Violent Acres

In the midst of the whole Sweetney debacle, I read a comment that almost thawed my cold and bitter heart. A woman posted eloquently about how my picture insulted people with downs syndrome more than it insulted Sweetney’s daughter. I clicked a link she left to her blog and found out that she was the Mother of a child with downs syndrome and for an instant, I felt guilty. It wasn’t my intent to make fun of children with downs. It was my intent to make fun of Mina, who has an incredibly sloped forehead for someone who is not brain damaged. Her kid, on the other hand, was cute in a ‘God’s Clown’ sort of way. Briefly, I thought about constructing an apology and sending it to her.

But then I remembered how much I fucking hate retarded people.

I can’t help it; they’re personal space invaders. I am a person with an extremely large bubble. I do not like strange people to touch me, period. Unless we’ve had sex, I do not want you to hug, kiss, caress, pat, snuggle, or otherwise engage me in any form of physical contact. Usually, a quick step backwards when I’m being approached alerts people to my personal comfort zone. Not so with a retarded person. A retarded person will throw his big, meaty retarded arms around you in a hug that lasts longer than is appropriate. Sometimes while he’s doing this, he’ll rock excitedly back and forth and drool in your hair. Gross.

Speaking of drool, there are also many other bodily fluids that retards are covered in on a daily basis. Simply put, they are goopy individuals. Often they have slime on their chins. Boogers under their fingernails. Stickiness on their arms. Unknown food particles spilled down the front of their shirts. Snot bubbles appearing every time they exhale. This is how they approach you for a hug.

Oh God….Oh God….Oh God….

A group of friends and I were at a baseball game one afternoon. A Mother and her retarded kid squeezed into the bleacher we were sitting on and parked next to my friend. The retarded kid starting going through my friend’s purse and opening all her little make-up compacts while my friend hysterically tried to snatch them back. The Mother of the tard just blithely watched the game…apparently unaware of the havoc that was taking place.

“Oh my God, my lipstick!” she pleaded.

“She’s going to get boogers in your blush,” I warned.

“Oh God, that foundation cost me $140,” She cried.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I screamed into the crisp, cold afternoon air, “LADY! CONTROL YOUR TARD!”

The Mother gave me what I suspect she considered a very withering glare and took her tard and moved it down two bleachers. Which brings me to the third reason I hate retards: The parents often let them run wild. Listen people, I don’t find the antics of a bunch of grown adults with oatmeal for brains particularly amusing, so put a leash on them, will ya? This part of the village has no interest in helping to raise your idiot.

Speaking of raising an idiot, aren’t there ways to determine if you have a retard baby in the womb? If so, why the hell don’t you get that shit scraped out of you? I mean, do you enjoy polluting the gene pool? Are you enamored by the smell of body odor and juicy fruit bubblegum? Owning a gold fish wasn’t enough for you?

So at the end of the day, the eloquently posting Mother of the retard gets no letter of apology from me. Unless, of course, she manages to raise one who is never sticky and respects other people’s personal boundaries. However, judging from the way that kid attacked a pair of shoes, that’s not very fucking likely.

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