Congratulations Obese Knight!

All the other knights make fun of you all the time.  It’s your cross to bear as the fattest knight in the entire kingdom.  But the joke’s on them, because tomorrow they’re going to be routed by a collection of British longbowmen.  As the last surviving knight in the kingdom (you broke your horse’s back on the way to the battle, so you arrived after the fighting had died down) the defense of the entire realm now falls upon you.

Since your fat ass killed your poor horse you’re going to have to think of another way to get to and from fights and murder people, which is like 70% of what knights do.  Lucky for you there’s a circus in town!

You’ll arrive there holding a giant axe, shouting “DIVINE RIGHT!” as you murder carnie after carnie.  After almost ten whole minutes of civilian axing you’ll take a quick break, at which point a kindly gypsy woman with exposed ankles and a very demure veil will ask you why you’re there.  You’ll explain that you wanted to borrow their elephant so that you could ride it into combat and crush the British, forever ruining history and preserving the realm.  She’ll agree to help you so long as you stop murdering her family.  You’ll eventually talk her up to spending the night with you, as long as she stays on top for the entire time.

You’ll show up to the battlefield the next day on elephant-back, grimacing at the British as dourly as any Frenchman ever has.

“DIVINE RIGHT!” you’ll scream as you charge towards their ranks on elephantback.  The British, trained to fight horses, not elephants, will break rank, screaming as your elephant crushes them under his feet.  The battle will turn into a rout, and you’ll become the toast of Alsace for decades to come.

This will be the start something beautiful: a delightful partnership between you and “Tusky,” as you’ll come to call your elephant companion.  Your relationship with the gypsy woman will be over within a week, when she and her caravan leave to avoid further murder, but Tusky will stay, waking you each morning with a comical spray of water from his trunk, gingerly pulling the blanket up on your body when you die of diabetes in a year and a half’s time.  His will be the single truest friendship you’ll ever know.

Congratulations Obese Knight!

Congratulations Nacho Jones!

An American hero, that’s what you are.

You live your life to the fullest and don’t take no for an answer, unless the question being asked is “would you like to stop eating nachos ever” in which case the answer is a resounding “NO!”  possibly preceded by a fuck.  You’re an inspiring figure and an amazing person in general, physiological terms.

See, you’re also over four hundred pounds and still somewhat ambulatory.  This is super uncommon.  And, to boot, you can perform basic tasks, like eating nachos, that are normally impossible for people as absurdly obese as you.  Despite these “miracles of nature,” your doctor, and several other doctors you’ve gone to, have told you in no uncertain terms that if you continue to eat nothing but nachos and refuse to exercise you’re going to die very soon.

You’ve told them all to crawl up their flippin’ butts because you’re American and Americans can do whatever they want and never die, says so right there in the constitution and you should read it and in case you haven’t read it here it is somewhere out there on the internet free country ain’t my job to make sure you can read the constitution OBAMA 2016!

Anyhow, following that outburst you’re going to eat a plate of “muchos nachos” from Pizzeria Uno.  They won’t be the best, or the worst nachos you’ve ever eaten.  But they will be nachos, and therefore acceptable food.

About halfway through the plate you’ll start to breathe heavily.  Your arm will begin aching, a shooting pain will arc up your bicep and into your chest.  Your vision will begin to blur and the world will explode in agony as air fails to reach your blood and brain and your heart, ever the quitter, stops beating.

“GAH!” you’ll moan before pitching face-first into your plate of nachos.  You’ll endure minor abrasions from the chips, but the real killer will be the heart failure that caused you to pitch into the nachos.  Doctors will arrive on the scene and pronounce you dead within minutes, then quietly wait for ten strong men and a forklift to transport you out of the facility and carry you to the morgue, where your hideous corpse can be fitted for the grandest, most American coffin ever conceived.

During your funeral, scheduled less than a week from today to keep you from stinking too bad, you’ll be eulogized as Timothy “Nacho Jones”  Frankfort.  You’ll be remembered as having lived as we all wish we could: without abandon, without restraint, without a second thought.

FUCKIN’ AMERICA!

Congratulations Nacho Jones!