Magnificent, prosaic shitlording in Ray Bradbury story I'm reading through a collection of short stories and this one "The Illustrated Man" is wonderfully shitlord-y. A couple of excerpts, if you don't mind: "And he had gone out to eat five thousand steaming hot dogs, ten million hamburgers, and a forest of green onions, and to drink vast red seas of orange juice. Peppermint candy formed his brontosaur bones, the hamburgers shaped his balloon flesh, and strawberry pop pumped in and out of his heart valves sickeningly, until he weighed three hundred pounds."  "She ran from the trailer and he was left alone to pose before mirror. Why had he done it? To have a job, yes, but, most of all, to cover the fat that had larded itself impossibly over his bones. To hide the fat under a layer of color and fantasy, to hide it from his wife, but most of all from himself." "I hate you. I’ve hated you a long time now. Good God, when you started putting on the fat, you think anyone could love you then?"... "God, you’re like a whale. You ever see a beached whale? I saw one when I was a kid. There it was, and they came and shot it. Some lifeguards shot it. Jesus, a whale!” ... “And I’m marrying a man, not a fat woman—that’s what you are, so much fat on you there ain’t no sex!” "He moved toward her—not like a man, but a crowd. He felt the great blooded reservoir of orangeade pump through him now, the sluice of cola and rich lemon pop pulse in sickening sweet anger through his wrists his legs, his heart. All of it, the oceans of mustard and relish and all the million drinks he had drowned himself in in the last year were aboil; his face was the color of a steamed beef."