Fat Scooters

Sure, I can nosh a bag of Cheetos with the best of them. And I tip the scales well onto the heavy side, but I swear if I ever get so fucking fat that I qualify for a "medical" scooter and an excuse to be a lazy prick driving 15 miles an hour down the snack aisle at Wal Mart, I will put a fucking icepick into the wobbly fleshroll of my neck and wiggle it around till my giant bloated corpse falls to the ground and registers on the Richter scale three states away.

Hey you. In the motorized seat. You do not need a wheelchair. You are not sick.

You are fat.

And If you are sick, it's only because you are so goddamn fat. Knees ache? Yep fatty, that's why. Diabetes? Gee Lardass I wonder why.

This isn't about pure laziness either - I'm actually a big fan of doing as little as possible. But how did the cure to fatty fatness become even LESS exercise?

Providing complimentary go carts at grocery store entrances so these bloody pustules can get their Ding Dongs and Mountain Dew without even moving their fucking bodies may have been the most brilliant marketing move in history.

And now any fatty fucktard with a sore back or the inability to see their genitals can just get a medical scooter for free. At least in years past the only option was a wheelchair, which at least meant you moved your arms to get from one fucking point to another. But these monstrosities require nothing more than a flick of the thumb or a gentle twist of the wrist to send 800 pound of festering flesh hurtling down the sidewalk, blocking the path for every normal size human being and once and for all cementing America's reputation as the ugliest, stupidest fucking people on the planet.

Of course, there are a few people out there who really benefit from these things. Like the 80-year-old WWII vet who left an arm and leg in Normady, Sure, give the guy a scooter. Odds are he'd look around at the company he's in and choose to keep hopping down the fucking road.