I cannot stand them. (They just can’t stand).

I’m not talking about a bit chunky, I’m mean these disgusting tubs of lard, waddling about in ski-pants with their shitty ass-crack on display, or, more usually, trundling around the food aisles of supermarkets in what resembles a three wheeled Tesla, sweating.

I instantly judge them, Oh yes I do. No, there’s nothing wrong with your metabolism, you’re just an ill-disciplined, lazy, useless waste of oxygen. You’re not ill (well you probably are, because you’re a disgusting, smelly, lazy, sweaty, whining, weak fat spazzer).

No, you do not defy Newton’s laws on the conservation of energy, it is not possible to expend more calories than you consume and gain weight, great rolling mounds of it

And these fat birds, that are trying to convince me I’m missing out because I refuse to shag them. Get to fck, you revolting bitch, no man in his right mind would touch you. They are usually covered in small, circular bruises, where people have been jabbing at her with a barge pole. You’d have to roll her in flour (if she doesn’t eat it) and aim for the damp patch, after strapping a plank to your arse so you don’t fall in, then suffer a life of regret. Be like throwing a sausage up the Channel tunnel.

For your delectation, dear reader.

Daily Express.

ShutterStock.

X.

Thomas, behave yourself.

Nominated by : Termujin