There's a reason I call these things rants......

Over the past few days, I’ve been pondering the likelihood that the population of New York City boasts more than its fair share of club-footed individuals. If it doesn’t, then I must somehow be disproportionately likely to find myself walking behind one of them, because I would estimate that about 10% of the people who descend the subway steps in front of me are dragging a faulty leg behind them; if my train is waiting in the station, its doors about to close, it’s 50%. Can’t we find better treatments for this condition? I know it sounds drastic, but perhaps if the afflicted foot were amputated and replaced with an ergonomic prosthetic, we’d all be happier. Just exploring options…

The clubfooted, I understand, have no choice in the matter, and so in my more charitable moments I accept them for who they are. The morbidly obese, however, are another story. I have some serious, serious issues with food and an abysmally slow metabolism to boot, and I still manage to avoid venturing into that 250 – 500 lb range. If I can do it, so can you. It could be as simple as not requesting extra cheese on the large pepperoni pizza you indulge in on a daily basis; or ridding yourself of the stash of Little Debbie snack cakes hidden in your sock drawer; or replacing one of your four scoops of sour cream mashed potatoes with a vegetable, say broccoli or carrots. I’m not asking you to look good in a bikini, just to take up a little less space.

Of course you’re well within your rights to maintain your sleek 328 lb frame, but in the interest of common decency, please refrain from plunging your jumbo ass onto the subway seat next to mine. It’s not wide enough for your ample frame, so you’re going to spill onto my seat, and given that my own ass is somewhere between substantial and vast, that’s space I can’t afford to lose. This morning no fewer than three morbidly obese women wound up sitting on my lap, one of whom made the experience even more pleasant by emitting an assortment of barnyard noises. Have you no shame?

Now if you thought my solution to the clubfoot problem was ingenious, keep your socks on: if a single seat on the train can’t contain you, you pay double fare. Pretty great idea, right? After all, this kind of disincentive worked with smoking. Now that smokers are shunned and ostracized and forced to take their habit outside, inclement weather be damned, it’s just not worth it anymore. It’s an expensive hassle that marks you as one of THOSE people in the eyes of the non-smoking majority. Maybe double fare on the train will spur you into action, or maybe an artificial increase in the price of fast food would do the trick.

Whatever happens, I’m not going to sit back and take it anymore. When I spy someone waddling toward me on the subway, I will invoke the principle of manifest destiny, and annex all surrounding seats. The pressure from your weight, the heat from your body, and the pig snorts from your nose give me that right. If I’m in a generous mood, you may sit next to me at the very reasonable price of $1.25, half the cost of my seat; if it’s been a rough day, you’re shit out of luck.