I want to produce Retarded Romper Room

For months now, I have been bothered weekly (and sometimes even more frequently) by a woman in our office and her special needs child that she brings around. I had never actually seen this kid but had heard their intangible ramblings for weeks now. While I love people with disabilities (holla at mah peeps!!), that love is generally regulated entirely to the autistic/Asbergers-y side of things, such as my much discussed Autistic Retard Girl (ARG) that I see a couple times a week on the streetcar. Today, she and her haggard, split ends-rockin' mama were openly dancing and singing while waiting for the car to arrive. I, in reaction, emerged from the shelter to stand closer to them and fantasized about them asking me to join in and all of us dancing in a Circle of Autism together. Round and round we go! Weeeeeee! Oh what fun, we would have! Unfortunately, that did not happen, but I still liked watching any way. I'm like an Autism voyeur. Trend setter, am I. You'll hear about it soon. Trust me.

Okay, back to the dickhead with the retarded kid. I do not like to know that much about the people I work with. I like to know even less about their kids. Those that work in completely unsatisfying jobs tend to make their families the centre of everything and expect others to do the same. Not only do I not believe that their families are all that and a bag o' chips, but I'm also more and more certain that I don't want any should've-been-BJs running around my pad in the future. This is a notion I have learned not to share with family oriented coworkers as they tend to look at me with a mixture of pity and incredulousness, as though their inner monologue is, "Oh you poor, misguided boy/Fuck you, hippie! My life is awesome!" and I just don't need that shit in my poor, misguided, hippie life.

So fine, enjoy your 2.3 kids and your shitty box house and your accumulating debt. Ain't no thang. Doesn't phase me. But do not - DO NOT - bring your crotch fruit around my way and expect me to revel in their mere presence. Additionally, I appreciate that having a child with special needs must be a huge Debbie Downer, but in the immortal words of Tim Gunn, "Make it work, people!"

There I was getting all pissed off and thinking that if I ever actually see the kid, I will turn tow and march the other way because I do not need to fake a smile and risk getting applesauce residue anywhere near my body just to make some socially inappropriate coworker feel better and the garbled voice is getting closer and closer and I hear wheels rolling which makes me think, "Aw shit, and they're in a wheelchair too?! Fuuuuuuck me," and I get out of my chair and start to make a break for it when I stop and take a look in the direction that the hard consonant-free voice is coming from and...

...I learn that our department has hired a deaf woman who does mail rounds.

*hangs head in deep, deep shame*

There are no words.

But aren't you glad that the emo softy that composed that last post and may have cried at ABBA's Knowing Me Knowing You (baaaaaaaad daaays..) is gone and the douchenozzle you know and love it back? Me too.