Fast World, Fast Food and Fat Cunts

McDonald’s has taken quite a beating in recent times. Probably the most recognisable brand on the planet along with Coca-Cola, the Golden Arches have been kicked from pillar to post by pressure groups, documentaries and nanny states the world over venting outrage at the globalisation of obesity via fast food. There’s no escaping this behemoth of a franchise; even the Grand Canyon, one of the most awe-inspiring and beauteous sites this writer has ever witnessed, cannot elude the clutches of McDonald’s Inc.

What exactly is the secret to McDonald’s success? As with all successful businesses, it’s a simple process of identifying the need of consumers and supplying that need quickly and efficiently. Pre-McDonald’s, procuring a burger in a restaurant meant enduring a half hour wait and a rude waitress on just about enough money to feed herself never mind her bastard offspring. Now it’s merely a case of dealing with a spotty oik on just about enough money to feed himself never mind fulfil the maintenance payments for the kid he never sees. The difference is the diminished waiting time – highly conducive to the go-go-go environment of modern living: If one cheeseburger and fries doesn’t sate one’s appetite, walk up to the counter, ask for another and et voila the hunger pangs are gone.

It’s as easy as that. In fact, government watchdogs are arguing that it’s too easy; too easy to overindulge and, in Layman’s terms, become a fat bastard. And of course, the finger of blame is pointed squarely at McDonald’s billion dollar rump since Ronald McDonald stands outside every restaurant, pistol-whipping potential diners into said establishment and throatfucking them with Big Macs against their will. Nobody goes into McDonald’s of their own volition, y’see – that nasty clown forces them to eat quarter-pounder after quarter-pounder, guzzle it down with a litre of Fanta and then finish off with numerous McFlurries garnished with the latest fad chocolate bar.

Each and every person on this planet has the choice whether to eat in McDonald’s (or any other purveyor of fast, fatty food for that matter) or to eat at an altogether more healthy, wholesome enterprise. It’s not McDonald’s fault that the obesities I constantly witness in the high street have neither self control nor self respect and all the watchdogs, supposedly looking out for the well-being of consumers, provide are ready-made excuses for obesity. That monstrous, hulking fucker with more folds of flesh than hyperbolic space-time blocking the gangway on the bus isn’t enormous because he can’t stop stuffing his fat, puce cheeks with burgers; he’s enormous because of McDonald’s aggressive marketing tactics. He’s enormous because he’s addicted to food. He’s enormous because he has a hormone imbalance.

Give me a fucking break.

Until the imbeciles in organisations that our governments inexplicably give not only a voice but a platform and funding stop blaming fast food corporations and providing these gelatinous gluttons with excuses the problem is not going to go away. The problem isn’t hormonal, it isn’t addiction, it isn’t the prevalence of Justin Timberlake jingles in television adverts and it isn’t going to be solved by drugs, liposuction or restricting fast food advertising.

The obese, whose weight often has to be measured in terms of solar masses, simply don’t possess the discipline to impose restrictions on their own eating habits. It makes me physically sick to witness these masses of human blubber reducing themselves to tears of self-pity on national TV because they’ve exhausted every possible option in their quest lose weight.

Just. Stop. Eating. You disgusting flabby mess of a human.

Preferably altogether so that the 11% National Insurance Contributions that are deducted from my salary each month will actually go towards funding the treatment of somebody that can’t help the condition in which they find themselves.

It’s disgusting that these limp-willed mountains consume more calories in a single day than a staggering number of Africans will in a fortnight. They should be ashamed of themselves instead of wallowing to Oprah Winfrey, Rikki Lake or whichever chat show host decides to indulge their “illness”. It annoys me that these people only realise a problem exists when they get out of breath walking from the living room to the kitchen in search of the next banquet.

It is at this juncture that the lines between some of the Cardinal Sins (I thought that a Cardinal Sin was exacted upon a young altar boy?) become blurred. The obese suffer greatly from laziness and apathy, from jealousy of slim folk and quite patently lack any pride whatsoever. At least with the latter, if Dante’s work is to be taken literally, they won’t be forced to walk in purgatory with stone slabs weighing down on their backs.

They’d probably eat the slabs anyway.