Things Fat People Hate: Elevator Math
Elevators. Ya I said it. You judgmental bastards thought I was going to say stairs. Of course, I’m not going up the stairs. I’m not freaking Lance Armstrong. Lets see, do I want my socks to be soaked in my own sweat or do I want to press a button with my finger? Real tough one genius.
Here are the jackasses that I’m dealing with:
1) The people that look horrified at me, and then immediately to the maximum poundage on the wall, and then back at me. Ya, I get it but I don’t weigh 2300lbs. Look, there are only two of us in here. The elevator may take longer to go up a floor than an 1874 West Virginia coal mine elevator but it is going to get there. You pussy.
2) The dudes that cower in the corner and press themselves against the wall because they are afraid I’ll lose balance and crush them. Be a man and take a charge.
3) The judgmental bitches that wonder why I can’t just walk 12 steps to the next floor. No that is not my heart screaming, it is the elevator engine, and yes, I do need a snack between floors. Deal with it. I’m hungry.