try walking san francisco’s financial center downtown at 8 a.m. and see if you don’t get run over by 300-pound corn-fed businessmen pulling their briefcases behind them on little luggage carts. it’s no wonder america’s gotten soft—its men can’t even carry their junk. you’d think they were hauling forty bricks or hiking a hundred miles or suffering a broken arm, but noooo. these paunchy lady men may look fairly robust. they stop to buy snacks. they wave to fellow financiers. they puff on cigars. but then they put their bald heads down like bulls and charge with their little effete dollies rattling behind them over curbs, cigarette butts, passed-out bums….
“sure,” they grunt. “we can put down half a pig and a bottle of chateauneuf while grabbing the lunchtime waitress’s ass, but sometimes that 2-pound briefcase gets a little heavy. it’s the working man’s burden. our cross to bear. hell yes it is. heh heh. suck my balls. grrr. now. where did i put my hanky?”
maybe they just like the feel of pulling something behind—it adds length to their girth on the sidewalk. fuck viagra. or maybe the act of folding up the cart when they get to the office makes them feel important: “hold on, larry, i’ll ride up in the elevator with you right after i fold up my big-ass samsonite all-steel roller here. yessir, she’s a nice one. almost as big as my cock, heh heh. wait, hold on, i’ve gotta spit.”
and i’m sure it’ll get worse. next it’ll be their wallets. then coinpurses. ”hallo, mr. homeless person. i am a big spätzle-eating german businessman. you want to touchen mine frankenfurter? it iz quite large! ha ha ha. no i only kid you. vut iz dat? you vant a quarter? sure, let me bend down here and go into my little four-ounze coin purse i am pulling back here on my gertzheimerlund all-aluminum pully pully. oh! i am out of quarters. you vill take a euro, yah?”