Burgers and Bastards

Today I went to Cook’s Corner to grab something to eat on my way to relax at O’Neill Park.  It’s a nice getaway from the office hustle and bustle and all of it can be done on an hour’s lunch.

 

While I waited for my food, some guy next to me (with, presumably, his “old lady” and their kid) made truck-reverse-beeping noises and stifled giggles while staring at me (mind you, we were the only 4 people in the place).

 

I’m no rocket surgeon, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out I was the butt of a fat joke (pun unintended but graciously appreciated).

 

So here’s the thing.  I am fat, and I know I’m fat.  What I can’t fathom is that people would think I have a problem with being fat.  I simply don’t.  And why would this git think that my girth is directly related to my intelligence?  Did he honestly think that the fatter I am, the less I’m able to realize I’m fuel for his entertainment?

 

I was peeved for awhile, but a burger from a biker-bar eaten on a breezy hilltop with only birds to keep one company took quick care of that.  It’s hard to be peeved in the presence of Mother Nature.

 

And as for the git?  All I had to do was look at him and say, “What is this?  Highschool?” to shut him up.