Dear Fat Woman On The Bus,
I understand that it must have been very disturbing when that perfectly pleasant young man had to engage in physical contact with you this morning. I appreciate that, for a microsecond, your world must have turned upside-down, simply because his thick coat pushed against your very tight coat, possibly creating a little friction. I sympathise with your plight that, for the duration it takes a cheetah to sneeze, your capacious sense of personal space was downgraded from penthouse to bedsit.
But did it occur to you, before you screamed blue bloody murder at the gentleman in question, that he needn’t have "pushed past you" at all had you not been so fucking fat?
No? Well, maybe it will next time.
PS: You fat bitch.
PPS: You know how you were telling your equally fat friend that your grand-daughter’s always ruining low on her mobile credit, so you always have to call her back? That’s because she spends all her money on condoms, crack and poison to put in your tea. Because she fucking hates you too.
0845 345 1500, luv…
Munky
