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What would fat Jesus do?

A big fat family from Orange County stopped and stared at my fish stand today, frowned and sneered. I haven't been selling sacrilegious fish for long, but long enough to know the look of disapproval on Mr and Mrs Fat's faces. They're people who believe in God, and their god has no sense of humor.

They didn't get all righteous and sanctimonious and lecture me about the fish, promise me I'd burn in Hell or anything. They didn't say a word about the fish, but they didn't walk away either, or when they did walk away they walked right back. They were offended, and wanted to continue being offended.

They spent half an hour at the hairbobbing booth next to mine, as fat momma and both fat daughters had multi-colored thread sewn into their hair, but while the fat ladies had their fat heads strung up, fat daddy and fat grandpa continued exploring Telegraph Ave, and their fat explorations had their fat asses bumping my table every time they walked past.

Some parts of the sidewalk aren't wide enough for jumbo people to squeeze past. Not where I was working today, though.

Sometimes Telegraph is very crowded, and bumps are part of the hustle and bustle. Today the crowds were light.

I'm too patient, and thought the first few bumps might've been accidental, so I didn't say anything. After the fourth bump I started suspecting they were intentionally trying to topple the fish display — a vertical rack that sits atop the table and proudly presents several levels of all the fish. I said very politely, "Please stop knocking my table every time you walk by," and I said walk, not waddle. Being fat myself, I don't taunt people for being fat.

Usually. Today I'm making an exception.

One of the fat men apologized, even sounded like he meant it, and they stopped waddling past my table, and instead leaned on a building until fat momma was done being bobbed. That woman, though, blasted the table with her butt, but good, when she walked past, and it was on purpose. No mistaking it. The fish would've gone flying if I hadn't reached out and steadied the display.

"Excuse me," she said, but with no 'excuse me' in her 'excuse me'. I was bullied when I was a kid, and heard it all again in her voice.

I'd been cutting fish from the mylar sheets, and I stopped and stood up, but didn't put down the scissors. I folded my arms, smiled my meanest smile, and stared at fat momma until fat daddy and fat grandpa noticed and came over, so three fat adults were standing in front of my table, one behind it. "You're blocking the way," I said. "Please move along."

The fat children were still getting their hair bobbed at the next table, so the fat adults couldn't move along very far, but they waddled to a wall ten feet away and waited for the kids. There were no further words and no further bumpings, but what was that all about?

There'd been four feet, maybe more, between my table and the hairbobbers, and even fat momma wasn't that wide. Christians are supposed to be Christ-like, aren't they? Christ might've lost his temper and overturned my table — dude had a notoriously short fuse — but I don't believe he would've wordlessly bumped it with his fat holy ass half a dozen times.

♦ ♦ ♦

Sarah-Katherine will be here in a week, and I'm not at all worried about making a good impression. That's not the goal. Making a good impression means being something you're not, and I'm done doing that. We'll both be ourselves and we'll see what happens. I'll try not to pick my nose if we end up in bed together, but that's the maximum effort I'll put into making a good impression.

I'd like her to feel welcomed and comfortable, though, so I'd sure like to be living in a room of my own before Sarah-Katherine gets here.

It's Thursday, the day Judith promised that my room would be ready for moving into, so first thing this morning I opened the door and looked inside. It's still hopeless, but at 6:30 AM Judith was in there, sorting through the rubble on the floor. The room is looking better, and to be fair, she had told me days ago that the room would be ready at the end of the day today, not at dawn. "Come back at midnight," she said when I poked my head in this morning.

Today I spent a few hours helping her clean the room, and a few hours cleaning the room without her, which was basically just pushing things out the door. It's hours before midnight as I'm typing this, and I'm turning in, and I'm not going to set an alarm to wake me at midnight, to check on the room, because... I've seen the room, seen the mess, and there's no possibility it'll be demessified by midnight.

From Pathetic Life #14
Thursday, July 6, 1995

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

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