The Worst Person in the World

Tuesday nights are Weight Watchers nights. You know what I'm talking about. You've seen the pathetic commercials. Oh no, I'm too fat, I don't know how to maintain myself, I don't know how to eat properly or exercise, help me, help me. It's disgusting. A few weeks ago I noticed that they put in a Weight Watchers therapy office right next door to the local bookstore. I peeked my head in through the open door, saw some fat f***s being counseled on their obesity, and witnessed some elephants trying to trample on a treadmill.  It was really hilarious, sadly, but it got a couple chuckles out of me.

In the bookstore I sit in the cafe and suck on a coffee, all the while keeping my eyes out the window looking for that one fat guy and his fat wife. It's almost seven, they should be walking by the window any minute now. I check my watch, Rolex, banned around my thin wrist; 6:55. It's about time. I stand up and have to loosen the skinny jeans around my crotch, take out my wallet and walk up to the bakery and buy a dozen donuts. I get a couple jealous looks my way from some fatties, I can feel the flicker of their eyes, the hunger, the urge.

I tighten my belt because I'm so damn thin, so damn sexy, and I stride out of the bookstore with my head high, donuts in one hand, coffee in the other. The night is cool, but not cold. The coffee has warmed me, it has lit the fuse that sparks my desire to be a complete and total a*****e. I finish whats left of the coffee and toss it in a trash can. And then I spot them. Mid forties, both blonde. Their clothes are stretched to their limits, I can almost hear the material ripping, the buttons ready to blast off under fat pressure and orbit these walking Jupiters. They have to be about three hundred pounds each. Their necks bulge out from their collars like they are permanently loaded with food.

I have no sympathy. 

I don't really understand how these fuckers can get the way they are. Wouldn't at some point they would realize, Hey, Honey, Holy s**t, we're getting pretty f*****g fat! MAYBE WE SHOULD STOP EATING ALL OF THIS S**T!

I watch them as they mope across the parking lot, their fat feet sauntering across the pavement at a total of one mile per hour. A car pulls out from behind them and  lingers as they dilly dally their way up to the doors of the Weight Watchers club. It honks obnoxiously and for a quick second I almost feel sorry for them. But then I watch them as they struggle up the five inch curb onto the sidewalk, and I have to repress a laugh. It's like I am at a circus or something. I turn as they creep into the doors of the club, the husband pulling open the gate wide for this wild beast, and he follows her in. I catch a reflection of myself in the glass window and think, Could I look any better?

Now it's time. 

For almost a whole week I have been waiting for this night, plotting my harassing ploy. Last week I left the bookstore and saw these cows leave the Weight Watchers club, overhearing their conversation, specifically the words, Next Tuesday At Seven. I kneel down and tighten my running shoes, red laced Nike's, the kind that only thin, attractive, healthy, narcissistic teenagers wear. Alright, so it begins.

I walk up to the door and watch the wild animals and laugh again. I feel like a kid at the zoo. A rather gorgeous brunette is chatting to the fat guy who's sitting in a chair, nodding agreeably, while his wife struggles to take off her jacket. He stands up with some effort, a poor attempt really, and loosens the garment from the thick wings of this creature. When the fat lady gets on a stationary bike, the husband bounces over to a treadmill. The attractive attendant presses some buttons on the treadmill and then walks over to the woman on the stationary bike and dials in a specific goal, presumably a low goal for these fat-festering-f***s.

The attendant walks back over to her desk as the obese couple begins their workout. I feel the beautiful, flapping wings of butterflies in my stomach and I push open the door. I smile at the attractive attendant, and she smiles back. Damn. She stands up and her breasts push out from under her work t-shirt. She is thin with long brown hair and light shaded eyes and red lips and my penis can't help but get hard a little.

“Hello.” She flashes her white teeth behind those red lips. “Can I help you?”

I raise the box of doughnuts as a greeting. “No, I'm alright.”

Her smile fades slightly, but she remains standing. I smile even more ferociously, gawking at her tits and her curvy hips and for a second I forget why I am here and then I hear the repetitive pounding of fat feet on treadmill and I turn and watch the fat-asses. I take my position up against the wall, facing the exercising beasts, sweat already forming on both of their faces despite the fact they've been going at it for a minute.

The couple watches me uncomfortably as I open the box of doughnuts and take one out and shove it into the perfect hole of my face. 

Through obnoxious chews I moan out the deliciousness of it all. 

“Mmmmmm, oh my God. This is SOOOO GOOD.”

The couple looks away in agony, embarrassed. I swallow and take another doughnut out and purposely drop it on accident. 

“Whoops, didn't mean to do that.” I take out another doughnut and bury in in my face. “OH....Mmmmm, this is soo gdoogopug”

Their faces are turning red, probably with exhaustion but I blame it on me. I look over at the attractive attendant and she is trying to hide her laughs.

I set the box of doughnuts on the carpeted floor and take my shirt off and grab another doughnut. 

“Mmmmm, these doughnuts are de-lish. You guys want one?”

I raise the doughnut at the fat f***s and they look at me in what I hope to be complete misery. They look away, purple faced and continue their exercise. I turn to the hot brunette, who has her face buried in her arms behind her desk, laughing like the sexy b***h she is. “You want one, babe?”

She looks at me, her face is screwed up with uncontrollable amusement and her eyes are stained with comedic tears. She doesn't want to raise her head above the desk. She doesn't want the fatties to know that they are the laughing stock of the evening. 

“You don't want one? Okay, that's more for me then.” I pop another one into my mouth and smile like a lunatic. I caress my washboard stomach, finger my beautiful belly button and point to the fatties. “You guys sure you don't want any? You look like you might want one. Or two.”

They don't even look at me. They just keep their head down. I leave the wall and walk around the club with my shirt off. “Boy, is it hot in here. All of that expiring fat in the air. Burning out of your asses. Makes me want to take my pants off.”

I unbutton my pants and start to unzip myself when I hear a door behind me open and someone say, “What the hell are you doing?”

I turn and notice that the manager has made his first appearance. He is a balding, mid fifties, stereotypical manager, almost fat but not quite, so I try to be nice to him.

“What am I doing? Well, as you can see I'm giving these rather large guests of yours an extra boost. I'm helping them, I'm setting a goal for them.” I walk over to the box of doughnuts and take one out. “See?” I take a small bite, for my small stomach is getting full. “This is what they want. You know it, I know it.” I point to the fat-asses. “They know it.”

The fat-asses are watching the entire scene play out, I'm amazed that they're still carrying on with whole 'exercising parade'. The fat guy stops walking on the treadmill, attempts to catch his breath and says,

“Excuse me, but can you get this a*****e out of here, he is really bothering us.”

The manager is red faced and he assures the man, “Of course, sir.” He turns to me and points to the door. “Get out of here, young man.”

“You know, I came here wanting to apply for a job. I think I can really help the fatties of the world.”

“GET OUT!” The fat f**k husband jumps off the treadmill.

“Okay, geeze, man, calm your man tits.” I walk over to my shirt and the doughnuts. I drape the shirt over me and open the box. “You guys sure you don't want any?”

The fat lady starts to cry, and as the fat guy begins to run at me, he trips and hits his head on a weight bar and knocks himself out. The manager and the attractive attendant are frozen in shock, the fat lady is weeping 96 ounces of soda out her fat eyes, and I stride over to the fat man lying unconscious on the ground and pour the remaining doughnuts on him. 

“Just try to run after me.”

And then I'm out the door, running as fast as I can in my red laced Nike's and laughing uncontrollably. The moon is high and pale, glazed with a coldness. My red laced Nike's carry me out into the road, dancing and laughing with terrible glee, and I never even saw or felt the speeding Krispy Kreme truck.

Author's Note

A story based off of a conversation I had with ZackOfBridge.

Reviews

[SpeedyHobbit Armstrong]

This is hilarious! and horrible! I love it. That protagonist is an awful person, but she definitely cracked me up!

[Lonely Scorpio Girl]

Congratulations on winning the 'Tickle Me Funny' contest!

[ZackOfBridge]

Haha I was wondering what you were going to write about out conversations. Funny story Max, I wish something awful happened to the protagonist though

[Chadvonswan]

I like this ending better

[ZackOfBridge]

Yeah, it makes more sense with the story

[Chadvonswan]

thats how i was going to do it, but...idk man...i just dont feel the protag deserves it, hes such a nice guy

[ZackOfBridge]

True, I mean, is it wrong to be proud of oneself for being a thin?