"Say Retarded
Mickey," You ask your seatmate and traveling companion, "It sure does
look like a long way down the concourse and out to baggage claim. Seeing
as how I gave you this trip, and you being a big fella and all, how's
about you give me a piggyback?"
Retarded Mickey turns toward you and for the first time you notice the
icy gray of his eyes, the icy gray of the fjords, the icy gray that
killer's eyes always seem to be described as when a writer's imagination
runs dry, color-wise.
"I say now, old man,"
says Mickey "That's a bit much, isn't it? I mean it seems to me you're
trying to take advantage because like so many you have mistaken my
unfortunate first name for a condition."
"What?" You insinuate slyly.
"My parent's odd sense of humor and latent cruelty had an unintentional
side effect; to wit: I have, perforce, grown to adulthood with an
uncommon sympathy towards the Cognitively Challenged. And there is
nothing that enrages me more than a person who would take advantage of
the handicapped! And I have a severe rage disorder to begin with!"
You're still puzzling over what the word 'perforce' means when the
gargantuan Swede begins to pummel you with fists the size of Boarshead
Black Forest Hams. Several stewardesses try valiantly to peel the
hollering, toe headed freak off you, but he's far too strong and it's
far too late. As you slip into a coma you mumble,
"Why didn't you just change your name? You can have your name changed
you know."
"Really?" asks the not so gentle giant. "Good lord. All those years of
suffering for nothing. It looks as if I owe you an apology."
