You’re walking around like a busted can of biscuits in that see-through white shirt, your gut hanging out like you're smuggling a beach ball under there, you fat slob. Every time you take a step, that shirt clings tighter like it's begging for mercy. And here you are, double-fisting kebabs like it's your last meal before they roll you into the ER for a triple bypass. Fatso, the only thing rounder than your stomach is your future diabetes diagnosis. The kebab grease stains on your shirt are the only thing holding it together at this point. Save some meat for the rest of Syria, you greedy piggy.