Mongo from "Blazing Saddles"
I got off the subway at 6:35 this morning, with plenty of time to get to the studio to teach the 7:00 A.M. kickboxing class, only to realize that I had left the keys to the studio at home. I did this once before in the last seven months and taking a cab back and forth cost me about $40 and still had me arrive 10-minutes late to the class. So I decided to take the subway, a decision arrived as a combination of cheapness and not being in the mood to smell the body odor of an Indian cabby for the next forty minutes or so.
The subway took forever to arrive at the station, which sent my blood pressure to levels akin to as if I had just eaten a Heart Attack Burger at McDonald’s washed down with a Chocolate Frosted Diabetes Shake at Burger King and then went to Wendy’s to fuck that freckled little redhead. The subway finally arrived and I got on.
Wendy. I fucked her. She gave me chlamydia.
Across from me and a little to the left was a mongoloid-looking Jew. I am sure of the Jew angle, not because he was reading a book entitled 29 Ways To Prepare Dead Palestinian (which offers a few vegan alternatives) but because he was wearing a yarmulke, the same way that if I saw a woman in a birka I would know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was a moron.
Regarding the mongoloid thing, I couldn’t be certain. He had the typical disproportioned head, with the mouth just a tad too close to his nose and a forehead that stretched from here to forever but that might have just been the result of being birthed through an extremely tight vagina and not a wide stretched out one like that of Ogre’s. But once he put on his headphones and started repeating a line that if it came from a song would inspire me to give up music forever, I knew this man who was wearing an ass for a face was demented. As if for the sole purpose of alleviating any doubt I had to his sanity, he would alternate his horrid bellowing with sticking his tongue out as far as Gene Simmons and make goofy sounds like, “DOO-DUH-DOH-DING!” Yep, certifiable!
Micky from The Monkees.
His bellowing vocal style sounded like a cross between a baby seal being clubbed for her fur and a man who had just been sodomized without lube—or like Alanis Morissette. I tried not to stare but it was like driving by a car crash and involuntarily stepping on the breaks and rubbernecking, despite the fact that you know this will contribute to a near standstill in traffic that will result in people missing appointments and small children pissing their pants and just a general malaise of the traffic motestrians.
When my stop was the next one, I got up and stood in front of a set of doors. It was already 7:00 and I thought about all the students waiting in the hallway locked out of the studio and pondered whether I should make an appointment with a psychiatrist to discuss why I didn’t seem to care in the least.
I looked over at Mongo, who was now about 15 feet away from me, and sensing my stare he turned towards me and we locked eyes. If this were some retard version of Brokeback Mountain this might have been the start of a beautiful, albeit dim-witted, relationship. I couldn’t look away, only in part due to the fact that I had been frightened at a young age by the story of Sodom and Gomorrah and since then once I look at something I have an OCD time of looking away for fear of turning into a pillar of salt. And finally the goofy little bastard did something that I have never seen on a subway. No, I’ve seen a penis doing the helicopter, but good guess! He waved.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B7RAPc2vg-A
I waved back and then we both turned away and resumed our business, him croaking his best Alanis imitation and me preparing to sprint out of the soon to be opening subway car, run into my apartment, grabbing my keys all the while ignoring my whining dog happy to see me and race right back to the subway to, hopefully, reach a bunch of disgruntled kickboxing students who have boxing gloves and want to beat something silly.
Now on the subway, occasionally I have made eye contact with another person and smiled and they smiled back. If he were a guy, he was a homo and we would exit the next stop and have man sex. If she were a woman, she would nonchalantly reach inside of her handbag and flip off the safety to her can of Mace.
A smile doesn’t require much more of an effort than slightly lifting the sides of your mouth while one hand gently strokes your penis on the outside of your pants. I’ve been told the stroking of the penis is not necessary to create a smile but, as of this date, I have not figured out to do the two separately.
This is actually scarily close to how Mongo looked waving at me!
But a wave? That involves twenty-six different muscle groups all working in sink to raise the arm above your head and that requires a Herculean effort. But more than just the effort, the wave seemed so genuine that if I didn’t have a strict “No Retards As Friends” policy I might have said, “Hey tubby, you want to crush some beer cans on your enormously overgrown forehead?”
There is something about children, animals and retards that make them so innocent in their actions. Mind you, this doesn’t mean that they aren’t little bastards. One of my nieces said to my sister once, “That woman is so ugly!” in a voice that was loud enough to destroy the self-esteem of the pig in question; my dog has chewed up more electronic items, books and nick backs then I care to remember; and there have been at least twelve incidences of retards hurling their feces at their caretakers like a monkey at the zoo “shooting the shit” as they call it.
That being said, there usually isn’t an ounce of maliciousness or calculation to their behaviors. The child is in awe how grotesque the ugly woman is and, not yet having developed any sense of social graces imposed upon her by society, she just blurts out what she is thinking. As many times as I have told my dog to stop chewing on my fuckin’ stuff, when I leave the apartment she innocently goes, “Man, look at that plug attached to that fan. I wonder what that would feel like being destroyed by my teeth!” And a retard with a pile of poo in his hand is the happiest go luckiest guy you can find. Lord knows when I am holding a heap of shit in my hand I’m feeling on top of the world—provided it is my own and didn’t come out of another’s ass.
I see young kids now already becoming calculating little manipulators trying to get over and I wonder when the age of disconsent was lowered so significantly. I know I turned rotten in my mother’s womb but that was on account of eating some bad placenta. What about the rest of you? When was the last time you raised your hand over your head to a stranger, not giving them the finger or trying to indicate that sexual deviancy is on your mind, but just to say hello? How would you react if someone did that to you? You would probably be so stunned that either you would freeze like a deer in the headlights or high tail it as fast as you can in the opposite direction.
"It's a staring contest and I'd rather be venison burger before I give up and lose!"
By the time I got back to the kickboxing studio it was 7:26 a.m. and no one was still there. I had some time before my 8:00 private client came in to reflect on what God had wanted to show me by clouding my mind into leaving my keys at home. And suddenly a booming voice entered my head with the following catchphrase:
“Live your life as innocently as a retard. Just wash your hands after playing with your own shit.”
And suddenly all of the world’s madness made complete sense to me—God is a retard!
God The Retard
"Only a dunce would have faith in a man wearing a diaper!"
