Storytime. Sadly I'm going to have to change names and details to avoid powerlevelling, but this is still my personal lolcow.
This woman, let's call her Denise, is my wife's former college room-mate. When I met her (about 2017) she was probably well over 400lbs, I think she's even fatter now. The kind of fat where you get fucked-up fingers because of the fat pads, accentuated by long, acrylic nails making her hands look like the Wicked Witch of the West drawn by someone with an inflation fetish.
Denise was what the lingo of the time would call a tumblrina SJW, and of course she was obsessed with "fatphobia". She said she was that overweight because of "genetics" (that she hadn't even had tested at that point, it was my wife who actually organised some genetic testing for her - she never told us the results, which speaks for itself), and that doctors weren't sufficiently "educated" about "fat acceptance" and kept cruelly and ignorantly suggesting that her health problems (joint pain, fatigue, back pain and breathing problems) were because of her weight. Stupid doctors, with their medical degrees and years of experience, how many Tumblr blogs have THEY read, huh??
Her boyfriend, we'll call him Pete, was a quiet autist who himself was well over 300lbs. I don't think they had sex for political reasons, though unless he was hung like Ron Jeremy I'm not sure it was mechanically possible because of gunt-fupa interface issues. He seemed terrified of everyone and everything and absolutely miserable. She ordered him around like her personal servant. I wanted him to blink three times if he was under duress. He clearly had no self-esteem and she had bullied him into believing that she was the best he could do.
One year (I think it was 2018 ) we invited them over for Christmas. We lived in quite a big house at the time, and we had a spare room with an en-suite, as well as camp beds we could stick in other rooms and a couple of sofas. I think there were 8 people total in the house that year. We spent over £250 on food to last the 4 days everyone was here. We gave Denise and Pete the spare room with the ensuite bathroom because Denise said her back was too bad to sleep on anything less than a double bed.
Denise and Pete arrived with two suitcases. One was full of clothes, medications, general supplies you would need staying over somewhere. And, oddly, an air mattress. The other, I am not exaggerating, was filled with snacks, mostly chocolate bars and Haribo. An entire fucking suitcase of sugar and chocolate, for 4 days when we would be cooking for them. They consumed ALL of it by the end of the trip.
After the first day, all the food we bought was gone. They ate it ALL. So we needed to do an emergency shop on Christmas Eve (even finding places that were open was a real challenge and they weren't cheap places), spending at least another £300. Clearly, a genetic problem. Water weight. Not two entire roast turkeys and a suitcase full of Mars bars in under 96 hours. That was all gone by the end of Christmas day and we had to spend another £150 on Boxing Day. So that's £800 ($1100) of food, consumed by 8 people. Well, not consumed by 8 people. Everyone else ranged from very skinny to normal. I would say Pete and Denise ate at least half of the food we bought, and bear in mind the £250-worth we got at the beginning was easily enough to feed 8 people for 4 days, because I used it to made bulk bolognaise, chicken curry and chilli in our huge copper cooking pot, all of which vanished down Denise's insatiable (but genetic you guys) gullet.
When she wasn't consuming £100 of bulk-bought food per day (which she did not offer to contribute to) and a suitcase full of Haribo, she was being a pain in the ass. She did nothing but complain for all four days, mostly about her health problems (she made Pete massage her disgusting mis-shapen talons and horrible feet, in front of everyone), those know-nothing doctors who thought weighing as much as a motorbike at 5'3 was bad for you, and "fatphobia". And of course Donald Fucking Trump, a really relevant topic of conversation in the UK when the rest of us were trying to play Jackbox and Cards Against Humanity.
When she left my wife and I breathed a sigh of relief, but that was only brief, because then we entered their room - and it looked like a bomb had hit it. There were chocolate bar and candy wrappers everywhere, no attempt to bag them up, throw them out, or anything. They just left the air mattress behind - and it seemed that Pete had been forced to sleep on the floor, with Denise taking up an entire Queen-sized bed on her own. Then the toilet ... oh God the toilet. Do you know what a diet of Haribo and Snickers bars does to a motherfucker? Well clearly there had been multiple daily anal exorcisms, because there was shit in places shit should not be. No attempt to wipe anything down or clean. And she had broken the toilet seat. This house had stupid imported Italian toilets that needed their own special toilet seats that cost (I shit you not) £60 each ($85). She hadn't even bothered to tell us she'd done it, just left us with the bill, the cleanup, and a story to post on Kiwi Farms I suppose.
The last straw was when we read her Tumblr blog. She clearly didn't know that we knew about it (she had two, one for her shitty art and this one for complaining about people), and she used it to lay into us. She accused us of "fatphobia", unnamed "microaggressions" and being "shitty hosts who tried to force her to lose weight by not feeding her". I nearly had a rage aneurism. That was the last time either of us ever spoke to her, but I've kept up with her. She is now of course a "non-binary lesbian", because that became the cool thing to be about 2020, and poor Pete was forced to become "non-binary" too despite clearly being a perfectly normal guy. She'll probably feed/work him to death now, then complain that he was "fatphobic" for DARING to die before bringing her snacks.