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| Youuuuuuu betcha! But in his mind, Fatass is Brad Pitt. |
As I've said before, my covert ops personnel in his classes with him have all said that there is no possible way that he can pass certain classes, and yet here he is living in this delusional dream world where he's skipping classes and playing video games. As someone who USED to do that, it fucking pisses me off that a fat waste of space is doing something better than I ever could. Yeah, I'm pretty competitive.
So today I come back from shooting one of my final productions and there's Fatass buttonmashing and saying "god fucking dammit" twenty billion times, completely ignoring the fact that he has class. As I walk past, he unleashes a toxic bomb that makes me want to take a lead pipe to his temples.
So then I leave again, because I have, you know, CLASSES TO GO TO. When I come back, he's gone. Probably means that Bitchface's roommate was gone and the gettin' was good. Whatever. So I start to do some work on another project, praying that he just stays away as long as possible... two seconds after I think about it?
Here he comes, sloshing his beer gut into the doorframe. I'm frankly amazed that he can still get into the room, but he made it in alright. "Oh, hey bud... is it cool if I play video games? That is, if I'm not distracting you from your work..."
Listen, you bulbous piece of monkey shit, you and I both know goddamn well that the only reason you're asking it is because you want to be able to say you asked, and then you go and do it anyway. We've established this pattern before, so why don't you save the flapping of your lips for the cock you're going to suck later on, k?
So I mutter something about going to dinner and leave, because the more time I have away from his fat body, the better. 10 fucking days.
I get back into my room, and there he is, but the only change is that he's decided to once again go topless, picking the scabs off his fat back while mashing buttons with the other hand, then wiping the scabs off on the bottom of his seat. Man, I'd hate to be the kid living here next semester... well, I'd hate to be the kid living on his side of the room, that is.
So let me paint this mag-fucking-nificent picture for you: here we have a bright sunny day, but the blinds are down and drawn because of Fatass's inane paranoid fear of The Red Truck. My light, which was on before I left for dinner, is now off, further proving his disrespect for my stuff. I'm laying on my bed and typing. Fatass is sitting on a chair with the rolls falling from either side of it, and I fear that it might give at any second. His fat fucking body is... well, if I can make up a word here, it's "shoobulling". Just say that word quickly and I think you'll have the right idea. It's the kind of noise that comes from excess fat being jostled around.
And that's not even the best part! He's still picking at his scabs, which means that he now has bleeding open sores all over his hairy back. I forgot to mention the grotesque amount of monkey hair he has there. His bitchtits are blowing in the breeze... well they would if the window was open. Apparently The Red Truck can attack him from open windows. His asscrack is hanging out from his jeans despite the use of a belt, and his creepy ass haircut makes him look like someone Chris Hansen would like to have a seat over there. He's staring mindlessly through broken glasses at a screen that's less than 8 inches from his face and continues to mash buttons, saying "god fucking dammit" every 15 seconds or so.
And all the while, there are final projects and papers to do and presentations to ready for, but fuck that! He's een-veen-cee-bull. He can do whatever he wants, finish a test in 5 minutes by scribbling god only knows what onto the paper, and then leave. I'm going to laugh when I hear that he fucked up his last chance at passing college and getting a degree. Maybe it'll take him down a fucking peg or two.
But in the meantime, here's hoping this pathetic fat waste of life just keels over from a heart attack.
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