More proof that Fatass needs to be castrated

The Do-It-Yourself cutoff sleeve shirt,
Fatass's garment of choice.

First off, let me begin this post by reminding everyone of what this blog isn't, so even though I am an American, I do not feel the need to discuss the death of any well-known terrorist, unless it's Fatass. The only thing I ask as a result of the day's news is for my dear Cousin the Fed to call for an end to full-cavity searches.

Anyway, back to the task at hand, which is why you read this blog - Fatass continually doing things to cement his place as a candidate for death via rectal trauma.

After work today, I decided to drive across the street from the store to the mall, because I needed some shorts. I had a relatively good time, despite the fact that it was clothes shopping. I browsed the stores at my own pace, gave the guy at Lids a history lesson about the Brooklyn Dodgers baseball cap (thanks Uni Watch!), and browsed for some video games.

However, my day was immediately ruined when I was walking out of the store. Fatass and Bess were walking in the opposite direction. Bess spotted me and thrusted her nose in the air like the self-righteous twat she is, but Fatass does his bullshit of staring at me until I acknowledge him. It's awkward. It's creepy. It's going to get him punched in his fat mouth if he does it to the wrong person. So I wave and quickly motor out of the mall.

The rest of the day goes by, and I figure it's going to be a Fatass free day, and it was for the most part, but as I walk to get some food, I'm talking on the phone to K-Star and pass through one of the lines. I give them the uninterested nod that shows I'm on the phone while they both awkwardly stare at me as I pass. As I walk by, I hear Fatass remark loudly, "Wowwwwww."

Listen, bitch. Not only am I not obliged to respond to any god damn utterance you make as if I'm hanging on to every syllable with rapt attention, but I am not obliged to show you any common courtesy. Lord knows you haven't shown ME any. And as for that, I WAS ON THE PHONE. I know cell phones are too much of a new fangled technology for you to comprehend, but when I'm talking into the magicy box against my ear, it means that I am talking to someone else. The someone else I was talking to you is more important to me than you will ever be to anyone else in the entire god damn world, so get down off your high horse and eat some shit and die.

I've told K-Star that I'm going to start farting on Fatass's pillow whenever he's not here. After tonight, I'm thinking that's the perfect revenge for not only his constant smell of ass, but his asshole behavior. I figure if ass is what comes out of him, ass can go into him as well. You get what you give, douche.