RugbyFat the Manager and Chicken Day So, I go to a tiny engineering college (think sub-500 people) in the northeastern US. Thankfully, we don't have many oreo-gres up here. (If we do, they must be staying in hiding.) So, when I do see one, it sticks in my mind like a fat girl's thighs in summer. A bit of context: I'm female. 6'0". 150 lbs. Blonde. Tan. I look good, and I know it. I also work for my body. (I want to get verified but I just made this account) Now, my college has this deal with a nearby college where students from that school (lets call it DoucheU 'cuz I hate them) can come and eat in our dining hall a limited number of times per semester. One thing that comes out of this is entire DoucheU sports teams having a "team meal" in our dining hall. We've got an unlimited, buffet style setup. You can probably see where this is going. Now on to the story. School just started, which means the DoucheU rugby team decided to trek on over to my small, nerdy campus to take advantage of Fried Chicken Friday. I generally don't have a problem with this. We have enough food, and they sit in the corner where they don't offend anyone with their sweaty, post-practice odor. I see them approaching and thank Tesla that I got in line before they showed up. Then I saw IT. Behind the team waddled a (male?) behemoth with the word "Manager" printed in small yellow font on its sweat-stained multiple (many multiple) XL T-shirt. I'm tall. I look down on most guys. This dude? He was at least 6'8" and easily over 500 pounds, with a greasy mustache and multitude of chins.  He was puffing, out of breath from the three minute walk from the rugby field to our dining hall. I ignored them, for the most part, after that sight assaulted my eyes, but I couldn't miss the scene that followed. As predicted, the DoucheU rugby team cleared out the fried chicken. But oh, wait! One huge, heaping plate wasn't enough for Porky the Manager! I see him lurking next to the fried chicken station, waiting for the next tray to be brought out. At last! It comes! His arteries will continue to pump more grease than blood! But does this disgusting excuse for a human have the patience to wait for the kindly serving lady to set the tray down? No! With one meaty paw, he grabs a giant fistful of chicken out of the tray before it is set in its slot. The poor serving lady loses her grip, and the tray of 'beetus clatters on the floor, spreading fried chicken parts across the linoleum. Every eye in the dining hall was on the creature now, judging the piggy eyes, the greasy hair, and especially the chicken still clutched in his paw. The rugby team glared at him, obviously wondering how such a failure could ever be assigned to serve them. I was laughing on this inside as I watched these events unfold, but then I heard words directed at the serving lady escape the obeast's maw as he shook his clutched chicken at her: "Look what you've done! Hand me a plate!"