This is actually a thread that belongs in the Health and Physical Fitness forum here on conservativecave, but as one might reasonably guess, the Las Vegas Leviathan, the Systematic Chaos primitive, doesn’t check out that forum here, lurking only here in the DUmpster.
The Las Vegas Leviathan recently whined that his bad feet keep him from looking for work, hence his sitting pat in a recliner in the first-class parlor car of the disability gravy train, his every need and whim being catered to by the taxpayers.
I forget the size of the Las Vegas Leviathan’s shoes, but ostensibly each of his feet occupy the same square footage as a commode seat-and-lid. Probably he was born with normal-sized feet, but over time his incredible bulk squashed them down, spread them out.
Yesterday (Tuesday) evening about supper-time, I was in town delivering some accounting work when I decided to pay a short visit to the guy who shovels grain at the local elevator five and a half days a week. He lives just two houses away from where I was at the time.
This guy is 56 years old, wears bottle-bottomed eyeglasses, is 5’9†tall, and weighs 420 pounds.
His wife of 35 years is only half his weight, but that’s not to say she’s a small woman. She’s a hair-dresser, and a very popular one, usually booked up a month or more with appointments. Through frugal living and careful savings, they’ve accumulated quite a bankroll they hope to pass on to their children, and are looking around for ways to keep it out of the hands of the Democrat, liberal, and primitive kleptomaniacs.
This was about 5:45 p.m. that I was there; he’d just gotten off work fifteen minutes before, and was relaxing on a reclining chair in the living room, his feet up on an ottoman, and bare. His wife was in the kitchen making supper, which from odors wafting living-roomward, indicated something with a lot of grease.
I’ve spoken with this local expert on fatness before, about the Las Vegas Leviathan, seeking insight into the problems the Las Vegas Leviathan encounters because of his massive bulk. Having never been massive myself, there’s a lot of things about obesity that are a mystery to me.
True, all the older brothers and sisters had ended their days--alas long before their allotted threescore and ten--bloated and watery. It seemed to run in the family that as the more affluent one got, and the easier life got for one, the more the poundage piled on.
That franksolich lives an austere and tumultuous life is of course involuntary, but not wholly involuntary.
Beginning with the social niceties, I inquired how he found himself, how was his health.
He mentioned he was considering cutting his hours at work down if winter got rough. He works from 7:30 a.m. until 5:30 p.m. five days a week, and from 8:00 a.m. until noon on Saturdays. He shovels grain manually, using a grain-scoop, without the assistance of any mechanized objects to make the job easier; he does it exactly the same way the Egyptians were doing it circa 3,000 years ago. He’s been doing it since he was a hefty lad of 16 years and 200 pounds when in high school…..forty years ago.
He’s giving thought to cutting out work on Saturdays entirely, but apparently all depends upon whether or not his wife shuts her beauty salon early on Saturdays too.
Seeing an opening, I inquired perhaps his feet were getting sore?
No, that wasn’t it, he replied; he was just getting old.
So then I dove in, describing the predicament of the Las Vegas Leviathan and his sore feet.
“Oh,†he said, “your guy the Vegas fatty. He’s not on his feet yet, pounding the pavements looking for a job? Still having the wife bring home the bacon while he sits at home all day playing games on the computer and hanging around on the internet?â€
I confirmed it.
“Well, the longer he stays off his feet, the worse it’s going to get,†I was told.
“The more one uses his feet, the stronger and better they are,†he added. “Look at mine,†he said, wiggling his toes. “I see the diabetic doctor in the big city every two months. Diabetes isn’t good for the feet, but he says I have pretty good feet for my age and condition.â€
I wondered, though. franksolich is no podiatrist or other medical professional, and sure, his feet looked okay. A little bit red, but he’d just gotten off work after all. There didn’t appear to be any deformities or callouses or corns. His feet are pretty big, but everything’s in proper proportion to everything else.
What bothered me however were the thick ankles. “I hope that’s fat and not water,†I said.
“Well, no doctor’s ever told me I have dropsy,†he assured me, which comforted me greatly.
“You know,†he said, “thinking about your guy the Vegas fatty, that one job you thought’d be ideal for him, so as to both lose weight and heal the feet, probably is.
“For his feet to heal, he’s got to use them. It’d hurt at first, but over time, the more he walks, the better his feet’ll get.
“That job where he’d walk up and down the Strip in Las Vegas, a piece of plywood on his front, and another piece on his back, advertising something, would be great, especially if he could walk up and down the Strip twenty or so times before lunch.
“It wouldn’t be as good for his feet as shoveling grain, but I don’t imagine there’s any grain to shovel out there."
