Duh, doh, chocolate is like an enzyme enhanced mouse

Earlier tonight, I watched Forrest Gump. It made me cry and reaffirmed itself as one of the greatest motion pictures ever, at least in my mind's eye. Again, I am not sure why. I could have a fetish for retarded protagonists, really, would that be too suprising? It is a much better line of rationale than the alternative: I am a bit retarded, therefore I have a strong inkling for those like me, especially those who still manage to live grandiose lives.

Mommy always did call me a retarded fat-ass, and mommy does know best.

gth

Retarded People Have Feelings Too

It is 6:06 am and I am crying between bouts of laughter. I just finished Flowers for Algernon, and, to say the least, it had quite an impact on little ole me. It isn't the best book ever written, nor would I qualify it as a personal favorite, but for whatever reason, it moved me like no other book. In the last year I have read Siddhartha, Confederacy of Dunces and Flowers for Algernon, each reaching me in such a personal way like no other books before. I have read well over a thousand novels, countless short stories and a few too many novellas, yet these three works stand out to me, not because of genius, but because they are applicable to me the person, not bob the disinterested reader.

Siddhartha spoke to me on a spiritual level, like Flowers for Algernon, it stirred great emotion within my being; I felt better for reading it, as if the world finally made sense if only for 150 pages. Confederacy of Dunces could well have been my life story, it was a character study of who I am and most likely will become--thankfully, I am equipped with a keen sense of humor, especially in reference to myself, otherwise it would have eclipsed Charlotte's Web as the most depressive read of my life.

Flowers for Algernon is different from the other two: the book resonated with me, the story spoke to me, the words beckoned me, but I don't know why. With the exception of much of this blog and my affinity for Sailor Moon, I am not what one would call mentally retarded, and still keeping in mind I write this blog and have a Sailor Moon doll, I am not genius, either. I have nothing in common with Charlie Gordon; his trial and tribulations are not my own, his cross is not one I have had to bear. Yet upon reading this story I found myself empathizing with the unknown, crying for the alien spectrum found between retard and genius and back again. In other words, I am at a total loss.

I could barely finish the remaining journal entries; they hurt to read. Maybe it had to do with his longing for love, which is, after all, a universal fallacy, something found throughout the human condition. The thing is, I can't say if that is it, leaving me to believe that isn't it. I have no tangible reason to be touched by Keyes work, I don't know retarded people--unless you count Democrats--and I am not averse to mocking someone for being a dullard, just as I am apt to mock someone for having the audacity of knowing more than I do, therefore I am an equal opportunity intellectual elitist. I just don't know the why about my feeling but the how is readily apparent, e.g. my tears and giggling bordering on the insane.

Maybe mom is right, I am just a little bitch.

gth

When Critics Attack

I am slowly developing quite the affinity for Roger Ebert. He might be a pompous ass, but the man can, at times, be fucking hilarious. Read the last paragraph--OWNZD.

gth

Death by zerg rush

My uncle's cousin-in-law's father's brother died in Korea for this.

gth

Touched

God, in the form of a discarded box of plastic forks, spoke to me. The Almighty wasn't pleased. Apparently, much to his chagrin—and yes, God is capable of both chaing and grinning, mankind has failed to live up to his expectations. The following is an excerpt from that conversation. The entirety of our exchange is too much for humanity to grasp, it would ruin us all, so here is the cliff notes version.

Midgetry, Faggotry and Muscular Dystrophy are evil; Adultery, Symmetry and Mimicry are not so bad.

Sex before marriage is often awkard, uncomfortable and painful; sex during marriage is much worse.

Men are superior to woman in every way save for one: women have multiple orgasms--God called this an even trade.

Aliens are amongst us, they all are referred to as Canadians.

Menstruation is unnatural; your 9th grade health teacher is a fucking liar.

Love is dead, your parents killed it.

Sometimes it isn't the fight in the dog; it is the year, make and model of the car he is driving.

Penguins are the spawn of Satan; they should be cooked in their own innards and sold to the Slavic people as New Spam.

Sarah Michelle Gellar kissing Selma Blair is the single greatest moment in the history of creation--this is the only absolute, irrevocable truth besides the existence of God.

All peoples less than 4'10" are non-persons fit only to make chocolate and perform in the circus. Children under the age of 15 are exempt from one of these acts; you pick which one at birth.

Insanity is one step from divinity, thinking one is one step from divinity is insanity; see Bob for case in point.

Hamburger helper is good only when cooked with hamburger or pig feet, no exceptions.

These are the abridged words of God as spoken by a box of discarded plastic forks to me, heed them well.

Coming out of my shell

I am not a social person, I long for a world composed of a solitary figures living in self-imposed exile. My premise is much like Imperial Japan from a couple centuries ago, except I don't have samurais battling ninjas over my person, at least not yet.

It isn’t that I am anti-social, Bob is capable of being friendly, personable and, on rare occasion, the life of the party. But being nice to others is asking so much for so little benefit, and as I said before social niceties are a must; I might loathe everyone but it is my duty to be pleasant. So, in lieu of spending my time exchanging empty nothings, I opt to stay way from the teeming masses and watch cartoons. It isn’t a terribly exciting life: I don’t have sex with lots of woman, nor do I generally discuss the meaning of existence, discuss the relevance of Spinoza and it is been years since I debated the etymological evolution from soda to Coke to pop and back again.

Sometimes I regret being a recluse, not because of the people but their ideas and actions have always fascinated me. I enjoy watching people throw up, listening to empty headed twenty-somethings claim God is dead and religion is unnecessary and even witnessing the horror that is the human mating ritual. However these moments of social longing are easily satisfied by spending a few hours with my peers. I try to look through their eyes, understand what drives them and find some relation between their existence and my own; generally, after these brief excursions, I go home and throw up.

gth

Perverts don't like chubby boys with hyper-developed apocrine glands

Mom: Were you molested as a child?

Bob: What?

Mom: Someone suggested that may be what is wrong with you, so were you?

Bob: MOM!!! Didn't you once say--during my formative years, mind you--I was too ugly to get molested.

Mom: So you are saying its my fault? Fuck you.

Bob: Hmmm...I wonder what, or whom is the cause of my psychosis.


gth

And I thought it was true love

Scientology is a cult, which is only the second time I found myself in agreement with German policy--I am a big believer in giant walls.

L. Ron Hubbard was a marginal science fiction writer; one day, while contemplating the finer points of saurian space rays, he decided to start a religion. I applaud him for that, Bob is all for reconstructing the cosmos in a fit of whimsy. By the way, I really hope that Ray Bradbury follows suit, one can only imagine the religious fervor derived from the scripture of Ray, though I would shy away from the sections involving carnivals.

Katie, please run while you still can. Tom, it is time you go back to the homeworld, and based your recent behavior I am fairly certain you got the castration part out of the way.

gth

Reason # 2,591 To Go On a Tri-State Killing Spree

I turn twenty-five in little over a weeks time. My years of virility are officially over, to think that only my mattress was truly able to appreciate the sexual prowess of Bob. As with most depressing events--death, taxes, fellatio from homeless transexuals named Shondra--the government feels the need to kick a man while he is prostrate and suffering from herpes, with that in mind I headed to the DMV.

I was willing to allow for an hour or so to renew my license, which seemed like a reasonable amount of time. I arrived and discovered twenty people waiting, a feeling joy swelled in my heart as even the most inept employees, who numbered six in all, could process twenty people in sixty minutes. Of course expectations, be they great or otherwise, are not to be had at the DMV; it is a bastion of inefficiency, a dullard's sanctuary, a place that pisses me the fuck off.

I waited for forty five minutes, watched three people be processed and was told that the printer was malfunctioning making it impossible to process license renewals for the rest of the day. It seems the octogenarian in charge was unable to figure out the problem, meaning that the printer most likely needed only to be unplugged and plugged back in, however being the senior in charge, not to mention in need of immediate funeral planning, he decided to order a new printer from offices located west of Columbus (FYI--when the DMV says west of Columbus what they really mean is Japan).

Rage is a funny thing: some see red; others feel blue; I opted for a little of both and cried a single tear, dropped my waiting-in-line number and shot the bird to the entire room.

gth

Dear Timmy,

You are supposed to be a marquee player, one of the best talents in the NBA. I once argued that you were the greatest power forward ever, the most complete four since McHale. Tonight, much to my shame, you choked. Big Fundamental, you single handedly handed the game to Detroit--Missed foul shots, lackluster defense and piss poor shot selection all but guaranteed a two-peat.

Thank god for Bobby, the NBA's representative from the AARP, who managed to outplay both you and the Motor City. He is clutch, you, on the other hand, are a bitch.

I hope you contract leprosy.

gth

P.S. Stephan A. Smith, whom I refer to as Bombastic Bastard, you are the reason why I am pro-lynching.