Worst Things Ever: The 5 Most Egregious Cases Of Intolerance in Comic Books

Superheroes can't always be awesome. While Batman is padding his fists to punch clay monster faces, Peter Parker is still a pizza-delivering virgin. And while Thor is soaking up a Midgard female's genitals with his roaring Nordic penis, Aquaman is still Aquaman.

The Golden and Silver Ages of comic books, which together span from the 1930s all the way to the 70s, gave us some of the world's most treasured cultural icons. Or, if you like, a lineup of mentally unstable ubermensch and hysterical lingerie models using tissue thin premises to spin kick escaped lunatics.

So I've been increasingly wondering what, if anything, comic books have actually ever done for us. For example, no-one I know who claims to like comics books is anywhere near old enough to have lived through those supposed Golden and Silver Ages and barring, what? The first two Burton and Nolan's Batmen, Spiderman 2, Superman 2, the first two Arkham games and arguably a few of the cartoon series, even the comic book garbage of recent memory far outweighs the good.

And taken violently out of context, much as I'm about to do here, these great eras of nerd culture add nothing to the zeitgeist but a pathological distaste of ethnic minorities, women and fat people.

Fatties

Being 'fat' today is much like the medical state of 'alive' except more fun because pizza bagels. To comic writers however, being fat is more like zombieism - a total, all-consuming definition of self and unkillability as a bonus. Let me show you what I mean.

This incredibly unlikely heroine is Miss Etta Candy. Obviously. And in some writer's head she was a quirky companion to the pantless Wonder Woman. To everyone else, her existence was a never-ending chance for the Amazonian superheroine to be a massive, judgemental bitch.

And, surprise! It totally was. 

But if you didn't know any better, you'd think Etta Candy was an advertisement for making your flesh taste like fudge to indulge the space crocodiles that will one day inevitably invade and devour us all. During her long, long tenure as Wonder Woman's official sidekick, she talked about nothing but the fabulousness of sweets and their application in deadly confrontation.

Eat candy: learn krav maga.

Now, I might not know much about the gentlemanly art of hand to hand combat first hand because I absolutely don't. What I do know about is stupid nerd fantasies. So when things like the UFC started and MMA got popular, I was with most people in wishing that some secluded Shaolin monastery would hear about this new fighting tournament and send its best to levitate into the ring and fireball a kickboxer to death. But the sad fact is, most people's experience of fights are drunken slappings outside nightclubs with the all the elegance of a bonobo handjob but less enthusiasm. Which is why it is so especially annoying that all fat people in comic books fight like pretty much everyone does in real life.

Every fat attack in a comic is a desperate launch crotchward. Every submission just sitting on a wriggling villain's chest until he gives up or the authorities arrive. And for a medium dedicated to angsty teenage wish fulfilment, this is a bizarrely realistic stance to take. I mean, it's not malnourished street hoodlums that Etta Candy's smothering with her muffin top, but mostly Nazis and mythological monsters. And any student of history would know that Obese Tantrum Fu and being 90% caramel by volume wasn't how Western civilisation beat either of those things.

Little Boys

It's always important to remember when discussing these more archaic comic books that 'Gay' wouldn't be invented until the late 60s, at least. So a lot of the seemingly grotesque chemistry in these old strips can mostly be attributed to the authors trying to crowbar in role models of a similar age for the main demographic to identify with.

Alright hold up, got to stop you there. Relatable characters is one thing, but pressing your trouserless crotch against a defenceless child in tights is veering more into predatory than paternal territory. Damn. Why is it that the more I think about comic books, the more I'm reminded of organised religion?

Women

Do you dream of writing comic books? Here's a quick tip. When designing your obviously white, male lead, begin by sketching a figure that both mocks the paltry efforts of anabolic steroids and human physiology simultaneously and then squeeze the bulgey result into latex. Sure, that costume is going to reek of salty ape whey and shark hormones, but it'll do the basic job of giving tiny, wheezing introverts something physically impossible to aspire to; and that desperate aspiration means one thing, my friend: nerd money. The cheapest kind of money there is.

Now, I'm not fluent in fake Viking/Renaissance faire wench, but I think this translates as 'Give me your allowance, bullied human child'.

Women on the other hand, are less realistically represented. Since the 80s, they tend to look like four oily grapefruits glued to a lamppost.

We're back to the age-old excuse of wish fulfilment here, which I do get. I understand that this is a primarily young, male demo. I understand wanting to capitalise on the sexual neuroses of that demo. And I understand the implied Brazilians literally all of these women must have, because the reality of pubic hairs weaselling out of their spandex onesies would probably be gross and hard to draw.

But it is not enough to say that women in comic books are portrayed as powerful or in control because they just aren't. It's the female members of the X-Men and Justice League and Super Friends that have the most spectacular emotional break downs and impulse control failures. And I'm including the Incredible Hulk here. Whose superpower is entirely and only that.

That's the legendary mistress of lightning, Storm! Freaking out because she suddenly remembered she's meant to be claustrophobic while battling in an underground chamber that would embarrass most cathedrals for floor space. That doesn't make any flavour of sense. You wouldn't have the chance to have a panic attack there if you genuinely were claustrophobic because you'd have killed yourself and everyone on board when you were squeezed into the cockpit of the Blackbird on the way there.

Asians

Wonder Woman in particular couldn't even approach the concept of not slapping a Jap. I'm not sure it was really her fault. She just couldn't help herself.

And let's not forget that Marvel designed the physical embodiment of everything USA! And they certainly don't have any historical reason to dislike the Japanese.

Pearl Harbour wasn't enough, motherfucker?!

If you're thinking that any of the other Asian races are more tactfully represented, you'd be as predictable as you were transitional, imaginary idiot.

If anything, the depiction of the Chinese is even worse. Eyes get stretched up, teeth get bucked and Rs get dropped with palpable enthusiasm.

Wait, yellow skin gloves? You mean you can masquerade as Asian just by wearing marigolds? If you really were that stupid and racist you'd attack your wife with a bread knife every time you caught her washing up. And what does it say about Batman that he'd be fooled by this mind-blowingly racist 'trick'? Surely this: The last thing Alfred ever heard was "What have you done with my butler, strange Chinaman cleaning my toilet?!"

Blacks

Marvel couldn't trust a black guy with superpowers so an early result of their attempts at capitalising on black youth readers was a man named Luke Cake. Luke was a complicated guy. For one thing, he couldn't magically move things with his mind or own a freeze ray.

Instead, he was perpetually angry but given insanely puritanical censoring laws (which gave rise to absurd bans on words like 'flick' in case the ink on the 'l' and 'i' ran together and it looked like Spiderman was screaming "look out, he's got a fuck knife!") wasn't allowed to swear. So in the end he simply had to spew streams of fabulous nonsense and punctuate his displeasure by putting a heavyweight fist through something inanimate.

Arguably, this demonstrates more stupidity than intolerance on the part of the writers. And if you like, you could explain away everything up to this point with a slovenly lack of cultural research and surrender to clumsy contemporary stereotypes. Up to this point. 

I present, Mr Whitewash Jones:

Jesus. Fucking. Christ. 

That is not ok. Not by any possible metric. There is just no possible excuse you could give for it. Just looking at it and not immediately trying to kill whatever drew it makes you culpable.

FUCK. 

We live in a more sensitive world now. But it's all relative. People whine about political correctness gone mad, so let's hope that when drawing something like this grotesque mockery of the human form today, you're hands would at least know you were wrong for it.

Worst Things Ever: The 5 Most Hated Things In Britain

If the British excel at anything, its thinly veiled references to fucking but in our defence, we had to focus our powerful, yet sensual, national energy into something other than marching into someone else's country and taking all their tea or cardamon. Especially since that kind of thing became a bit outmode. But since we can't realistically spend all our time enjoying Kenneth Williams or George Formby come up with cute synonyms for banging we fill the rest of our time whinging. Also rugby, I suppose.

As a nation, we've narrowed the art of complaining down to a sleek, delicate little dance -- the rustle of a newspaper, the derisive snort rippling across the milky surface of a cup of Yorkshire tea, the tedious stereotyping -- all I'm saying is there's a reason so many people declared war on us throughout history.

Despite our inherent negativity though, we remain a generally courteous people. Not given to especially public acts of intolerance or criticism, unless you're in a pub and badmouth the local football team in which case, fuck that. But otherwise, we mask the ubiquitous undercurrent of hatred with that stutterey, oafish charm absolutely no-one that's ever been at war with us falls for, with one exception of course.

L-l-l-ladies.

Stoicism is one of the great, surviving philosophical creeds of modern Britain, which is why the typical things other nations and indeed our own yokels with no capacity for self-reflection think we despise just don't hold true. Take queue-jumping, for example. Our most tedious standup comics discuss it all the time as some kind of anathema to British morality. And while we're certainly never happier inwardly fuming at some tosser cutting in line at Starbucks with absolutely no sense of irony, no-one ever does anything about it. It's a tic. A pet hate. Whereas the following heinous crimes against our great United Kingdom generate genuine hostility.

Jimmy Savile

"Now then, now then. Eviiiiiillllll."

Before Jimmy Savile was outed as the unholy union between Hitler's left and only bollock and Sauron's ring finger in a test tube to the music of Gary Glitter, he was one of the nation's most beloved and quoted entertainers. Needless to say, the second he was in the ground the allegations began. And it was a tragically textbook case of ethical advertising. Politicians and personalities fell over themselves in desperate attempts to condemn his actions firstest and hardest:

"Paedophilia is the worst crime in the world!" The entire world commented.
"And I'd also like to go on record as saying malaria and Hitler and a colossal meteor made of butt cancer smashing into NW London would all be bad things! We say no! The shockwaves created by the impact of a meteor made of butt cancer is not I repeat not, an acceptable way for good British people to go!"

Not to undersell the obvious horrors of child molestation, but morality isn't some kind of sliding scale with Nelson Mandela at one end and Jimmy Savile at the other. It was just the blind eagerness of everyone unconnected to him shamelessly milking it that was upsetting. But not nearly as upsetting as the fact that these same allegations had been going for decades and just mothballed.

Speaking as a cynic (the only way I do anything, apparently), the worst thing about the media's furious and universal demonisation of this terrible sex criminal is that none of our comics are allowed to imitate him anymore. Es-fucking-specially on a show aired by the BBC. That's like a ban on American comedians making gay jokes about Phil Collins because it was discovered he was into unisex grave-robbing. Or jokes about Republicans eating babies because their poll predictions are actually based on kindergarten necromancy.You're pulling maybe half of an entire nation's comic material.

The French, The Germans

"Oui. Je suis le Francaise typique. Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir? You detestable, tea-drinking, food-ruining, boilerplate sheep-fucker? Oh, désolé, I mean, madame?" [I will never forgive you for Agincourt].

Britons have been in more wars than Fox News but with a success rate that I'm not embarrassed as an actual historian to find makes me a little tumescent. Granted, my field was Imperial Rome and its transition to the Western centre of Catholicism but to anyone still awake reading this a tightness in the trouser is a natural result of national pride. I'm not going to lie. I love the fact that Britannia really did use to rule the waves. Mostly. If weren't for those pesky French and Dutch and Portuguese and so on.

But herein lies a strange paradox. We, at least politically, denounce imperialism and warmongering! All up in imperialists' faces! Take that despots of the world! Forgetting, please, how much of that shit we were up to pre-conclusion of WWII. But we don't stand for any of that nonsense these days. No sir! Right up until the moment someone mentions old Bones-Apart Napoleon and we grin knowingly to ourselves, thinking: "Damn right, France. Try that kind of shit again. Please. It would make our day. We're only too happy to get the dusty old cane out of the cupboard and give you a damn good thrashing all over again." In the international community, we're Clint Eastwood and you're the bank robbing punk.

We glorify our military victories over France and Germany so much you'd think it was some kind of centuries-old competition and it would be, if we could get those fuckers over the Channel to care about it. And that's the ultimate reason we hate those guys: we beat them. In our heads, they're foaming over it. Livid, that a tiny island mostly comprised of swamp and inbreeding with the cultural elegance of cattle rape and a cuisine of same could best the homeland of Charlemagne and the Holy Roman Empire and glorious Prussian kingdoms. But they don't. They could give a toss. And that irks us like you would not believe.

Sure, we justify our dislike of our most immediate continental neighbours with more superficial reasons - like our general image of the French as lazy, alcoholic cowards riddled with hideous, flesh-eating STIs but I think we'd forgive them all that if they declared war on us again or we could just beat them at football.

Morris Dancing

I'll admit that I came into this draft knowing absolutely that I'd be plonking Morris dancing down here somewhere and yet equally certain I know absolutely nothing about it.

I still don't know anything about it, except that, trust me, we can't stand it.

Piers Morgan

And fuck this guy, apparently.

The Daily Mail

In the spirit of honesty, I actually do read The Daily Mail, a newspaper written for intolerant nutbars destined to one day patrol the docks at Folkestone with a sniper rifle. And that single admittance just instantly lowered my sexual capital with any British woman more liberal than fucking Galactos with an audible clunk. But I read it because its hilarious. However, if I were an actual advocate of The Daily Mail, this article would be entirely different.

With entries like lowering house prices, benefit fraud, brown people, terrifying livestock diseases carried by brown people and all the ways those disease-ridden brown people are going to sneak into the country disguised as blue-collar furniture, the whole article would have sounded like a paranoid right-wing shut-in screaming for help from his bomb-proof basement because he spilt his canned chilli. Or at least, more so.

You may not think multicultural tolerance is something a decent person would have to learn and you may also have heard that Inuits have more than twenty words for 'snow' and while that isn't strictly true, it is that the Daily Mail have more than seventy words for 'immigrant' and you pronounce every one of them with a blood-curdling scream.

An Ode To Being Fat

You could fit an entire goddamn gateaux down these. And don't think I haven't tried it.  

Everyone has their own preferred charity or cause they like to support and mine is being 25% beer and batter by volume. And that isn't even the first reason birds attack me on sight. Clearly, this is a subject very close to my cholesterol-choked heart so when I'm not busy planning a suicide Jackie Chan would be proud of, neglecting my family and friends and being generally awful, I like to make my weekly exercise quota waving goodbye to the Domino's delivery guy. But hey, if you want my life to hold some greater meaning or purpose so bad, feel free to have me rendered down into glue.

If you don't, or just want some absolution for the KFC or whatever you're stuffing down your cake socket at this moment in time, then good news: I'd like to take a moment away from whinging about how most of the luxurious trappings of modern life are flailing shit and reflect, however briefly, on the silver lining to be found in being something that 19th Century sailors could be tricked into fucking. 

My therapist, should he or she ever materialise, would probably vindicate thinking positive at least. As would anyone else lucky enough not to have suffered some recent and severe head trauma that smashed out all their common sense. 

This belated episode of I'm So Sorry is brought to you by Gloucestershire's Primary Mental Health Service! At time of writing, only left eight fucking months with nothing but the cold, numbing mercy of gin for support! And nothing has ever made me hate superscript more!

All the maybe five regular readers here will know that among other things, self-deprecation, cynicism and fat jokes aren't at much of a premium here. They'll also be aware that the title up there is a tad misleading. I know as much about odes as I do electrolytes and it may have been on my English syllabus a decade ago, but I still think iambic pentameter is Latin for Five Guys Burger & Fries. So there won't be a whole lot of poetic elegance in the following reasons being overweight kind of rocks. Albeit slowly and with a good deal of wheezing. 

[Special Note: If like me, you've already just accepted the myriad and sweaty joys of being portly and just want to enjoy the simpler things in life like bacon, cheese and auto-tune, you can just skip this whole thing and watch the following. Vaguely Interesting, Non-Vegan Note: No matter how much you think you like anything, you will never love anything even half as much as this guy loves fast food.]

1. Fuckitism.

Using the gift of 'absence of head smash', I'm able to hazard a guess that if you care deeply about your weight: every decision you make hurts. Every slip from your horrible, masochistic regime is all the more crushing because you know exactly how many calories that delicious ham and Emmental croissant set you back from your tragic daily cou-MHNHNHMNHM.

I'm not saying that these people necessarily deserve the Seppuku-ish agony they put themselves through every time they inevitably fail to meet the impossible standards they set themselves, I'm just saying it's Schadenfreude. And also funny. Because to a normal person, having the odd moment of weakne-Oh Christ. OK look, I'm well aware that the 'normal person' identifier barely means anything at the best of times, let alone this context, so in the name of simplicity, let's set some ground rules before we go any further. 

Nobody's denying that there're people out there who unironically go to spin classes and make packed lunches out of 'Superfoods' and count calories and measure their entire worth as humans by their body fat index so let's just call these people 'twats' and be done with it, OK?

I'm also not saying that dedicating yourself to building the body of a Grecian god is a bad thing, it's just that mythic figures like Hercules managed to do so without the dumptruck full of whey and self-importance. Plus they had personalities. Ah, but I guess I shouldn't be shitty. Artists like Michelangelo proved these meatheads burn half their daily calories alone just fretting about their tiny cocks. 

[LEFT] "This finger smells like your girlfriend, fatboy."
This could be you!
Enrol at your local gymnasium today!
We promise not to laugh at it!

This idiocy, thankfully, isn't the norm. What is the norm, is a more difficult question. So let's just attribute normalcy to anyone who on occasion aspires to being a straight-lace twat and on most others is like you (maybe?) and me; having sensibly realised that food stops becoming food the second you start over-analysing its chemical content and just accepts that much of what makes life worth living in this first world where our every basic, life-perpetuating need is met, is not going to bestow one with everlasting health. Curiously outdated notion that that is notwithstanding.

Personally, I thought the great benefit of humanity's sentience was that, yes, we're all aware of our immediate mortality but we developed things like Star Wars and Nutella waffles and poetry or whatever so that we didn't have to spend every minute of the day weeping about it. So basically what I'm saying is that anyone who takes any interest in their own health is evolutionarily backward. 

Which leads me, in an oddly roundabout way given our subject matter, to my point. If you have even the slightest bit of self-awareness, you should have realised that the odd peanut butter and fudge ice cream doughnut tower garnished with Baconators isn't going to kill you at this point, but a million fucking other things out there are only too happy to. So why the Hell wouldn't you get your fill before one of them succeeds?

I mean, I could be behind you right now with a bucketful of venomous scorpions. So, would you rather that or Dauphinoise potatoes with extra Riserva and Grana Padana? Because I have those too. Unfortunately, if you work in recruitment, they're all in the same tupperware. And while you were Googling those cheese names, the whole delicious and poisonous mess is in your bed and your screams only make it funnier.

2. The Boring Sociological Kind Of Stuff Underachievers Study When They Can't Make The Grades For Real Degrees But They're Always Annoyingly Good-Looking & Likeable So You Just Fucking Know They'll Do Fine. The Shits.

"Hi! We're plus size models!
So in other words, some twisted specialism for deviants who like their humans to look like normal humans normally do." 

Time was, looking like ancient mummy wrappings stretched over a rake was the be all and end all. Of modelling and therefore acting; reacting, advertising, archaeology, pathology, mixology - you name it. Of course, it still is but thankfully someone with enough cultural stopping power and basic human dignity recognised that women could still be sexy even if they couldn't fall down a drain without hitting the sides. Naturally, regular, non-awful men were done masturbating to the emerging photos of these radical new 'plus size models' long before liberal journalists were hacking out articles about how progressive they were. 

So why don't we call that one a draw.

3. Fate.

Deal with it. 

If you're one of those insufferable types who believe anyone can be fit with a few small lifestyle changes and can-do spirit then you clearly don't know anything about genetics or psychology or physiology or even those mystifying shapes those weaklings you see at the gym struggling to care about jazzercise call 'words' but in the spirit of inclusivity, I'd like to call your attention, you people, to a paragraph up there where I proactively called you a twat and as a bonus, congratulate you on making it this far down a page not dedicated to protein shake recipes.

Everyone is different and not just in the drum-circling hippie sense. We all know that one lucky bastard who appears to be able to eat whatever they want and do nothing but smoke sticky and watch 60s Batman reruns yet not be sufficiently chocolate-based to have the melting point of human mouth. That isn't some kind of trick. Some people can just do that. Which by the same token, means some people are not going to go from flotation to fucking aid in a matter of months, dingbat.

Forgetting, for the moment, any kind of persecution you may have suffered within your family unit for soaking up extra gravy with your lovehandles as a child, being overweight has still got this weirdly medieval stigma attached to it in mass media as well as the obvious health and fitness circle jerks. You'd have to be pretty goddamned deranged to think 'enjoying pasta and cheese a little too much' should morally rank down there with bonking a whore to death with a condom made of glaives but I'm not here to make fun of Catholics. There are just, ha, just literally so many ways to go about that I don't have the time.

Just in case you didn't get that. 

Ultimately though, in some ways, if you were overweight as a child and young adult, things may have picked up for you in later life. For example, while the naturally hale, healthy and handsome kids were out socially and sexually experimenting and apparently learning that no possible achievement in life is greater than clumsily fucking a higher number (in either sense) than your friends; us mentally healthy types were out (and I use the both the terms 'out' and 'healthy' quite wrongly) cultivating rich inner gardens.

Exciting mental landscapes full of fledgling hopes for the future and awareness of our feelings, motivations, strengths, weaknesses and strange, schizophrenic fan fiction ideas like if Optimus Prime had shown up during the Renaissance and declared that if he were to fail to woo the Doge's daughter before Carnivale then Megatron would declare war on the Orc-pal States and Pope Palpatine IX would have no choice but retaliate with the Vatican Star doom fortress and ad-libbing this kind of paint-by-numbers 'random' nerd shit makes my head hurt.

But that's the point. Not that it makes my head hurt. Freakin' everything does that ever since I went off my meds weeks ago. No, human potential is in the mind. No-one's done anything impressive with their loins since that first, scared and presumably sticky lad sweet-talked a jar of peanut butter into anal. And there'll always be some species of flea that can triple jump higher relative to its size or tiger that's better at mauling or being adorable.

Doesn't matter how many miles you can go on a rowing machine, I will pick Mr Whiskers here over you everyday and twice on Sunday. 'Cause that's when the two of us go round the houses of people who bullied me at school and I laugh as he poops out their household pets and children onto their front lawns. 

We've risen to the top of the global food chain not because a select few of our species can bench press three Oprah Winfreys or even bring three ninjas to orgasm with the backend of a kunai, but because we can write operas and odes and stirring porno narratives. Also assault rifles.

Someone came up with the idea of being able to shoot anyone who looks at us funny with a thousand missiles from space, with iPhones. You think that guy managed that by working on his core strength whatever that means - (spoiler) nothing? No, doing anything even remotely impressive with your fleshy, mortal body these days is best left to Olympians, future Guinness world record holders for number of bees on any one face at one time, and porn stars.

The human form has limits and we reached the extents of most of those in the last century. Which makes the absolute mental and physical torture of denying ourselves the few corporeal pleasures left in the culturally stagnant and cynical corporate dystopia we live in all the more pointless. I would have said fruitless there, but I don't want to disparage the many wonders of fruit by associating it with the last sentence, plus, it may have sent the wrong message. God. Who knew being so privileged could be so simultaneously boring and depressing? Apart from, you know, every even remotely successful society throughout human history.

4. Superiority. 

And The Will To Dominate All Life. Provided It Has Lasagna & Moules E Frites & Tacos & Those Fun, Multicoloured Pickles You Get With Most Japanese Meals. Ooh, And Amaretti Morbidi. Love Those.

Kneel! Kneel you mewling quims. Don't make me retcon you out of this whole mess with my magic space stick. Because I will. See if I don't. 

If you're anything like me: handsome, talented, completely dissociative and longing for a death that might at least merit the odd retweet from the Darwin Awards, then I am just, so, so sorry but more relevantly you may have gone your whole life shrugging off shitty comments about your weight.

This may seem strange since I obviously have so much wisdom to offer from a life totally not typified by catastrophic mistakes, alcohol, bagel and Bioware abuse but I only realised this point a few days ago. Namely, that the single fraction of a second it takes some mouth-breathing, lowest common denomination, inbred marsupial-fucker to choke out the word 'chubby', or make suggestive motions towards the latest set of office reports as if that in some way insinuates you'd eaten the last is more than enough to prove that you, the arbitrarily 'inferior' party are in fact infinitely superior to this malignant rectal wart in absolutely every meaningful way. 

And this is not flouncey revenge fantasy. All you normals have to do is redirect a little energy away from lifting a heavy object and putting it down again to your malnourished brains to see that making a pejorative comment about someone else's weight in this day and age (provided you're not fucking twelve of course) instantly marks you as, for one thing, utterly lacking in imagination. And also duller things like emotional maturity, empathy, intellect, I could go on. So I will. Wit, independent thought, decency, pride, good looks, testicles and/or clitoricicles un-riddled by STDs and insects and so forth.

Remember how an entire US State voted this guy Governor on the basis that he could 'lift heavy things up and put em' down real good'? Not that I wouldn't. Three words: Real Total Recall. Also Running Man. And Commando. And Predator and True Lies and Last Action Hero oh my. Hell, I'd vote this guy Chancellor of the Exchequer if he dropkicked George Osborne in the tits first. 

I mean if it was me you were hissing porcine noises at, there're at least a dozen other things you could rightfully take the piss out of me for purely at face value. Like how I'm inanely giggling to myself in the street having come up with one of these strange 'jokes' your instincts say are at your expense in the preceding paragraphs. Or the strange and powerful erection I have right now for the print on my desk of Jack Lemmon mixing Manhattans in a hot water bottle and dressed as the hooker the rest of the trailer park evicted.

Making a fat joke in person is such a culturally low and intellectually unchallenging feat that if, after the last few days, you were to aim one at me, it would have the opposite intended effect. And, somewhat confusedly, I'm medicated for that not to happen [I think? They all look like Skittles at this point]. I would actually feel better about myself and you would become the butt of the real joke. That I came up with with my smooth, throbbing brain-on. Such as:

"Hey, Chubby".

"Oh hey, you. You know it is so heartwarming to know that you learned to read and write. I should let your mother's abortion doctor know that the worst mistake of his career is doing so well. Maybe he could pin your dried-out hippocampus opposite the broken condom and Kopparberg Mixed Fruits that led to your birth in the family scrapbook?" 

Totally monopolised by shitheads.
Not that they're not welcome to cough medicine that tastes like Type 2 diabetes. 

It was a long but I hope at least uniquely pointless road to get here, but if you hadn't guessed already: I suck at advice (not to mention not being full of Caesar-flavoured things). Even on something I know as inherently well as being overweight. Sad isn't it? I've gone my entire life knowing literally no alternative. But whatever, I'm going to have a concluding crack at this anyway. Maybe it could count towards my next community service in advance. 

'Being thin' can eat a bag of low calorie dicks.