Tuesday, April 16, 2013

N is for Nimrod



“Is this seat taken?” I say to the fat ass overflowing into the isle. She looks up and smiles at me like she thinks she stands a chance.

“Oh, no…it’s all yours,” she gushes as I squeeze past her, doing my best not to make contact with her folds. Frickin’ gross.

“Going to work?” she asks, like we’re suddenly BFFs

I let out a breath, hoping she’ll get the point, but I can still feel her bug eyes on me. 

“What time is it?” I ask, with a surprising amount of patience.  

She scrambles to look at her watch. “A little after eight.”

“And what do people like me do at a little after eight on a Friday?”

She says nothing, just shakes her head stupidly.

“They go to work. They help move society forward. They contribute something. Now I know this may be hard for you to understand, but let me break it down for you: Me have job. Me have life.”

“I was just trying to be nice,” she whispers as she squeezes her eyes shut.

 Is she frickin’ crying? I don’t have time for this.  

“Nice is for losers and fat people. I don’t have to be nice. And I don’t have to waste my time listening to you, so shut your pie hole and let me have a few minutes of peace before I have spend the next eight hours kissing Mr. Stanbuck’s ass.”

The woman’s eyes pop open. “Stan Stanbuck?”

“Yeah. What about him?”

She smiles. “He’s my son. I’m just on my way to see him now.”