To the Morbidly Obese Lady Who Lectured Me at Work Today:

Where the fuck do you get off preaching to me about how I've defiled the sanctity of 'my temple' by getting tattoos? I'm sure that the giraffe on my upper arm is far less 'offensive in the sight of god' than the fact that the fat curtain that is your upper arm is playing a never-ending game of 'hide the elbow.' The temporary pain I suffered through to get my tattoos pales in comparison to the damage the 300 extra pounds you're carrying around is having on your joints and organs, to say nothing of how much it's going to hurt when you have to go in for your third triple bypass.

And don't insult my intelligence by telling me you have a fucking thyroid problem. You don't have a thyroid problem. You ordered over 3 pounds of food for lunch, not including the three sides of sour cream you want to go with it. You're a fucking fat-ass with an eating disorder, not someone with a legitimate medical problem. God also hates liars, you know.

Here's your Macho Diet Coke. Enjoy your fucking lunch.

-Dallas