Well, actually... okay. I admit it. I fibbed. I am the Zorro of fat. If I catch wind of someone eating a carrot, I will go to their house and stuff that two pounds of candy they just bought down their throats. I cannot rest until every American weighs at least 618 pounds. Also our sign is secretly a giant magnet that drags cars right off the road and into the parking lot. It's really something to see during rush hour. We lure people within range of the magnet by selling candy that is eighty-five percent pure heroin, too. And if people come into our store and don't spend at least fifty dollars, I shoot them with my laser eyebeams so that their faces melt right off like at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark. It's a wonder the health inspectors and the sheriff's office haven't teamed up to take us out yet.
In response to Dave Sim saying: "You're 32. At 32 it seems like your forties and fifties are decades in the future."
roostringcounters: NO SHIT. I wonder why it seems like that, Mr. Sim, sir? It couldn't be because one's thirties are, indeed, a decade from ones forties, and two decades from one's fifties, could it? It is indeed fortunate that I overtaxed my delicate female brain learning math.