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She watches me constantly.

“Oh Jesus…that is fucken horrible…ewwww…”


“What’s wrong? Did the dog throw up on the lounge again?”


“No. The doctor has just cut like 100-kilos of blubber off this poor woman and put it on this table. I swear to Christ it’s vibrating…”


“You’re watching My 600-pound Life again, aren’t you?”


“Yes…oh, oh…fuck! Stop fucking eating! The fuck is wrong with you? You do not need another king-size triple-serving of cheesy fries!”


“She had a rough childhood. She was abused. She was bullied. Something.”


“So fucken what? All that shit happens to a lot of people. Me. You. Lots of people. We don’t eat four family-sized pizzas, six cheese-fucken-steaks, and glug back four litres of Coke for breakfast, do we?”


“Well, no. But in my case, the only thing stopping me is your lust for unbridled violence. You stink-eye me when I order a small pepperoni on MotoGP night.”


“I’m trying to keep you alive, you fat shit. Oh, God…how does she even wash herself, the poor thing? Look at that! She’s got sores under there! That’s awful!”


“You were just cursing her out for being a feral food-hippo, and now you feel sorry for her?”


“I’m conflicted when I watch this show. I feel sorry for them, and then I hate them, and then I feel sorry for them again…”


“It’s a terrible cycle, isn’t it?”


“That Doctor Nowzaradan has the patience of a saint. But I think he really wants to slap the sassy, back-chatting ones. I don’t blame him. I’d beat that giant slut with a shovel if she talked to me like that. He’s only trying to help you, you massive bitch!”


“Jesus! Is that the blubber he cut off that woman? It’s like something from a John Carpenter film. Where did that come from on her body?”


“That’s the fat-apron that was hanging down below her knees. Fuck, at what stage do you look in the mirror and say: ‘Bitch, please! I gotta do something about this!’ It’s just horrifying.”


“Why do you watch it if it upsets you?”

“What the fuck kinda question is that? You upset me and I watch you. But this show is great reminder that if we stop caring, shit goes to hell and there’s not much of a road back. Now step away from the fridge. Dinner is three hours away. Move on.”

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Boris Mihailovic

Boris is a writer who has contributed to many magazines and websites over the years, edited a couple of those things as well, and written a few books. But his most important contribution is pissing people off. He feels this is his calling in life and something he takes seriously. He also enjoys whiskey, whisky and the way girls dance on tables. And riding motorcycles. He's pretty keen on that, too.

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