DINING WITH JABBA THE HUT

While enjoying my last day before the new job starts I went to my neighborhood’s mediocre pizzeria for a slice, resorting to that culinary choice simply because it’s close and I just didn’t feel like cooking.

After obtaining my slice and a can of seltzer, I sat down to eat my snack and peruse some new comic books, but there was no garlic powder on the table. I walked back to the counter, but could barely reach the condiments thanks to my way being obstructed by a massively obese and ugly woman in her mid-twenties who in no way cared about her appearance or comportment, bringing to life the worst stereotypes of the overweight. Doughy rolls of blubber oozed over the abused elastic of her sweats and from under the sleeves of her too-small, glittery unicorn T-shirt, and if not for her feminine features and grotesquely obvious camel toe I would have been totally unable to determine her gender.

As I tried unsuccessfully to squeeze past her firmly planted, B.O.-redolent mass, I politely asked her if she could scooch a bit to her left, but she just stared blankly at me and shuffled on her worn-down flip-flops. I managed to grab the garlic powder by using an overhead movement that mutates a crane-style kung fu move, and the woman returned her attention to placing her order. In a hideous Brooklyn-Irish bellow, she screeched, “Gimme a calzone, three slices wit’ sausage an’ pepperoni, an’ a buncha zeppolis. With sugar! SUGAR! SUGAR!!!” and the guy behind the counter hopped to it lest he incur her wrath and end up the next day staring up at the world from the bottom of her toilet bowl, an unpleasant prospect to be certain.

As I began to eat, she sat down at the booth catty-cornered from me and awaited her meal. When her food arrived she tucked into it with gusto, loudly smacking and leaving her maw open enough to allow the horrified onlooker (me) to witness her food in various states of spittle-oozing mastication, some of which fell unnoticed to the table, and I could not look away, no matter how nauseated I got. She finished the high calorie feast in very short order, and when done she brushed the food shrapnel from her formless water-balloon tits onto the table and wobbled out, leaving the table a ruin of soiled napkins, pizza crusts, crumbs, and so much powdered sugar residue that it looked like Tony Montana had just stopped in for a quick pick-me-up. Thoroughly revolted, I chucked the remainder of my slice into the nearby garbage can, providing a meal for the just-arrived local homeless guy who hangs out wherever storeowners and restaurant-proprietors will let him.

Another customer then walked in and decided to sit at the food-giantess’ table, so the guy had to clean up after her and filled the air with irritated Spanish profanity. Thus suffer those who follow in the wake of Jabba.