The fat fuck broke/ate everything Grew up in an old Victorian in a city suburb and mum decided to open a bed & breakfast in my late teens. Second week open we're expecting guests and see this absolute planet waddling up the front walk.  She's booked on the third floor. There's no way she's making it up there. No. Fucking. Way. Can barely make it up the five stairs to the porch without collapsing. Discovers the verticality of her reservation and starts crying and apologizing profusely. Big event in the city, no where else to go, everywhere else is full. End up putting them (it was accompanied by a waif of a man) in the two room suite on the first floor at a shit rate and moved the original party upstairs at no charge. (Ma was a softy in the early days) The bed in the suite was an old four-post, three feet off the ground. Even with the stepstool she couldn't get on it, so we made up the brand new foldout couch. Broke it in half the first night.  We had a brand new private bath recently installed for that suite, shower only, designed for humans. Broke the shower walls and floor the first morning.  Had sixteen people in the house that weekend, it ate almost all the breakfasts we got from the Irish bakery every morning, along with the cereals, oatmeals, breads and jams we kept in reserve. We still had to feed everybody.  Broke three brand new patio chairs on the back deck and two on the front.  Probably cost us over to two thousand in damages.  Tripped and fell on it's fat fucking face, on the sidewalk, on its way to a taxi.  It heard me laugh