds into the train toilet. Really? But, I digress. The VFPH girl shifted nervously in her seat. She placed her lips directly against my ear. Thank god she was brushing her teeth now.
“I’m not pregnant, you sickening Obeast Hamplanet with your Scooty-puff fatlogic. It had to be your Lardvaark, lazy, fat spermatozoa. You’ve really let me down. I wanted to shove it in the faces of all those bloated, deathfat, Beetus-juice, femayo, ranch-dressing-eating, swimming-pool-defecating, Ritz and Peanut-Butter-snacking Hams in the writer’s workshop. Now I’m just a pathetic, barren, hard-bodied sh1tlady.”
As an elderly woman yelled at her poor husband every time he spoke, I tried to comfort the Voaty, to reach her, somehow, through her psychiatric haze.
“Well, you’re on the pill, you mentioned. That could be it. So you’re going to run with me tomorrow? And, why are you so good with money and bad with everything else?”
She stuck her hand in my shirt and began manipulating my hideous man-breast.
“See? Getting out of obese won’t help your Beetus death-wish. You still don’t look lean. Better, but not good. Look at the picture I took of you next to the Washington Monument. Then look at the picture in from of the White House back in February. Better, but not good. You have 31.6 pounds to lose to get into BMI ‘good’. You shitty HAES! You better stay tight with your MFP, you hideous, huffing, puffing, fat-fat-fatty, Hambeast. So you lost 52 pounds, why don’t you just die and stop using up our resources you shitty fat-smell, Landwhale.”
The train rattled on at a terrifying rate of speed towards the macabre Philadelphia death-curve.
“So, you’re right. Rude, obnoxious, hateful and disturbed, but you are correct. BMI is based on mortality rates. If you are in the good range, your chances of death and obesity related disease are much lower. But I disagree on one point. Weight loss can be harder for people based on physiological reasons. What if someone has a longer digestive tract? What if one person absorbs more nutrients from food than another? What if a person was born with an unusually high basal metabolic rate? The best runners, by way of comparison are naturally better at oxygen uptake than the average person, while another runner has asthma.”
I could see her begin to shake. It was scary. Now that she was grooming herself, she was quite attractive, but clearly suffering from some form of organically-related angst that manifested itself in extreme hatred of the obese.
It was almost like external anorexia, instead of self-destruction, it was the verbal and emotional destruction of others.
It was as if she was fixated at the pre-Electra stage of psycho-sexual development, viewing the obese as an all-devouring mother figure, combined with obvious homosexual panic, projection and reaction-formation.
She was a Psychiatric Petri dish. A swirling ball of hate like the death planet in ‘Fifth Element.’
“So I’m going to go for it Voaty-girl, see if I can run a 31:30 or better tomorrow and see if I can work my way down the BMI overweight category. 199 would be pushing it because I carry ‘big muscle’.”
“God how I hate you, Botendaddy. I hate you with the fire of a thousand Suns! Kill Botendaddy with fire! Kill the Demi-god of the Obeasts! O’ yon Botendaddy, fatlogic apologist for the deathfats! I will turn you into a sh1tlord if I have to rip the fat from your body with my bare hands!”
An evil Lovecraftian swirling cloud of fabulous, shocking, snarling supernatural creatures formed above her head. The train car grew dark. She was now possessed. With fists to her ears and her thumbs pointed outwards like Wilbur Whately, she levitated ethereally and shouted in an other-worldly voice:
“‘Is there balm in Gilead? The power of Christ compels you! Kill it with fire! Kill it with fire! Are you the Keymaster? Yog Sothoth! Yog Sothoth! Oh, crap I just peed.”
I handed her my towel.
“No worries, kid, there’s espresso in the dining car.”
Peace be the Botendaddy