Some People Are Too Stupid To Have Their Self-Esteem Destroyed

I’ve got to get this off my chest: I HATE the way retarded people look at me.

There, I said it. Done.

Now for the exposition, because I don’t really want people to think I have some kind of issues with developmentally disabled people or anything. I honestly don’t have much of a problem with them. Most of the time they seem to be having a really good time with life in general and I think a lot of Type A personalities could take a few notes out of the developmentally disabled books and spend less time trying to earn money and a little more time drooling on themselves and saying “Hello” 87 times in a row to the person running the cash register at whatever retail establishment they happen to be on a field trip at.

My problem with retarded people looking at me has nothing to do with our developmentally disabled friends. It has more to do with normal-functioning people who just look retarded and in turn take that glazed over, vapid look they possess (it kind of translates into a look where they can’t quite understand why you are standing where you are in relation to their line of sight) and look at me with it. It’s not funny and it needs to stop.

Got it retarded folks? STOP IT! In fact, stop going out into public. I’m tired of you. Stay home and be retarded in your own space. Stop invading mine. Thanks.

Okay, on to the real fabric of this blog, because I hate even thinking about the retarded people looking at me in public.

I was at work today, doing what I do (working, interestingly enough, hence the name) when this shithead of a kid comes up randomly and announces to me that he can count to 100.

Before I go any further, I would just like to point out that EVERY SINGLE white trash kid in the whole world has straight blond stringy greasy hair like the cool kid who smoked and rode a motorcycle from the 70’s version of The Bad News Bears and is always wearing a jean jacket (in winter) or a tank top (in summer) and jeans with holes in the knees. In the spring and fall they wear both—little known fact.

Another fact about white trash kids: I hate when they look at me even more than when retarded people look at me. I hate it even double worse when they talk to me. And I hate it even TRIPLE worse when they talk to me by counting to 100.

After the “I can count to 100” announcement, the first thought that comes into my head is, “Bullshit. You’re too fucking stupid to count to 100. No wonder your mom doesn’t like you. Otherwise she would be supervising you instead of blatantly letting you talk to strangers.”

What actually comes out of my mouth is, “Wow. Ummm, neat. That is really just tremendously super.”

I know how to speak to the kids, what can I say? I speaka da lingety.

So what comes out of the kid’s mouth next? You guessed it: “One, two, three, four, five, six . . .”

I turn and start walking away because if there is anything worse in the world than a kid, it is a kid that feels a need to establish a rapport with me over a linearly numbers-based conversation.

So the kid FOLLOWS me to prove that he can REALLY count to 100.

In my mind, I am having these thoughts, “No really kid, fuck off. I don’t remember ever questioning your ability to count to 100, so there’s really no need to prove it. Stop it. I hate you. I hate your mother. I hate your grandmother. I hate everyone on your mother’s side of the family. I would hate your father’s side of the family but I see he’s not here which means he probably has the same feelings I do about you and your mom’s side of the family.”

“. . . twenty two, twenty three, twenty four, twenty five . . .”

“Arrrrgh. NOBODY LIKES YOU! Everyone pretends to like you and then the second you turn your back they start making fun of your stupid hair and your stupid face and your stupid everything else. When you were born did they shave you and teach you to walk backwards? Were you born or were you hatched you son of a bitch?”

“. . . forty two, forty three, forty four, forty five . . .”

“Hey kid, did you know that no one on EARTH gives a fuck if you can count to 100 or not? I can count to nine hundred and ninety nine trillion, nine hundred and ninety nine billion, nine hundred and ninety nine million, nine hundred ninety nine thousand nine hundred and ninety nine if I wanted to. I could probably count higher than that but, and I’m gonna be honest with you, I don’t know what the next number is after that. Probably something like one quadrillion, but really, what’s the point of counting that high when I can just go home and watch Deal Or No Deal instead?”

“. . . sixty seven, sixty eight, sixty nine . . . ummmmmmmmmm, eighty. Eighty one, eighty two . . .”

“HA! WRONG!!! I knew it! You stupid prick! I fucking rule because I knew the second I saw you how stupid you are. Yeah, I rule. Is there a mirror nearby? I want to look at myself in it so I always have a mental picture of myself in this moment of victory and general me-goodness. I rock in ways you can only dream about you jean-jacket wearing pile of doody.”

“. . . ninety eight, ninety nine, aaaaaannnnnnnnnd ONE HUNDRED!”

Then my real voice comes into play, “Nice work, but you forgot the seventies. You missed a whole decade. Way to go. You’ve got a future as an accountant, I’m sure of it.”

Then the kid gets the retarded look I love so much on his face and looks at me like I’m the one who is retarded.

I now know how hard it is to ruin someone’s self-esteem when they are too stupid to have one of those things.

I really hope that kid doesn’t procreate.

Really.

B!