Monday, June 25, 2012

Sir Bob Jones: I don't particularly care for your sort

As a boy I was taken for my annual trip to view the working class at the A&P show in Upper Hutt. Mama feigned an interest in the peasants parading around and insisted I do likewise, she deeming this "educational". “Look young Sir Bob,” she’d say. “Look at the quaint lower classes wearing man made synthetics and under enunciating their vowels. If you don’t eat your vegetables you’ll become one of these sad creatures.” After that I never refused an offering of brussel spouts again.

But my attention was focused longingly on the out-of-bounds carnival clamour at the park end, though my mother dismissed it as being for people of low-breeding. Instead we stood around looking at cows and horses while the sounds of the carnival and the laughter of children played out in the background. I think that day was behind the start of my hatred for the poor, and Ferris wheels.

One year, I escaped and ventured into this forbidden wonderland of wickedness. There were dodgems, rides and candyfloss vendors but I was drawn to the freak shows, because even as I child I loved to point and laugh at those different to myself. Today they're considered tasteless, but more pertinent, the freaks I saw are now the norm. Arguably this would then mean that they were no longer freaks, but I do love a good put down, and I refuse to move with the times for I am old and rich and therefore, like all other things, the times should move for me.

The two absolute "musts" in those yesteryear freak shows were the fat lady and the tattooed man. I paid my sixpences and gazed awe-struck at a negligee-clad woman who today would be considered almost anorexic, and then at the tattooed man, marvelling at such inane self-abuse. A fat woman and a man with tattoos, how shocking gentle reader. The best sixpences I ever spent, aside from later that day when I paid a homeless man to eat excrement. How my school chums and I did laugh heartily as he retched between his pathetic sobs.

Most fat people are young women. Statistics New Zealand refutes this, but since the other groups are not one in which my eyes wish to survey, this is the group that I will muse on. Truly, is there nothing more abhorrent, revolting, than a filly that has let herself go whereby stallions like myself no longer wish to mount them. A women’s place is to be objectified, and if she is no longer an object, then her purpose no longer exists. Furthermore, these fat women, these mountainous super tankers, might fall on me, on you, on our children, and kill us all. Some might suggest that my mocking is indicative of sociopathic tendencies, but they are mistaken, it is as a public service before someone is killed.

Being rich, and often bored, I hired out a store where I advertised a freak show which had within it a slim woman and an untattooed man. Wasn’t that clever of me, highlighting that I feel not enough women are the weight that I find desirable, and that I don’t like tattoos. Also the girl was both slim and pretty and as a Bulgarian this was amazing since Bulgarian women are ugly (we haven’t been included in international media since the Finland incident, just doing my bit for New Zealand tourism).

Then shrieking feminists came to complain, as they do, which surely is as disgusting as fat, ugly woman, with their short hair and unflattering outfits. I like Chinese women; they’re slim, though those ladies do love their shopping. I can hear those carnival sounds in the background of my mind, taunting me, twisting my heart as my compassion leaks from it, puddling around my ankles, like the tears of that homeless man. Fat women. I wake in a cold sweat. Where was I?

In my day there weren’t very many fatties. Now lots of people are fat, and by people I mean women, though they barely can be considered as such.

But can you imagine a dumber government action than that now proposed in England, namely to criminalise mocking the obese, in line with racial and sexual discrimination laws? Treating fat people with respect and dignity? What’s next, racial minorities? Not on my watch.

These human hippos are self made and ridicule may inspire them to unmake their degrading situation. This is why I hired another empty store (I was again bored, still rich) and am opening the Sir Bob Jones Slimming Academy for Women (No Feminists, Thanks) where I shall judge and mock these blubberous monsters until they get their act together and are once again pleasing to my eyes.

This is why you need us higher classes, to sort you lower class lot out. And do we get any thanks, no, just knighthoods and more money than we could ever spend. You make me as sick as a fat woman should be.

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