Fatty told me that he wants to fuck my mom. I'm a waitress in a bar. That being said, I meet all sorts of people. Unfortunately, that includes fat "people".  It was a slow, Monday night when the fat-ass in question decided to grace me with it's presence. I had my back turned away from the front door, wiping down tables and what-not, y'know, just doing my waitress duties. "HEY!" I hear behind me, squealing so loud that it's voice actually cracked. I turn around. By God, this was the nastiest hamplanet that I have ever seen in person. He appeared to be middle-aged (who can really tell with fat-asses?), sitting on a mobility scooter with a massive, doughy gut spilling over his knees and wedged at the base of his scooter-handles. I spend a lot of time on FPH, and yet seeing this creature actually had me taken aback. "ARE YOUR WASHROOMS HANDICAP ACCESSIBLE?" It shrieks. "Yes," I answer bluntly. Sure enough, this creature had me follow him to the washroom to hold open the door so he could maneuver his scooter through the bathroom door. In the process, he groaned, looked up at me and whined, "I hate this! Why can't people just go pee for me?" Um, what? So, fatty spends at least five minutes in the washroom before making an exit. As he zipped past me, that's when it hit me: the smell. It was a mixture of sour piss, body odour, dead animals, and what was probably the stench of the fungus that he probably had between his rolls. It was also at this moment that I discovered the source of the 'dead animal' smell: two beetus feet, yellow and oozing with pus. No shoes, of course. Just gauze wrapped around what was supposed to be the arch. "Bye, have a nice day!" I cheer, a subtle way of saying 'get the fuck out'. But no. Fatty insisted on staying. He ordered fish and chips with a size of gravy. He ate the whole thing with his hands, ignoring the cutlery that I had brought for him. Not before swallowing a handful of pills, of course! I was disgusted. I slipped out back and had a cigarette to save myself two minutes from his odour. (I've since quit) When I came back inside, it scoffed and said sarcastically, "Well, you were almost perfect." "Excuse me?" "You were almost perfect, but you smoke! That's disgusting!" I laughed, "Well, a lot of people have disgusting habits." It shrugged. "How old is your mother?" "Uh, 40. Why?" "Does she smoke?" "No." He giggled, his face gleaming in a mixture of sweat and fryer grease and said, "Can I have her number?" I got him his bill after that, before he asked for it. Fucking gross. Why don't hams have any social grace?