I hate kids.

I'm also having a fat day. You know - one of those days when no matter what you do, every time you look into the mirror, there's a greasy, bloated fatty looking back at you.

A pork chop.

A ham hock.

An oinker.

Wake up. Look in the mirror. You're fat.

Skip breakfast. Go to work. Look in the mirror. You're fat.

Hit the gym. Use the rowing machine. Use the treadmill. Do some crunches and leg lifts and every other ab-shredding exercise you can think of. Check the mirror. Still fat.

Still a fatty.

A butter ball.

A lil' chubbins.

(I hate you, lil' chubbins.)

Almost as much as I hate kids. I'll explain the kid-hating in a moment.

We're at anchor outside of Long Beach, and I decided to catch the launch boat into town after watch. To check my email. To stretch my legs. To walk off some blubber.

So I hauled my fat ass down the Jacob's Ladder and headed down to Pine Avenue, and somehow ended up in the Muscle Max (tm) store, talking to the Mike Tyson-sounding Samoan guy (from last episode) about ephedrine and EGCG and other fat burners.

You know, because I'm fat.

I hadn't planned to drop in. I just wanted to check my email. I've already got enough supplements sitting in my room to destroy my kidneys three times over. I don't need any more pills or powders or serums.

It took Hula-Tyson-Hula less than three minutes to convince me that I need more pills, powders, and serums.

$200 later, I'm walking down Pine Avenue, back to the launch boat, carrying about 15 pounds of assorted new metabolism-boosters, arginine-based muscle volumizers, improved whey protein isolates, and testosterone enhancers.

The lesson to be learned here is: Never go anywhere near a bodybuilding supplement store when you're having a fat day.

Stupid lil' chubbins...

Stupid!

(and fat)



About halfway to the pier where my chariot awaited, I was accosted by a pair of kids. Little girls. Selling candy. Overpriced school fund raiser promotional candy.

I went left, and the one on the left stood in my way. I faked right, but the other one played a strong defense. There was no way around it: I was going to have to have a conversation with these two. These...kids.

I hate kids.



"Excuse me sir-"

"Not now, I'm in a hurry."

"-but would you like to buy some candy? We're selling these for our school to help support after-school activities and-"

"Look, I'm running late."

"-help pay for art and music supplies and help keep kids out of gangs and if you buy candy from us maybe we won't become hookers who walk the streets in order to pay for our massive future drug habits-"

Or something to that effect.

"Do I look like I want candy?"

Blank stare. Followed by two pre-pubescent nodding heads.

Of course I look like I want candy. Because I'm fucking FAT. And FAT people want candy. FAT people want candy all the fucking time. That's how us FAT people got fucking FAT in the fucking FIRST PLACE. Jesus, these little guttersnipes have their target demographic all figured out, don't they?



"Well, I don't. I don't want any candy. Now, if you'll excuse me-"

"But sir, it's only five dollars and-"

FIVE dollars?

I took a peek in the kid's box. She wasn't selling single candy bars here, she was selling 10 packs of snack-sized chocolate products. Almond Joys. 100 Grands. Milky Ways.

10 packs.

Is this what the average fat-ass American consumer has come to? A single, overpriced dollar candy bar isn't enough? We have to buy these things in packs of TEN now, for Chrissakes? What - we're not fucking FAT enough already? Can I get a super-sized side of fries with this?

"You know you want it, fatty."

She didn't say that out loud, but I could see in here eyes that she was thinking it.

So I lost it, naturally.



"I ain't buying any Goddamn candy from you, okay? And I'll tell you why - no, shut your mouth. I ain't buying your candy because I can tell just by lookin' at you that you're the kind of kids who are going to grow up to become the exact same
girls who wouldn't date me in high school."

Which led to major self-esteem issues in my early-20's, which led to major overspending on various unsuccessful methods of penis enlargement in my mid-20's, and has currently led to the several hundred dollars worth of bodybuilding supplements I'm holding now, on Pine Avenue, in my late-20's.



This was all lost on them, and they resorted to their backup plan: tight lips and sad little girl eyes.

Devious little bitches. And they were good at it too - I thought they were going to cry.

"Fine. I'll buy some fuckin' candy."

It turned out that the first girl didn't have change for my twenty, so I had to buy a 10 pack from each of them. Little fuckin' racketeers. What the Hell am I going to do with twenty snack-sized chocolate bars?

I decided to take the candy back to the ship and leave it in the crew's lounge for whoever wanted it.

It turned out that "whoever wanted it" was me, because I ate all twenty of them before morning.

But I made myself throw up afterwards, so no harm done.

I fuckin' hate kids.

-Jb
CEO FTW, Inc.
02.06.06