Handicap Parking

:: Reader Discretion is Advised :: I (don't) apologize for anyone I may offend. (not) Sorry ::

(updated 7/25/2013)

Nice guys finish last. Fact. Willy finishes last.  

In this world, whoever screams and bitches the most get what they want. Fact. Willy doesn’t scream and bitch. (maybe he should).

Following the rules and living a dutiful life is the way for moral victories. But we all know moral victories are empty. Willy has a lot of empty plaques on his wall from those moral victories. Congratulations for doing the right thing. Here’s a pat on the back and a “Well done! Keep it up”! They glimmer in the light of his retro lampshades. 

Nobody really cares. Willy cares. Somebody has to clean the shit off the toilet seat, otherwise it’ll dry and be caked on for weeks. It’ll harden and slice through the delicate skin of someone who doesn’t care and you’ll have shit in your bloodstream. Willy cleans the shit off the seat, so everyone else is happy, because it’s not them. They’ll sit gladly by as someone else acts as the glamorized Master of Custodial Arts. Thank You, for saving me from the shit entering my bloodstream. But it’s not them. It’s Willy. The rule-follower, the the world’s most glamorized Little Bitch. 

Willy’s the kind of guy that will park far away at the Wal-Mart paring lot. While the McDonalds-eating huffing fatty parks in the Handicap spot, right in front of the store, because walking an extra 20 feet may give them a heart-attack. Maybe that’d be a good thing. Nobody wants to die old. 

Meanwhile, the Stay-Puff Marshmellow man over here with kankles and sweat stains seeping through his grey t-shirt and down his back, he’s getting treated for deciding to start the morning off with three Egg McMuffins, 10 slices of bacon, four hash browns, some left-over chicken wings from last night, and a shot of vodka. We like to start the day off with a bang. He’s probably sweating out the Big Mac he ate for Second Lunch. Or was that First Dinner? He does smell of cheese. Willy left on a rainy day.

We’re treating the Stay Puff Marshmellow Man. We’re treating him with those penguin steps and with chaffing between the thighs. Butter me up! That’ll at least help him slide without any friction. Walking is hard when there’s friction between your thighs. It’s 11am and you’ve had five meals already? Great Job! Keep it Up! Let’s treat the lazy for making the decision to be lazy, because you know it was a hard decision. Maybe Willy should change his ways, because there appears to be an easier route to “happiness” via a few packs of cigarettes each morning topped with a dozen Slim Jims and a trip to the nearest greasy fast-food restaurant. You’ve got to marinate all day.

Life is about incentives. And here we are, back to “moral victories”. Those abs and 7-minute miles are your pat on the back. Good Job. You’ll be rewarded with walking further in the parking lot, living longer, and spending more time sifting through the jean isle as you’re searching for pants that actually fit. Because in this day in age, finding pants with the length equal to the width is rare. 

Maybe Willy is ready to turn over a new leaf. What’s there to lose? We treat those huffing fatties like dogs, with peanut-butter covered bones. Atta boy! Here’s another treat. Those huffing fatties will wag those fat asses in the air, eyes wide with a wrinkled forhead. More? Anything for a treat.

Willy wants the peanut-butter covered bone. 

Why not? He’ll be handsomely rewarded with a blue-colored Handicap sticker for his car. If he’s lucky they’ll print out special plates for him too. He’ll have the logo just to the left of his “BIGMAC” plates. (The “Mac” being his ass of course). Sure, his ass will hang over the edges of his seat, and his 28 year-old bones will stress with the extra tension of his weighty New Self. But, he’ll get to ride around in those automatic wheel chairs in the store, with the buzz of that battery running, pushing his fat ass through the cold food section. If he’s lucky the seat will still be warm from the previous occupant. And hopefully the foam isn’t condensed enough so he’ll feel the plastic beneath it. These sweat pants won’t keep him too warm, but that’s ok, because he’s already sweating. He’s earned his keep. Now it’s time to gloat and ride that chair around in style. I wear my Sunglasses inside.

Where’s the pizza? He’ll get to fill the basket with those bags of fries and 30% fat ground beef. Hmm... beef... He’ll probably crave cheese and milk too. But remember, he’s got standards that he’s earned. No more skimping around with that 1% bullshit, you go all out with Vitamin D. The more Fat the better. Speaking of thighs. Speaking of cheese. Soft, wrinkly cheese. He’s just crafting himself into the most delicious dessert is all. 

He can add the cherry on top if he’d like. Mostly in the spreading of A1 sauce all over his thick, and soft body. It’ll take a lot of A1 Sauce. He’ll use it like lotion, coating his skin the same way he’d marinate the steak he’s eating for Second Dinner. Consistent. You have to allow time for the sauce to seep in your pores, and you’ve got to get every inch, otherwise that one spot without the saucy loving just won’t taste as good when the wolves come. And the wolves will come, eventually. This is the part he didn’t sign up for. 

The devouring of that fat piece of mess he’s created of himself has come. By now, he’s seasoned his body with basil and black pepper. He’s sitting fat and happy in the middle of the woods of some deserted mountainous region, awaiting wild animals he didn’t know existed. They exist. Here’s where Original Willy returns. Ready with a fork and knife to slice up that fat ass of his and dip it in some extra A1 sauce, probably the Bold and Spicy flavor. We all love a little ting.

The next thing he knows, he’s gone. As expected. No fatty lives long enough to die after everyone else. That’s the point of being a huffing Marshmellow Man. Everyone wants a bite. He gets to go first. Either a result of a heart attack from walking 20 extra feet through the Wal-Mart parking lot, or from being eaten alive with a dull fork and knife, Compliments of Willy.

Finishing last may be the temporary “Moral Victory”, but when the sun sets, the one behind everyone else gets to take their pick. Nice guys finish last, purposefully. Whoever’s got the most cheese on their thighs gets to be the winner. The predator sees everyone. So maybe there is something to sitting in the back, corner of the room, eyeballing the world in their motorized chairs with beef and cheese in their carts and on their thighs.

You may be last, but they’re going nowhere fast.