Blame Elevators for Obesity

Unintentionally, it seems that I've done back-to-back "Blame X for Y" posts. While this is a complete coincidence, readership, the issue that I'm bringing up in this Observation is quite a serious one.

The following is a true story.

It will sound mean. It is mean.

It will sound exaggerated. It is the truth.

Today, I was going to see my girlfriend Jordan on the fourth floor. I live on the ground floor, which, due to some retard's design decision, is called the "basement." So technically, she lives on the fifth floor, but whatever.

Anyway, I got into the elevator, pressed the button for the fourth (aka fifth) floor, and stood back. As the door began to slide shut, a strange sound reached my ears. It was almost as if a mute elephant had been airlifted to the top of one of those amazingly high and steep staircases that the Mayans seemed to love to put on the sides of their temples, and then dropped down the entire staircase. Except with like fourteen elephants that were three times as large as they would usually be in the wild.

At this point, I'm like "WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT!?" The ground's shaking, and whatever the hell is making this noise is getting closer - and fast. I start to mash the "door close" button, hoping beyond hope that whatever fucking super-tiger-dinosaur creature that's coming towards me gets assed out of eating me because the elevator door closes on it.

No such luck, however. A large, morbidly obese arm - notice how I said ARM, not PERSON - hooked itself around the door and basically forced it back open again. And what followed was the biggest, morbidestly obesest person I'd ever seen, huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf after an asthma attack. It (because I honestly couldn't tell if this was a dude or a chick) stepped into the elevator with me - and the elevator dropped an inch or two - and I stepped back as far as I could, giving this creature room.

The chubbiest of fingers reached out towards the row of buttons, and pressed . . .

1.

WHAT THE FUCK!?

What you're saying is, you could run at nearly SIXTY MILES PER HOUR so you could finja your way into the elevator and fucking SMOOSH me into the CORNER, but you couldn't climb TWO FLIGHTS OF STAIRS!? And then have the nerve to be like "hurry up . . fucking elevator . . . " under your breath!?

GET SOME EXERCISE ASSHOLE.

And for God's sake, whatever you do.

Stay classy