Slob Town

A Bath?

Okay; that wasn't the response you were expecting out of that question. "Well...I mean everyone thinks their dad is a loser. You think maybe you're being a little-"

"Aaron, he's 100% pure grade loser." Isabella interrupted. "I know, my Tias know, my Abuela knows. Only people who don't seem to think so are Mom and Pepa, and even they're getting worn out with his bullshit."

"So what exactly-"

"He's the school's gym teacher; literally the shittiest job on the planet. Like, what kind of asshole makes a career out of making people lose weight? It's like he doesn't even care how embarrassing it is to have my friends give me looks in the hallway because my dad's trying to make them skinny. He and mom never even let me have my own phone. Like, what kind of backward-ass retard-"

Isabella went on and on with her laundry list of gripes. She sounds a bit sadder talking about her dad, but it's hard to sympathize when she's whining about having to do basic exercise. You felt a lot more sympathy towards her farther than anything else. "You know like once when I was twelve. He said I should and take a guess here.....have a bath? WHO FUCKING TELLS THEIR OWN DAUGHTER TO DO THAT KIND OF SHIT??!!" Through Isabella's warped perspective, he sounded like a decent guy stuck in the worst situation imaginable. It's scary just how much you're resonated with him. Having to raise someone so spoiled and delusional for years, it's a surprise he hadn't killed himself by now.

"-and on top of all of that; on top of ALLLLL of that shit; every day, he has to have to shame everyone for just farting. Like, excuse you? Who the fuck do you think you are telling your daughter AND your wife to not to fart in their own house, you fucking Nazi. If your pathetic little ass can't handle the smell of a big woman, why the fuck did you marry one?"

For once, Isabella brought up a good point.

"I'm not even kidding about him being a Nazi either. He's literally a fucking control freak! He'll shut his fucking mouth whenever Mom's around, but the second she steps out of the room, everything turns into a total bitch fest. And he cries about the same shit every day: Isabella, please don't fart directly in my face. Stand up Isabella; you're crushing that poor lady. You can't keep eating people who piss you off, Isabella. You're too old to be breast-"

Isabella became silent as her face became flushed with red embarrassment. Yet another first for her.

"Uh, yeah...sooo that's the thing that pisses me the fuck off about skinny people." Isabella said, recovering her surly composure. "They're so fucking sad and bitter, they have to tear me down to make themselves feel better. Like, if they don't like getting sat on and eaten, why don't they just eat and get fatter?"

"Well..."

"Yeah, I guess it just makes too much fucking sense, huh?" Isabella interrupted sarcastically. "Why even try to improve yourself? Just keep complaining. Much easier to just keep bitching about people farting than just-"

Isabella silenced for a moment as her face scrunched up like a prune. You didn't need to wonder why. You heard the answer bellowing in her gut like a lion, wounded and drowning. There was nowhere to run to with your legs pinned underneath the table. All you could do was hold your breath as a deep grunt from Isabella announced a foul horn. From your seat on her knee, you felt the lion's wet roar bubble and ripple through Isabella's clapping asscheeks. The fart only lasted four seconds. Shorter than the others, but it smelled the worst. From the sounds of things, she must have soiled herself a little that time. Every customer in the proximity of your booth left their seats and either left the restaurant or moved to a seat further away someone else abandoned earlier. Without such a luxury, you're forced to endure the torment of Isabella's bowels as your sinus' scream for mercy.