I lay on the ground in the shitty bark ground cover in front of the museum.
It was 88 degrees on the University-to-Park trail run today.
I looked up at the figure standing over me, with hands on her hips.
“88 Degrees! WTF? Hey Saigon called, they want their weather back.” I said.
“You are a pathetic butter-huffer, heffalump FAAATTTT! FATTY! FAT! FAT! FATTY! I HATE YOU BOTENDADDY! YOU STUPID FAT! DIE IN THE HEAT! DIE IN THE HEAT! Oh my god I feel better that I got that out of my system.”
It was the Voat Fat People Hate Verified Shitlady. She started rubbing my neck as I lay on the ground trying to recover form a 4.17 mile trail run in the savage heat.
“My god, you were right! If I don’t get my BMI down to normal, then I’ll never get my running where it needs to be. Even at 208.8, 35.75 inch waist, 14.8% body-fat, I’m too inefficient to be a runner. My best time is 29:27 this year. That blows! It’s not even top 50%, I need 27:00 just to be competitive! I need to weigh like 192.”
She put her hand under my filthy sweat-soaked shirt and began to massage my back.
“My god, you are muscular. Your skin is perfect, you fat ham-planet. I love to hear you admit that I am right, now that you’ve destroyed your once-perfect body for years by stuffing shit-covered sugar-Star-Beetus down your rotting, gaping maw. Of course, high BMI is death!”
“Well a study came out today that said that the highest life expectancy BMI for a male is 27. I’m at 26.2 right now.”
“Ooh, I’m so smart, I can read with my fat, squinty eyes. Ooh I’m professor Botendaddy. Ooh a study came out, a study came out. Your stupid fatlogic, you ignorant McBeetus scootypuff-rider! You almost died on this run, it was awful to watch.”
Now she was reaching into my pants and massaging my white-tailed, perfectly toned milky white man-4$$. She was moaning in a female serial killer kind of way as she groped me. Asian shitlords walked by shaking their heads at the tawdry display of perversion.
“I ran the first mile uphill in 88 degree heat and I still only did 9:45. My two mile time dropped to 21:41, and my three mile time while not good was three minutes faster than the last time I ran in exactly 88 degree heat. My lungs were getting crushed, I wonder if inhaling those god-d4mned burn pits in Iraq f&cked me up. I used to run a 7 minutes mile at a weight of 242, what in the hell happened to me?”
“Oh my god, you sickening Lardvaark! You fat obeast! Will you shut up and make love to me? You are like twice my age. That is so hot! You make me feel so filthy and dirty and low.”
“A woman loved me once you know.”
“Let’s go back to my van. I’ll turn on the air conditioner. Pour some Bailey’s and then just f&ck me until I scream like I’m being murdered!”
Peace be the Botendaddy