Wednesday, 15 February 2012

More Chins Than A Chinese Phonebook...

America is famously the arena for insanely fat people. Not only is the morbidly obese welcomed - in some cases they are CATERED FOR.

A recent story caught my eye- well it couldn't help catch my eye, it was almost everywhere I looked- featuring a very fat man, in a Las (Johnny)Vegas restaurant so aptly, or ironically, named, "The Heart Attack Grill".

The unnamed fatso had to be rushed to hospital after suffering a cardiac arrest while eating a 6,000 calorie 'burger to die for'- You couldn't make it up.

No, you really couldn't. You'd need 86 rashers of bacon and about a herd of cattle.

This multiple chin beast had ordered what is probably perceived, in famine stricken Ethiopia, as a year of food. The menu in this gaff consists of "Single", "Double", "Triple", and "Quadruple Bypass" hamburgers. The hospital themed restaurant has waitresses entitled "nurses" and takes orders, otherwise known as "prescriptions", from the customers AKA "patients"- or as we'd know them, proper fat bastards.

The paramedics must have thought someone was taking the piss:

"Hi, yeah, is that 911?. We've got a patient here who nurses understand has had a recent quadtruple bypass" they would exclaim.

"He's suffered a cardiac arrest after eating a 'burger to die for', can you come at once??.."

"Erm, how's about you stop fucking about and making a mockery of our service? Over". The ambulance staff would reply (in a yank accent).

However, the emergency medical personnel did rush to the scene and, upon arrival, stretchered out the lard swigging customer, believed to be in his 40s, into an assisting Arctic lorry- only for the wheels to burst and his rampaging gut to spill out on to the pavement.

Owner Jon Basso was naturally sympathetic, "The gentleman could barely talk. He was sweating, suffering."

"I actually felt horrible for him because the tourists were taking photos of him as if it were some type of stunt."

HA. You felt sorry for your newest Mount-Burger-Kong whilst you charged a few excited Japs $15 per photo -oooooh, I detect such sincerity. Last year the restaurant ran a promotion offering a free meal to any customers weighing over 25st -Gillian Mckeith would shit herself with angst.

Alas, it's not only America...

Simon Stocky, who can't be named for legal reasons, got stuck last year while trying to exit from a shop in Manchester City Centre. The svelte doughnut addict only wanted to come in to buy some XXXL hats for knee warmers - but was thwarted by the store's preposterous 1.5m doorway. The gravy sweating kebab hunter explained:

"It was like something out of a comedy program. Like Porridge or something. It was like Father Ted. Only with me... and a door... and without priests or the Irish."

Now let's get something very very clear here big boy.

First of all, despite it being obviously top drawer comedy, in Porridge, they were locked up and didn't get the chance to ransack their tuck shop of Cadbury Creme Eggs to the point of gluttony.

Secondly, I'm Irish and I know they endured an awfully long famine, which reduced their national average weight to nearly nothing. Don't start picking examples out of genuinely thin people to justify your gargantuan girth and resulting failure to escape out of Topman, you fat fuck. Maybe if you removed the preservatives and additives from that statement you might start speaking sense.

The next statement is also as calorie drunk as the last:

"I was mortified. It was like a horror film. It was like being at the circus. My lawyer expects that I could get thousands, which is a lot of money. Then I'd be rich and that would be like Dynasty or Dallas or something."

Yes, circus. An entirely appropriate classification for a consumer of your circumference. The only thousands you should be getting is with the hundreds on your 99,999,999p flake, delivered by an Olympic sized fleet of specially designed ice cream vans. In a further injection of truth, the nearest you'll be getting to Texas is Dallas Fried Chicken on the High Road.

He went on to make this chubby conclusion:

"You'd think they would make the doors in these shops normal size, instead of really thin. It was a disaster waiting to happen. And it happened to me when I got stuck in the doorway."

The only disaster, my spherical chum, will be if you happen to plant both epic thighs down simultaneously, therefore putting the poor people of South East Asia through another suffering cycle of quake and tsunami.

As you can get a strong range of grub delivered to your door, my advice is, stay the fuck at home.

Sunday, 12 February 2012

Houston - We Have A Problem...

This morning I awoke to the news that pipe licking 80's superstar Whitney Houston had died. In fact, when I posted a Facebook status mentioning the above, my friend Tina called me and asked:

'What's crack got to do, got to do with it?'

Unfortunately, Tina- a great deal.

In emotional scenes outside the Beverly Hills Hilton, where the body of the songstress was discovered at 4pm local time, many people were seen in floods of tears, claiming how much she touched their lives and how sorely she'll be missed.

Well, mainly the crack serving community of Los Angeles and her newsagent, who had ticked her 800 cans of Red Bull.

Initial reports described Houston was found in her hotel bathtub with prescription sleeping pills nearby. However, later information came to light she had actually drowned after underestimating the true power of Matey bubble bath, which consumed her in millions of soft, fruity fragranced bubbles.

The entertainment industry is in mourning for the adored music legend, with actor Charlie Sheen being one of the first make a tribute:

'Boom, crush. Night, losers. Winning, duh. It's a big shock, obviously.' he stuttered.

'She was a great friend and a talented smoker. Wow, that woman could melt some stones. I remember she used to call me in the middle of the night and say "Oh, I wanna smoke with somebody. I want to feel the pipe heat with somebody. Yeah, I wanna smoke with somebody, somebody that can keep up with me". Then we'd be on the gear for days'.

As well as her music, which earned six Grammy awards and 22 American Music awards, Houston had success in Hollywood, most famously with the 1994 smash hit film The Bodyguard and also 1995's Waiting to Exhale.

The latter aptly named after Houston's apparent inability to understand the rules of the 90's smoking game 'Taxi', which lead to her slamming mammoth tokes that she kept inhaled for up to 7 or 8 days- ultimately forming the core of her insatiable crack appetite.

Needless to say, Whitney Houston's memory will live on in all our hearts.

Saturday, 11 February 2012

A Return Ticket to Being an A Class Wanker...

So it appears the legions of this country's most annoying travelling wankers don't just move around on National Rail between Kent and London Bridge. In fact, they're everywhere - and in gloriously high numbers on the Tube.

When I'm travelling I travel FAST. I walk fast, look for the fastest route and, at every available opportunity, I ACCELERATE.

Like a crippling disease, there is one group of people who ruin, not only my own, but my fellow commuters' chances of catching anywhere near the next train:

Suitcase walkers.

These progress devastating weak bastards, at best, need to be thrown head first down an escalator.

Like walking a terminally ill chihuahua or another small rat like canine, they inconsiderately tow along their minuscule boxes at a stoned snail's pace - and by handles long enough to scratch a man's arse on the moon. This is utterly inexcusable and really deserves nothing less than the electric chair.

Another fury evoking activity of A class wanker commuters is people who sneeze or cough into the raw air - or their pathetic 'hand cones'.

Making an open hand cylinder does NOT, even vaguely, correspond with the government guidelines of 'Catch It, Kill It, Bin It' - and I don't want any of your filthy germs.

How about I put a hand cone around the nozzle of a pipe pumping out deadly nerve gas, then shove that in your face? Will you rapidly perish in shaking agony or will you survive, safe in the notion the trusty hand cone has prevented the spread of the toxic chemicals?

You'd be fucking dead. Cover your face properly, you horrible bastards.

My last gripe (for now) involves the gormless subway rats that, during the peak of rush hour, get to the front of a gigantic ticket barrier queue with no money on their Oysters or the wrong tickets.

It makes me grit my teeth to dust. Any sane and sensible human would check their balance before wading into the massive, yet these twats have a look of surprise on their faces similar to the look someone would display watching Pat Butcher brake dancing in a mankini.

At that hour the only reasonable course of action should be a trapdoor opening beneath them, introducing the cretinous mugs to a pit of furious cobras. Area cleared, delays avoided. London and, more importantly, me happy.

And people wonder why travelling on the Underground makes folks angry?