He doesn't make a popular waiter.
Nobody wants a fat waiter on a hot day. True, you may make him
bring your order under covered dishes, but even so, there is still
that suggestion of rain on a tin roof that is distasteful to so
many.
So I repeat that fat people are always getting the worst of it,
and I say again, of all the ills that flesh is heir to, the worst
is the flesh itself. As the poet says--"The world, the flesh
and the devil"--and there you have it in a sentence--the flesh
in between, catching the devil on one side and the jeers of the
world on the other. I don't care what Dr. Woods Hutchinson or any
other thin man says! I contend that history is studded with
instances of prominent persons who lost out because they got fat.
Take Cleopatra now, the lady to whom Marc Antony said: "I am dying,
Egypt, dying," and then refrained from doing so for about nineteen
more stanzas. Cleo or Pat--she was known by both names, I hear--
did fairly well as a queen, as a coquette and as a promoter of
excursions on the river--until she fleshened up.
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