Frank, are you sure he doesn't go out at all now?
The last outing the gigantic primitive mentioned was in March 2009, when he was near 500 pounds and wanted to celebrate his birthday by dining in a restaurant. It was one of his classic rants (it's here somewhere); the driver of the special "handi-van" had a lot of passengers, their own purposes for riding being of a medical nature (and hence they had priority over riders out for recreation).
The driver took the gigantic primitive and Jeanette all over Las Vegas, taking care of these other passengers, dropping them off at medical clinics and hospitals and physicians' offices, and so got the celebratory couple to the restaurant long past the time of their reservation.
The gigantic primitive said "screw this," and had the hapless bus-driver drive them back home, where they boiled up a pot of beans or something, for his birthday.
After which the usual standard bitchery about incompetent bus-drivers, physicians, nurses, his mother of blessed memory, and George Bush.
This was one of my first posts about the gigantic primitive; I pointed out he might possibly be headed for trouble, because of his attitude. When one gets lemons, make lemonade. The gigantic primitive and Jeanette didn't make it to the restaurant, but they did get an afternoon-long tour of Las Vegas, and Las Vegas could hardly be an uninteresting city.
As I added, once they knew they weren't going to make it to the restaurant on time, since they were on the bus anyway, they should've sat back, relaxed, and enjoyed seeing the city, as if on one of these tour buses going through Hollywood or Beverly Hills, showing off the sights. When one gets lemons, make lemonade.
Since that time, the gigantic primitive has not mentioned once going out, and it's reasonable. Morbidly obese people tend to be morbidly agoraphobic, staying inside behind closed doors while others they view as servants do their bidding (the shopping, the errands, the posterior-wiping).
Notice, please, the gigantic primitive never says "we went shopping;" only that "Jeanette went shopping."
(Nor has he mentioned any outings to see any "stupid" physicians; apparently there's a waiting period between when one boards the disability gravy-train and one gets the free medical care, and he's not over that period yet.)
I sense some sympathy for the gigantic primitive, and it's misplaced.
The gigantic primitive, who's blamed all of his problems on other people, who thinks he's cerebrally superior to nearly all the rest of the human race, and who's never shown an iota, a scintilla, of gratitude to all those who've tried helping him--the hard-pressed taxpayers, the physicians and nurses, his mother of blessed memory, bus drivers, George Bush, doesn't deserve any sympathy from even the most bleeding of hearts.