I was walking down the high-street the other day and before me was a big-bottomed woman.
I know she had a big bottom because most of it was on display.
Now I'm not sneering contemptously at this woman for having a fat arse. I'm of the libertarian belief that one's arse is one's own, and one can let it be as fat as one desires.
No, I'm sneering contemptously at her for having jeans that hung almost a third of the way down the derriere in question. Two great big spotty cheeks jiggling menacingly at me, like two acne-ridden Zeppelins engaging in frottage behind a low wall made of denim. Beneath a silvery tramp-stamp.
She was pushing a pushchair too, and the kid was crying and wailing, and she seemed to think (incorrectly) that the best way to comfort her child was to take the cigarette out of her mouth and scold the child for being 'stupid.'
It's fair to assume she's a single-mother on benefits; after all, it was noon on a weekday and she was strolling around the shops, and no father was in sight. The kid was about two and, although it was hard to tell, I don't think she was beyond her teens.
My initial disgust grew greater when I realised that the taxes that are taken from the salary I earn at the shitty job I was briefly taking a break from at the time no doubt supported this fucking wretch.