Leon's getting larger

People around me keep losing weight. This is nice for them as it means they won't die a sudden artery clogged death. Arteries are like motorways you see, when you eat nice things like cakes and pizzas they get jammed up with the gloop that makes cakes and pizzas nice in the first place: fat. Yummy, yummy fat. When you eat nice things your internal motorways get backed up with blood cells, all beeping their horns and shaking their little blood cell fists at the quivering jelly that's filling the once free-flowing lanes. There are foodstuffs that you can buy to help free up these claret traffic jams. Benecol margarine for instance. However, a few evenings grimly spooning that into your once merry cakehole in the optimistic hope that you might get a snog at the Christmas party from a local skinny chaser are enough to make you opt for a swifter, more bus-related end than the slow honking cellular gridlock ever threatened.
Another option is to eat Shredded Wheat, but last I saw Ian Botham whiled away his free time wandering around inside that, and since not even his wife wants beef for breakfast it must fall to option number three: diet.

It is diets that are popping up attached to the people around me. Diets aren't fun things for people to be on though. They're not roller skates. They aren't like a funny hat, causing warm feelings to the wearer whenever they see their reflection. No, they are more like the hump that old ladies get when their spine can no longer bear the weight of the lifetime's knowledge and experience that's silting up their minds. Knowledge that prevents them from learning new things and causing queues at cash machines. And when people wear the hump of diet they squint up at you in the same way the old ladies do, faces creased with pain and confusion.
"I want that packet of crisps" they say. "I want that packet of crisps. Why can't I have that packet of crisps? I can afford that packet of crisps. I can see that packet of crisps. I can reach that packet of crisps. Why am I denying myself that packet of crisps?". But then they remember. They know.

They know, because they have read that the pleasure of the packet of crisps is fleeting and greatly outweighed by how much longer they will live by refusing themselves fatty foods. They know that by not having that packet of crisps now, they get to live a long life that they can fill with not having packets of crisps.
Annoyingly, the weight that these people are losing is not lost for long. It is soon found slithering up my trouserleg like a hoard of randy slugs, gathering behind my steadily tightening waistband. Of course as well as making things taste nice, fat is also very friendly. Jolly to be precise. So more fat then comes to join it, oozing up my legs and shaking blobby hands with the rest of the fat. The healthier the other people get, the unhealthier I seem to become. Much like Leon in 'Airplane'.

For every pie they resolutely ignore and every salad they blankly crunch through, they are killing me. Of course when I mention this to them they don't believe me, they just think I need to cut down on the crisps. Something which would be a lot easier to do if I wasn't the only one eating them.