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With Great Regret I Must Admit I Was Mercilessly Roasted

I walked into a store I frequent today, after I’d already been yelled at on the street by a woman collecting signatures for “Save the Children” that my pants were too tight, and opted to order a salad rather than the usual sub. I had to lose a few pounds in my legs, after all. It was 11 AM, not exactly the lunch rush, so it was just me and the two female employees in there and while we’ve never exchanged names, I would call them my friends. I’m in often enough that we exchange little quips and smiles almost daily, so I’m closer with them than I am with most people in my life.

While she was cheffing up the salad she gave me a look, the kind where I assumed she wanted to fuck. Overweight black women love me. I don’t know why, but they do. I’m regularly sexually harassed by women who walk with a waddle and have a lot of melanin. Delicious is how they like to describe me.

Anyway, while we were standing there I caught the look and thought “Oh boy, here it comes. She’s gonna tell me she wants to take me in the back and spank me,” so I cocked one hip to the side and gave half a smirk, in order to turn her on more. I’m not afraid to admit that when you’re rarely objectified it feels good so I lean into it. She returned serve with the sly smile and said, “Every time you come in here I think you’re that actor.” My half smile turned into a full, toothy grin, the kind I usually reserve for red carpets. “Awwww come on, who?” I asked, really feeling myself and thinking that she, of course, would tell me that I was Brad Pitt or Channing Tatum or Taylor Kitsch or any other god of sex the world worships.

“YES!” the other female employee yelled from across the room and came wobbling over, “I always think that too! I can never remember his name though!” They put their minds together, stared wantonly at me, and loudly wondered who it was. Finally, the name came to mind. “The one from Cool Runnings!”


My smile quickly disappeared.

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I mean, what the fuck? Nothing against John Candy, the man is a legend, but he’s not exactly the fella I’m trying to resemble. You know, since he died of being fat and all. I don’t look anything like him! I look so little like him that it’s racist to say I do and it’s the first time in my life I’ve been a victim of that, so it’s a real double whammy.

The worst part of it all was that they weren’t even shy about telling me I look like him. It wasn’t something they debated in their head like “should we say this, it’s a little mean.” It just flew out of her mouth, and was immediately greeted with confirmation by her coworker, as if it was nothing, like they assumed it was something I must hear hourly.

Salad was good though.