Baby Fat

Dear Cranky Fat Kid from the L train,
You almost tripped me when you stopped and wheeled around directly in my path in order to reach for a forgotten Metro card that was laying on the filth-encrusted subway ground.
You, Mr. Cranky Pants, can't be a day older than 5 and you could already stand to lose 100 pounds, and this makes me sad. Not because you are fat, not because your parents neglect you and pacify your fits with bags of Doritos, but because you are a victim of government subsidized agricultural surpluses that have spawned the barely-edible, non-nutritious, artificially-flavored, waist-band-expanding corporate monoliths that have a quick, cheap, and easy stranglehold on the eating habits of your family, your community's families, and families all over the country.
I am sorry that you have already, at your tender age, been cheated by the money-loving bastards who sit at the top of The Man's fast food empire.
How can Americans sit idly by, professing with the mouths that kiss their mothers that the United States is truly a Democracy, when the conglomerates of the rich and powerful control how the "less fortunate" will eat? How can we still view dripping burgers and fries as fond childhood memories when a growing number of 5-year-olds across the land are sweating in 20-degree weather because of their Happy Meal-induced girth?
I don't know.
But I am on your side, and I forgive your lack of etiquette, Little Discarded Metro Card Enthusiast, because the fates are set very heavily against you. No pun intended.