I’ve been unemployed for well….a long long time. I’ve been job-hunting for what seems like forever. It was one of the main reasons for moving back to North Carolina, as I was living in that jobless hell-hole Michigan when my job-hunt began. I tried hard, I mean really hard. It wasn’t like I just put in one application for Arby’s and then just sat around leaching off of my friends until they kicked me out for being trashy and someone who is just going to kill themselves one day while some shitty “Farewell World” mix CD is playing in the background. Truth be told, I never put in an application at Arby’s because I am in my 20’s and I understand that kind of work is for the 15-18 crowd.

Well, I finally found a job. A pretty damn nice one at that. It’s another hospital OR gig, so it is familiar grounds. I was called in for my first orientation day this past Wednesday, a solid 8 hours of listening to someone talk and reading the no less than 12 books that were given to me. Aside from the massive boredom, there was a moment that made me want to kill. Usually I have to work at a hospital for at least a few days before I stumble upon the really annoying people that make me go home and start typing to everyone how much I hate nurses…because I do. But this is a new record, because I found a nurse I wanted to punch in the fucking face on Day One.

First let me tell you a little about nurses. They are morons. Don’t get me wrong, they are usually great at their job…but that is all they know. It is as if the school they had to go through filled their brains with so much that it pushed out all of the little common sense stuff (like that episode of Married…with Children). They are stupid, rude, and have the big-head 9 times out of 10. Which I guess just balances it out, because they all usually have a big fat ass to go with it, since all they do is fucking eat all day long. Now I have went on and on about how much I hate nurses with a lot of people, and I get the same response, “Oh, well my mom / aunt / sister / grandma was a nurse!” You think that is going to change what I am saying? As if I am all of a sudden going to forget the last 6 years of my career just because your sweet fat-assed mother is a nurse? F that and F nurses.

If only....

Back to the orientation. I get there a little early and take a seat on the next to last row…because I’m not cool enough for the back row. People slowly start to fill in, including the seats behind me. About 5 minutes later I hear a girl talking, if you could call it that. It was more like something one very small step removed from yelling. She was talking about how much she loves to go out to the club, and how much she loves to go out drinking and dancing and all of that kinda stuff. I know immediately. I know right at that second that I am going to turn around and see a big fat-assed girl making a horrible attempt at getting some sort of male attention. How do I know that? Because a hot girl doesn’t have to talk that loud, or at fucking all! I finally work up the nerve to turn around briefly, and she is everything I expected and more…about 200 pounds more. This woman was pushing 400 pounds, and probably getting dangerously close to 450. She was a nurse (of course), and was just coming off of a 3 year relationship. She had a triple chin, a double ass, and probably multiples of many other things that I have blocked out.

She kept yammering on and on, talking about how much she loves to dance. I know I was not the only one thinking to myself, wondering how she “dances”. I am sure it is that minimal movement sorta thing that all fat people do when they dance, where it is all upper body and usually just moving the arms around. Though I imagine if she was to make one movement that the jiggling and wobbling of her flesh that would carry on for the next several minutes may look like dancing to the untrained eye. She then immediately began to bond with another girl on the back row, another lard who was probably around 350 or so. I sat there and listened, listened for every little stereotypical fat gal bit of talk there was. I got the following:

• Gave each other directions, citing food places as landmarks.
• Complained about the walk from the parking lot to their department (a good 500 feet).
• Complained about the heat.
• Was angry that they had to go out and buy their own scrubs, since they apparently do not have them for “real women”.

I will stop the list there, so I can address that. They do not have scrubs for “real women”. Now, my entire life I always considered a human-being with a vag a woman. There are exceptions, like if they have hangdown-tube as well, but still. All of these years, I had no idea that in order to be an actual woman you had to take on such a grotesque form. What is the weight cut-off for being a real woman? Do you have to hit 400, or will just 350 do? Do you have to not be able to fit into clothes that by all accounts SHOULD fit on any normal human being? It’s fucking bullshit. You can call yourself a lot of things, I’ll offer up such as fat-ass, lard-ass, piece of fucking fat shit, and waste of human life, but you can not call yourself a “real woman” just because you think it makes you somehow superior. Actually you don’t think it makes you superior, because deep down inside you still want to just eat, and die, and eat, and die, and eat. I’m sorry but give me a girl that is in shape, with a nice body and actual facial features, and I’d consider her a “real woman” any time of day. I have never understood the fat woman hatred towards in-shape women. Do they think these women are in shape and hot just to spite them? As if such things as being attractive, being healthy, prolonging lifespan…as if those things don’t play a role in why a woman would choose not to have the body-shape of a snowman.

Things were going as well as could be expected, until our 2 o’clock break. You see, a kind person from Food Services informed us that free ice-cream would be served during that break. It was at 2PM that I was reminded of just how funny it is to watch an incredibly obese woman run. The act of running is a true marvel and when you see it on the muscular and skeletal level…it is truly amazing how the parts of the body work together to propel us forward. This isn’t the case with fat people. Instead of a well-oiled machine, it is more like a rusted down and over-stressed machine ghetto-rigged by your grandfather who “can fix anything ya bring me”. The body tries so hard to stop the running, as it knows it can’t take this shit for too long. Flab flops around, new folds and flaps are created and exposed to the eye, and ankle fat oozes over the shoe and comes dangerously close to touching the ground. You want to get a fat woman in shape, just tell her there is free ice-cream a mile down the road.

I can’t complain about much else. I figure I’ll enjoy the job, it pays well, and thankfully I’m not working with that fat tub of shit.

Maybe Sacred Heart is hiring