There are only supposed to be two "sure things" in professional gambling: 1) Brett Favre at home on Monday night and 2) the Dolphins collapse in December.
I would like to add a third--when you see one of the smaller compact cars cruising down the fast lane on the freeway, it is being piloted by the largest woman you have ever seen in your entire life. It's guaran-goddamn-teed. I'm not sure if you can actually bet on this, but if you can...if you can...it might be time to pull out the 401K or rob your rich grandmother.
The key is the car. It's all in the car. The Geo Metro. The Mini Cooper (the old one, not the new one). The Dodge Neon. The Ford Focus. The VW Beetle (the new one, not the old one). The Daihatsu Charade. Yes, they are compact cars. Yes, they are fuel efficient. More importantly, however, is that these are the vehicles of choice for the morbidly obese women of this country.
Having been commuting an hour each way for the last month and a half, I have seen fat chicks in small cars so often that I have no choice but to call it a phenomenon. Moreover, I am at a complete loss to explain it. I've run it through my head dozens of times and I have yet to come up with an explanation that does not involve, in some form, deep-seated self-loathing or 14th century religious persecution.
Bear with me while I sketch this out...
Let's say, for argument's sake, that you are so incredibly obese that you have other small fat people orbiting around you because they couldn't escape your gravitational pull the last time you were all in line at Chick-Fil-A.
Let us then assume that there is something in your life that, God forbid, requires you to abandon the back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-back episodes of Step by Step on the Superstation with which you typically start your day.
Let us then assume that this something occurs someplace that requires you--okay, you might want to sit down for this or hold onto something--TO LEAVE THE HOUSE!
So, assuming that this something occurs on a regular enough basis and occurs someplace not easily accessible by public transportation or supertanker, let's further assume that this pesky set of circumstances requires ownership of some form of personal transportation that can expeditiously convey you from one place to the next.
Now, armed with the knowledge that you, as an unfathomably rotund member of the genus Homo, must purchase a car that you must use to move yourself from your pen...I mean home...to wherever it is you must go *cough*vet*cough*, why in the name of all that is holy and true in this world would you pick one of only a handful of automobiles that you quite possibly outweigh? Seriously, explain this to me. I know you're both short, round, and slow but is that really a reason to buy a car? Honestly.
See, if I were as big as...oh, I don't know...MALTA, I would want something with a little more breathing room; something that could accommodate my reprehensible girth. Like a boat. Or a painting crane. I certainly wouldn't be in the market for a car into which I had to squeeze myself like ground meat into sausage casing.
Yet, without fail, I see a gigantic woman driving down the freeway in one of these clown cars everyday. It's like she lost a bet or something. It's so incongruous to me, often times I have to slow down in order to take the whole scene in and wrap my brain around the physics of it all. That, or look for the hidden camera and Dave Coulier.
I'm convinced that the only way she gets behind the wheel is by greasing herself up with Crisco and then playing a game of Front Seat Twister...
RIGHT FOOT FLOORMAT, PIG!
Posted by nils at 9:45 PM