Bariatric barista at the starbeetus. So Mrs. cthulhu and my unholy lordship were at the starbeetus this weekend at the mall. The place was busy and the lines long, which is fairly normal for a Sunday, even. She ordered a plain iced green tea, and I a small cappuccino. Seriously, nothing hard or fancy. Every barista was overweight, but the one tasked with making our drinks was the truly planetary one. It moved with that surreal slow motion that you see in elephants and rhinos up close. The slowness that only comes with great mass. The area behind the counter was so small that it literally looked like the planet around which everything else must orbit. It's eyes are half closed, and I'm not sure if it was fatigue, laziness, or just fat forehead fupa weight crushing the eyelids. Either way, it's working with almost contemptuous slowness, in spite of the ever growing line. After the line was bordering on mutiny, a smallfat coworker steps in and works at twice the speed of planet fat to keep us from killing them, shooting daggers at planet fat the whole time. Does this fat fuck speed up, get out of the way, or even perk up? No. Its fucking eyelids still never got over half mast. Nose in the air, eyes half open, with that infuriating look of bovine smugness. I wanted to crack it in the head with a bat. We eventually got our drinks. Dodged mallfats for the next hour or so, but had fun and got some great deals. Still though, bat to the dome.