Here is something that never fails to amaze me. Today four hundred pounds of cellulite squished into two yards of Spandex and a thong came into the restaurant smelling like old dung because it clearly couldn’t wipe itself. It sat at three tables and began to wave one of it’s pit stained tendrils at me. The vibrations from the flailing fat flap nearly collapsed the walls and registered six point three on the Richter scale. It opened it’s crusty mouth and ordered fried fish, fried chicken, fried oysters, country fried steak, French fries, onion rings, and biscuits, covered in gravy and a diet coke. For dessert it had death by chocolate, key lime pie, and bananas foster, and another diet coke. When it was done it ordered one more diet coke to go. It paid it’s bill, opened it’s purse, pulled out a bottle of diet pills, and choked some down as if it hadn’t or couldn’t swallow a bus full of children. Then it said, “I have to watch my weight.” I queried, “Watch it expand, eclipse the sun, and cause gravitational shifts in the universe?” It gave me a dirty look, so I went back to work for fear it might eat me.