Mediocre Fight of the Day: Fat Man vs Rickety Chair

The Mediocre Fight

Okay, before I post today’s Mediocre Fight I want to both apologize, and caution you not to click on the full size version of this picture.  This is clearly not a cute fight like you’ve seen the past few days.  The fat man that I made now haunts my nightmares, as his beady little eyes penetrate my soul, intensity fueled by bowl cuts.  I don’t know why I made him so ugly, as I drew him I knew what was happening but I just couldn’t seem to stop myself.  So, for your sake, please just enjoy the thumbnail and leave it at that.

On to the fight – it’s the heartbreaking scene that occurs every day that we can’t help but chuckle about at the same time, a Fat Man vs a Rickety Chair.  And this is one rickety effing chair.  In the end I don’t think there can actually be a winner in this fight, as more than likely both combatants will lay broken and defeated.

Fat Man vs Rickety Chair

Mediocre Fight of the Day: Feb 11 2011

As always, if you have a mediocre fight you’d like to see contact us any way your little heart desires.  Leave a comment here, tweet us @MediocreFight, find us on Facebook, shoot us an e-mail at The Mediocre Fight, or if you’re an old-timey Native American you can use smoke signals.

One Response to “Mediocre Fight of the Day: Fat Man vs Rickety Chair”

  • Jason Says:

    “This apartment really is a craphole,” thought the chair. Beside him stood a wooden table, covered in a patina of taco grease and sticky beer residue. One of its legs had grown loose and didn’t quite touch the floor all the time. When its owner set his frozen macaroni dinner upon it it wobbled to and fro precariously, like a three legged dog chasing after a car despondently. “I’m not much better off than that damn table. At least I have four functional legs.” Although, in actuality the chair had seen better days.

    There was a rustling at the door like jangling keys. It was indeed jangling keys. The apartment’s renter’s chubby fingers had trouble discriminating between the keys. His mother had put those colored rubber key condoms on them, but his adult onset diabetes had made him colorblind so the color-keyed keys provided no avail. He could only use one hand since in his other hand he held something heavy: a Crave Case of sliders from White Castle. The door opened slowly and the winded man stepped forward into his bachelor pad. “Mmmm. Sliders…. I hope I still have a couple Busch Lights in my fridge,” thought the man. His massive man-breast bounced as he walked. If he were a woman they might have exuded a sensuality, a voluptuousness. They were held up strong and proud atop his mighty gut. A breeze came in through the window and because the door was still open it created a cross current that flowed though the man’s licentious bowl cut. Party on top, fascist on the side.

    “This guy needs to loose some wait,” thought the omniscient narrator lecherously (although not so omniscient as to know the difference between lose and loose and weight and wait, and clearly didn’t know the definition of lecherously).

    The man set the crave case on the table. The bag stuck to the sticky table like a sticker. He began withdrawing his feast from the bag. One, two, eleven, twenty two, seven. He had never quite figured out how to count any higher. His banquet lie before him, he plopped himself down on the chair. It groaned with the weight of the man. “Ehhhhhheeeeeeeaaaaa,” said the chair. It buckled below him. The right front leg gave out unable to bear the weight of its occupant.

    Collapsing to the floor broken, the man tried to catch himself, but the table’s leg gave out as well, like a quarterback being sacked from behind. The sliders flew into the air. It would have been glorious in slow motion, but this was real life where slow motion doesn’t exist, so they just went up and came back down, accelerating at 9.8 meters per second per second because it’s real life, and that’s the rate that the law of gravity stipulates. Four of the cheesy sliders landed atop the man. The other twenty six fell on the ground adding insult to injury.

    “Ehhhhhheeeeeeeaaaaa,” cried the man. “But I can’t let these go to waist,” he thought to himself, peeling the first burger from his blue t-shirt. At least it wasn’t a total loss.

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