Many, many years ago, when I was young and not particularly sensitive to the different flavors of humanity, I was commissioned to write a series of columns for a college website. My mission was to infuse said columns with as much ribald, anti-PC humor I could muster. What resulted was the Snark series.
Snark was a bitchy little dog with an evil disposition who said the things to which we never give voice but sometimes think.
The webmasters were both horrified and, dare I say, enchanted. Snark was crude, vulgar, and every bit a victim of life's perplexities as the rest of us.
I was exploring my computer the other day and stumbled across the series - I think there were six columns. While I'm hesitant to associate my name with Snark I admit to a morbid fascination with his foul-mouthed take on the world around him.
So I've decided to post them here, one at a time. If you're offended I apologize ... Snark was definitely a scoundrel without boundaries.
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Like all lifeforms except Calista Flockheart I require food but I don’t cook because I’m not suicidal so I eat out and it doesn’t matter where – burgers, pizza, Chinese, except I hate chalupas and that ratty little Mexican dog – and now and again, not the TV show but the time element I go to a trough – a buffet – where you pay five bucks and hose out the fried chicken and crushed Oreo bins and then you stagger outside and discretely puke in the potted palm by the front door and it grosses everybody out so they pack their shit and head for the house so you can go back inside and have the place to yourself, right?
Yeah, well, hurling on command ain’t easy and sometimes you run up against a pro and that’s what happens every time I go to this one trough ‘cause it’s not just one pro but a bunch of pros and you know who I’m talking about:
The Fat Family.
I swear to God these people LIVE at the trough, they’ve got a den set up in one of the storage closets and they come out at lunch and dinner and waddle up and down the buffet line and they’ve all had shop vacs surgically implanted in their guts and they suck everything down – mashed potatoes and gravy and those little fried vegetable whatevers and Jell-O and candy corn and pork chops and cheezy broccoli – and the ones with the Wet Vacs go for the soup aisle and not a goddamned one of ‘em will touch the salad bar – Hell no, they might drop a pound can’t have that not when you’re The Fat Family.
There’s always a Big Fat Daddy and he always looks like a bad guy in a James Bond movie and you know the smothered corpses of his victims are hidden deep down inside his butt crack. And then there’s The Little Woman and yeah sure she’s little if you’re Shamu and her tits are dragging the floor behind her as she cruises the dessert aisle looking for fresh fruit to put on top of the frozen yogurt machine which she’s ripped out of the floor and is dragging back to her table so she can spread out under the thing with her mouth open and turn the spigot on. Then there’s Fat Kid, who looks like Pugsley from the Addams Family and the kid is so enormous you could shoot him and it’d take three years for the bullet to work under all that fat and hit something vital and when you see the kid you gotta wonder, “How will that troll EVER get laid?” He’s got a little sister who’s three feet tall and six feet wide and she looks just like a doll – one of those Weebles that wobble but they don’t fall down.
I got stuck behind Big Daddy Fat Man at the popcorn shrimp bin and I gotta tell you I’m still in therapy – the son-of-a-bitch FARTED except at first I didn’t know what was going on ‘cause it sounded like a duck mime that had given up a 20-year vow of silence was trying to escape his anal cleft. But then he turns around and smiles and says “Scuse me! I better lay off the cucumbers!” and I say back at him “Hell man, a cucumber’s exactly what you need to PLUG UP that BLOWHOLE!” so he gets all worked up and waddles over to the ziti Parmesan bin and drowns his sorrows with a bucket of pasta.
One time I’m there and Big Momma tells Pugsley, “Eat whatever you want,” so the kid comes back with a microwave cart loaded with CHEDDAR CHEESE, I shit you not, and neither will that kid ‘cause cheese plugs you up – it’s like flushing cat litter down the toilet – and that kid’ll need a dynamite enema to loosen his bowels.
To quote a famous philosopher, “What goes in has gotta come out,” and that brings me to a delicate subject, namely the idea of one of these chunks taking a squat. I mean, why can’t they wait till they get home? ‘cause they never do, am I right about this? It’s like they’re proud of it or something. You go into the bathroom and the stall door is closed but you can see these enormous folds of fat down around the guy’s ankles and that’s about the time your bladder freezes up so you’re stuck at the urinal and coming from behind the door is all kinds of snorting and growling and splashing and it sounds like the bastard is wrestling alligators in there, and just when you think you’re gonna start peeing you see the wallpaper sliding off the walls, and then this stench hits you like a load of shitbricks and one part of your brain says to the other, “Just think: Those molecules of stink you’re breathing were up that guy’s ass less than 30 seconds ago,” and that’s when you’re sure you’re gonna have an episode of Premature Projectile Vomiting – that’s PPV – and totally ruin today’s battle plan.
So Snark’s advice is that before you hit a trough always recon for The Fat Family and if you see what resembles four gigantic cancerous lumps in the corner slowly sucking the life out of an unfortunate member of the hired help, know and understand that the fried chicken bin is empty and it might be a good day for Chinese.
Snark is a wizened little dog with an evil disposition. He knows and understands all so send your questions and Snark will insult you or maybe even provide you with doable advice.