by Robert Duncan

Created on: June 26, 2009   Last Updated: September 10, 2009

The Jacket

So seldom do I buy a new suit that I was not even sure of my size, so I asked the salesman to measure me, which he did, and everything was fine up to that point. Then he walked me over to the section for Short Portly men. I know I've put on a few pounds over the years, but I told him quite plainly that this business about being Portly was a bunch of crap. He took out his tape, measured me again, and with quite a superior and snobby air he announced that I did indeed fit the definition of portly. The corners of his mouth betrayed a slight smile as he spoke, and I'm sure the bastard found it difficult to control his delight at giving me the news that I was in fact a short/portly man, even if I were too stupid to realize it myself.

Angry drops of perspiration beaded on my forehead, and the fire of indignation burned under my collar. I straightened my posture, balled up my fists, and looked directly into the eyes of this scum, who, upon seeing my agitation, cowered like a dog.

I grabbed him by the collar and pulled his face into mine and screamed, How about a portly fist in your damned portly mouth.

Launching a right hook to his gut, I bent him over, and with a hard left to his lying, stinking jaw, I knocked him backward. He fell grabbing at a rack of clothes trying to regain his balance, but succeeded only in pulling the rack down, entombing himself in a sarcophagus of portly suits. Standing over him, I dared him to rise from under the pile of clothes. As he stirred to consciousness I delivered the coup de grace shouting triumphantly, This is for all the decent portly men you've embarrassed with your superior snooty disposition, you portly pig's ass. Grabbing the back of his underwear I yanked it tightly into his crotch giving him an atomic wedgey.

Actually it didn't happen that way at all. When the salesman called me portly, I simply asked, Am I really portly? He looked at me with a sympathetic expression and nodded yes, and pointed toward the portly section. I looked in the mirror, and then back to the salesman. I hoped he would change his decision, but with a snicker of disdain and loathing, he turned away as if to say, All you portly bastards can go to Hell. Thus began my banishment from the regular and short sizes, to the portly. I didn't protest or object; I suppressed my rage, my humiliation, and said nothing. Tears of torment

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