Lard Goblin Almost Causes me to Miss a Flight Hello shitlords and shitladies!  IT HAS BEEN TOO LONG! I haven't had anything interesting to post about fats in around 6 months, because I moved out of my roommate's beetus cave, and got involved with a running club at my university (it's a trail running group, without a ham in sight; unfortunately, the road running club had a little herd of hams, so I didn't stick with that). On top of that, I got a new shitlordy boyfriend! He isn't as shitlordy as I am, but he definitely doesn't like them because he has a younger brother with Type 1 Diabetes, and the hams always think they have it as bad/worse as a freaking thirteen year old kid. (That's a rant for another day.)  My boyfriend and I took a vacation together, to a western, southern state where Beetus is pretty rampant, but so are hiking trails and cool breweries, so we took a gamble. Our flight down was around 4 hours, which was fine because the in-flight movie was "Finding Nemo", which is my shit. I plug in my headphones, settle in, and watch a barracuda fuck Marlin's shit up.  Then, all the screens darken and a flight attendant's voice comes over the system. "Hello, is there anyone on board with medical training who can  assist a fellow passenger? Please notify a flight attendant." Sure enough, there's a nurse on board, and they have her hustling to the back of the plane. A lot of people are turning around, craning their necks to see what's up. I'm curious too, but they have the "patient' in that little space where the bathrooms are, with a curtain pulled over the area so no one can look in.  Later, as we are preparing for landing, the flight attendant's voice comes back: "Hello passengers, please allow for paramedics to come aboard and assist a fellow passenger. We apologize for the delay."  The plane touches down, and my boyfriend (we'll call him Elliot here, I guess) starts getting pretty anxious about making our next flight. We only have an hour layover, but the airport is HUGE, and he's worried we won't make the tram to take us to the next terminal.  "Fuck, fuck, fuck, we're gonna miss our flight," says Elliot, right as a team of 4 paramedics climb aboard. (4 people seems like a bit overkill here...) From the back of the place, rumors start bubbling up: Essentially, some dude had a heart attack. I feel like a bit of a douche for being annoyed at all of this, but my feeling immediately vanish when from behind the curtain emerges this... THING.  Picture this: Dudley Dursley fucked Whiney Way Thore, sprinkles a couple extra chromosomes in there, and somehow arranges its marriage to Mrs. Fucking Potato Head. A real white-trash, fat couple. And the "fellow patient" who needed help so desperately? Walking just fine. He walks (waddles) off the plane ahead of everyone. Everyone is confused, and, at this point, around 20 minutes late. We're kind of towards the back, so when Elliot and I grab our shit and get ready to start filing out, we overhear the flight attendants talking.  One says to the other, "Yeah, that man was complaining about chest pain."  CHEST PAIN!?! This fucker probably deep-throated half the fucking McDonalds menu, and his tumtum started hurting because he knocked back half a gallon of ranch to chase it down. He wasn't having a heart attack; he was being a disgusting animal whose poor choices impacted everyone on the plain.  Fuck fat people.  (P.S. We made our flight!)