Hate the game

I just had an interesting conversation with my wife about chunkies. We discussed chunkies at some length. Who they are, and what they mean to me. You see, I don’t have anything against overweight people. I am one myself. Many of us struggle to fit a certain ideal or physical model, for all sorts of reasons.

Some of us want to be hot. Some of us want to be more healthy. Some of us don’t want to pay extra for double XL sizes. Whatever. It is not easy having a lame-ass metaboloism or [insert other excuse for not being slim, muscular and physically perfect).

So, no, I don’t hate overweight people. I do, however, hate chunkies. You will notice that when disparaging these peeps who should be spending more time reading fat burner reviews and less time in trans fat country I am using some of my favorite code words. Chunky is the big one (unavoidable pun).

A chunky is often, though certainly not always, female. A chunky is absurdly overweight with no sign of muscle tone anywhere on his or her body. A chunky is frequently tattoed, though this is not a requirement. A chunky wears inappropriate clothes, often excessively revealing. A chunky will usually display great attitude…my wife described it thusly: they think they’re all that and a bag of chips and then they eat the chips.

Chunkies can often be labeled as trashy, or white trash, or trailer trash. They can be very easily compared to pizza dough or the Stay-Puft Marshmallow man. They curse a lot, smoke a lot, drive crappy cars poorly and think people who drink Bud Light are snobs.

It is not the weight problem that I dislike. It is the attitude of the individuals who share these traits. And so I say this: Don’t hate the player. Hate the game. The chubby, chubby game.

Magnet

We were on line at the store the other day and it happened again – a completely unbalanced and borderline insane person struck up a conversation with me. She did the same with the cashier, my children and my wife, but she focused most of her attention on me. I must admit, I am a crazy magnet. I have suffered this affliction all my life. Put it this way: a crazy person metaphorically parks their car in your spot every once in a while, they move into my house, eat all my food, use up all my toilet paper and sleep on my pillow…and that’s just for starters.

This one was a real trip. She wasn’t as interesting as that guy on the train when I was in high school who was trying to get to the VA in Peekskill (which I think was shut down by then) who described plucking out another man’s eye and mushing it on his forehead. It wasn’t a particularly vioent or menacing manner with which he told the story, and he actually chuckled when he said the guy’s eye continued to stare at him.

And then there was Billy. He was using the “home’s” community bike for a ride through the park the day I picnicked with Carol. Weird, but at least we have a hell of a first date story.

This woman on line was particularly off. Despite her stylish green eye makeup and 1988-style sunglasses, wrinkle removers or age-defying cream of some sort might have been in order. Particularly as she went on and on about being almost finished with her degree in Child Psychology.

This from a woman who thought my 11th month old daughter in pink with pink accents and an extra bit of pink garnishment was a boy. She also told me a joke that I think was supposed to be a dirty joke, involving a blond and a dozen cops. I didn’t hear her all that clearly, but even if I had, I don’t think the punchline would have, you know, delivered.

The freaky part of the joke was that she actually named 12 cops. She had their names and ranks, some were detectives, and she kept saying things like “Do you know Detective So and So,” and “Ooooh, Sergeant Blank is really handsome.”

I said, “I wouldn’t know” and wished she would stop saying how handsome my baby girl is.

Still worked up

I have to say, I’m still really pissed about the whole Japanese Fighting Dog thing. Am I taking crazy pills or is this totally outrageous? To me, a pet store owner who keeps a wild animal as an ersatz pet in the store is not unlike a Wine Boutique owner pouring Cisco at a wine tasting.

Abbie, my Mom and Aunt’s poor maltese is suffering horribly. Never a pup that would require apidexin or anything, she now has barely eaten in two days. Since teeny tiny lampshades are not a great idea, she is now sporting a toddler’s turtle neck to keep her from chewing the open wounds on her neck.

And they shaved her. How much more wrong could it get? I mean, frou frou dogs are all about their frou frou haircuts and tartan winter coats. With her shaved neck and turtleneck she looks more like Knight Rider era David Hasselhoff then a delicate little purebred pup. And that’s just wrong. So wrong.

Dog Days

I’m not sure if this is a legitimate legal issue with precedent and all that, I don’t know if this shows up during lsat prep or anything, but I’m pretty sure it should… When big crazy dogs that are known as ‘[insert country] fighting dogs’ bite small, innocent, domestic pet dogs, they should be punished.

No lie. A pet shop owner (PET SHOP OWNER!!!) with multiple ‘exotic’ dogs had in her brood what she referred to as a Japanese Fighting Dog. Said fighting dog has been known to bite other dogs in the past. Yup, there are witnesses. So whenever my Mom or Aunt approach this pet shop, they actually pick up their dog, a teeny maltese, and carry her safely past. Just in case the Fighter, or one of the other exotic canine miscreants, gets out.

A couple of days ago, before my Mom could lift her pup to safety, the Fighter slinked out of the store and attacked. She bit the maltese ten times (the tenth bite was not discovered for 2 days because the other woulds were so fierce) and my mother at least once. The dog is massively traumatized and my Mom needed a tetanus shot.

You know what the worst part of this unnecessary tragedy was? The next day, the pet shop owner had the dog tied up outside where it was nipping at other dogs as they were walked by.

Have you ever seen one of those shows where a dirty cop goes before a judge and the judge says he should be punished especially severely because he’s a cop? Don’t you think a pet store owner should have extra culpability?

The Bottom Bunk

Speaking of comfort on the ol’ ship, how did I forget to mention the sleeping arrangements? On the lower deck of the ship we found our beds…and I use that word loosely. Our group occupied several sections you might loosely call rooms. Each room had between 4 and 6 sets of bunks. Each bunk was 4 high. Yup. 4.

The bunks were two metal poles attached to the wall and two chains hanging from the ceiling with strategically placed hooks that would support 4 metal frames. A piece of canvas was attached with wound rope to the metal frame. And yes, they were 4 high. My second grader, of course, wanted the top bunk. I opted to be on the bottom (I’ve never minded sleeping close to the ground) and there was another father and son pair between us.

Honestly, the canvas hammock effect wasn’t bad. I have definitely been more uncomfortable trying to get to sleep in my life. The biggest problem for me was that the bedframe was about six feet long, so when you figured in the tubular metal frame and the inches of rope, the actual canvas was only about five and a half feet long.

It meant that some part of me was always touching the metal. It was either my gangling ankles or my calf. Or, when I tried to get a fetal curl on my side, my knee laid against the metal frame on the side. Still, I was pretty exhausted after a day of chasing after 7 and 8 year olds, and I eventually did fall asleep.

The biggest problem, actually, was the noise. Chains rattled, pipes squeaked and tubular metal frames groaned if you took a deep breath. Forget about rolling over. I may have escaped without severe joint pain, but the bunks surely did not. To hear their moaning protestations whenever a body tried to resettle itself, you probably would have shared this thought of mine: maybe the bed needs oil.

Sailor Man

I’ve heard people argue about the best acne treatment. I’ve heard that salt water air is good. I’ve heard you should put toothpaste on big zits. I’ve even heard of people spreading mashed potatoes on their faces. This last one is probably not advisable unless you’ve got a lot of potatoes, they’re not particularly hot, and you left off the gravy.

Speaking of potatoes, I have to mention the food on the battleship when we were ship-sleeping. The whole battleship operation was run by civilians, but the young Portuguese girls from Fall River made the chow line experience memorable. The food was good and the mood was pretty authentic. They were not rude. They were, for the most part, exceptionally polite. But they ran, without a doubt, a no nonsense operation. You grabbed a tray and cutlery, they plunked down your loaded plate, your milk and your extras.

The dinner we had on the ship was actually pretty darn good, especially considering that they ran some 600 people through the line in a little over an hour. Breaded chicken cutlet with mashed potatoes and gravy. Corn and a buttered roll. Even chocolate pudding for dessert. And it really wasn’t bad.

Sure, there were plenty among the 600 who griped. I suppose it is to be expected when you cram that many people together at close quarters, far from their comfort zone. To me, though, the point of the adventure was to try and get a sense of what it would be like to live on the ship. Yeah, it might not have been the most comfortable experience at all times, but…well, like I said, wasn’t that the point?