I’ve spent the past two days attempting to formulate a response that conveys my feelings about your grammar.
“Horror”, “disgust”, and “the urge to regurgitate” are insufficient and only the beginning, the first slimy nubs in a trail of crushed maggots (leading to a failed colony of crushed maggots) rotting in a pile of cow dung. In the jungle. In the middle of summer.
An Oreo milkshake that turns out, after your first thirsty gulp, to be comprised of horse turds and baby vomit.
A shiturken. Chicken stuffed in turkey stuffed in shit.
Put another way—have you ever been touched by a retard without warning? You’re riding the subway or enjoying an ice cream (and perhaps thinking about the nice sex you had with a girl you’re kind-of-seeing-but-not-enough-to-be-annoying the night before) on a warm, sunny day, when you feel something claw softly at your buttock (incidentally, in the same place you’d cut yourself the night before when, post-sex, you slipped in your bathmat-less shower and fell out of the shower and onto your toilet), not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to distinguish itself from anything incidental, and with a blundering insistence suggestive of something not entirely human or intentional. Maybe it’s a rabid dog, you think, or an unattended child, nothing terrible (rabies and flu shots are only $50 at the clinic, even without insurance), or a homeless person’s shopping cart—ordinary fare for a Saturday morning in New York. No big deal. You are all savoir faire, all benevolence, all ice-creamy post-coital generosity, when you turn around casually, like a dog post-leak, and find yourself face to face, not with a child, transient, or mythical creature, but a full-grown, stationary, and very real female mongoloid. (The cause of this particular individual’s mongolism happens to be Down Syndrome.)
There is always that moment, upon first eye contact with an unfamiliar female individual, in which you evaluate, however briefly or subconsciously, your likelihood of producing healthy offspring with that individual (or, at the very least, how enjoyable the (re)production process would be). It’s natural and happens all the time in all sorts of places (subways, elevators, restaurants, bars, streets) and all sorts of situations (when you’re lonely, happy, bored, with your girlfriend, your boss, your parents). You look for cognizance, intelligence, reciprocity, and the lack (or perhaps the overwhelming presence, if you’re feeling adventurous) of insanity. Questions zip through your mind: Is she hot? Is she crazy? Is she drunk? Where is she going? Does she want to mate? Or, if you’re in a more introspective mood: Where does she live? What does she do for a living? Can she recite the first 50 (post-decimal) digits of pi?
However, as soon as you recognize that this particular female is 1) incapable of procreation (due to her mongolism) and 2) inscrutable (also due to her mongolism), you undertake a more adversarial line of questioning: What is she doing? What does she want from me? Is she going to hurt me? Or, if you’re in a more introspective mood: What is her name? Why is she here? What does she want from life? You gaze into her half-open, half-sentient eyes. You have no idea what color they are. You have no idea what she’s doing. You no longer remember what you were doing or where you were going or what you were thinking, but you do remember your special ed teacher friend telling you that people with Down Syndrome can be surprisingly strong.
Forget knowing pi. Does she know her own name? Do you know your own name? It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that with her, there is nothing. No pi, no reciprocity, no offspring. In this individual, there is no good to be had. No good and probably a whole lot of bad.
In your confusion-cum-disgust, you think about how disturbing it is that these people—these creatures—are allowed to wander around in public by themselves, bumping into healthy, productive members of society and touching them, perhaps many times a day. You know it’s wrong, but you wonder. You think about how many people they violate on a daily basis—Tens? Hundreds?—in their lumbering stupidity. Perhaps this woman had, just minutes before, stuck her hand wholesale into something disease-saturated—a recently used toilet, say, or a recently used anus (most likely her own)—and smeared her hand across a heretofore unknown wound on your body, and whatever germs that were on her hand are now swimming in your blood, ready to blossom into full-blown lampreys as soon as you leave the subway. In fact, now that you think about it, you’re sure that if you looked, you would be able to see the individual protozoa wiggling and multiplying in your veins. They’re already eating you alive. If you’re lucky, you’ll explode soon. If not, you’ll get to see the lampreys hydra-head their way out of your leg.
It’s fucked up, really, that these people who don’t know their anus from their elbow (or any digits of pi) have the same rights as you do. How does the government let this happen? Why do so many retards exist in the first place? Haven’t people heard of karyotypes? Can’t they exterminate them at birth, or at least round them up and shoot them into outer space? How does nobody else recognize this fatal threat to public health and sanity? When bears and mountain cats invade residential neighborhoods, they’re shot right away, no questions asked.
You examine the victimized area of your buttock. It already feels sore. You’re sure that under your jeans, the disease is spreading like an octopus and that your rage is a symptom of the parasites that will end your life. You try to decide if you want to punch or choke the retard—to punish her for what she has done—before realizing that both options would involve touching her again. You decide that you want to punch her anyway.
But, like a decent New Yorker, you let it pass. You mutter a venomous apology, walk away, and throw what’s left of your ice cream into the trash. Your appetite is gone. All you want now is to erase the experience from your memory. You feel a mild urge to bathe. And, just as you’re getting over your anger, you start feeling the after-shock, the meta-outrage of allowing something so inferior to waste your emotional energy. You think about how this sort of thing has happened in the past, not with mongoloids, but with normal people, a girl or a situation you couldn’t control—the bitchy bus driver in Boston, that job you didn’t get, the time your mom called you a deadbeat. The fact that no matter what you do, some retard will bump into you and spread fecal matter from a thousand anuses into your veins, and nothing—not you, your anger, or anybody else—can stop it.
Brian, this is a small fraction of what I feel every time I read your texts and emails. Every run-on sentence, every malapropism, every dangling modifier grates on me like a diseased retard on a fresh wound. It makes me angry. It makes me want to vomit, choke, and inflict pain on others. Ultimately, it makes me helpless.
I demand little of you. I do not expect food, wine of a respectable temperature, or first-world bathing conditions when I visit your home. I do not even expect you to flush the toilet after you defecate. I bring my own clothes, venereal diseases, and drugs. When I am not eating, you are allowed to eat. When I am not sleeping, you are allowed to sleep. But, in our written communication, I deserve better than to feel as if I am being groped by an individual with an unfortunate number of chromosomes. I’m not asking for an Olympic athlete, a Nobel Laureate, or Miss America. I just want 23 pairs of homologous chromosomes. No more, no less.
It’s the least you can do.
January 10, 2014