Wednesday, February 23, 2005

Retards, gimps, and native children are all "mystical people."

Top of the morning gents,

Most of you won't ever meet any of the fictional characters from my childhood, but through this forum, free of the physical restraints of time and space, I'm capable of introducing them to you.

An old friend of mine from way back named Bill Pace was a clean and sober chap, yet he thoroughly enjoyed partying with my brothers and I.

No shit, this cherry nursed his brew for hours enjoying the strange company of musicians, motor heads, and congenital criminals from both Holland and Finland. Oh, and one from Ireland.

He never snarfed down any powdered products, and smoked hooch maybe twice. His altruistic expression was in caring for gimps and partying with the impaired.

Mr. Pace was an onsite staff person at United Cerebral Palsy, or as I put it, "wiper of gimp butts."

This guy was a real piece of work. Part naive, wait, make that mostly naive. He thought he was improving our universe by helping those least capable of helping themselves.

Bill worked decades at UCP wheeling mini-limbers and gimpoids up and down the hallways of this huge and funky smelling facility. Despite getting spit on by these selfish impudent retards and droolers he kept on feeding, changing diapers, and steadily went insane.

I ain't done yet. You need to hear more about this muke's selfless dedication.

While Cully, Scott, and Loren wailed away prematurely grungy audio torture, Bill Pace would slowly sip his beer and watch me and Callahan serve beers, industrial bong tokes, and fat white grawlers. He was fascinated with drug use, but shied away from engaging in Seattle variant alternative lifestyles.

Bill would sit in the living room with old man Baird talking about all sorts of boring sober topics simultaneously enjoying all the chemically happy kids mingle, meander, and get messed up.

Ya see, the best place to have live band parties is a bar, hash house 1, or Lem's Mortuary and Crack House. All of you should be familiar with these premises.

Cully and Scott could settle soil into hard pan with a few hours of severe sound pressure levels. We experimented with lining the foosball room walls with egg crates, mattresses, and filling the entire attic with Styrofoam worms. The sum of our efforts in sound deadening failed to camouflage why 200 hotrods and trucks were parked all around our houses. King County Sheriffs, Don Beuler's thugs (Mountlake Terrace coppers), and those suspicious gray sedans seemed to enjoy visiting us, and frequently.

They knew us, and knew where most of these party goers worked. On their quarterly visits to quiet this mob down, they were also strangely considerate. The only arrestees were the defective residents of said premises. All the other nitro-fueled partiers were kindly asked to pour their beers out, pocket their contraband, and advised to go home. The bartenders and band members didn't get such treatment.

On numerous occasions, Bill Pace and old man Baird were left to watch the house, while the rest of us were booked into the Lynnwood jail on charges of noise violations, and state liquor violations. Charges that almost always got dismissed, but effectively reigned in all those damn hyperactive first generation Americans, and one big Irish mother fucker.

As the years passed, the coppers were comfortable leaving Bill Pace in charge. Ya see, the coppers knew he was gimp butt wiper #1, and they respected his dumb ass dedication.

Dedication I have yet to reveal.

Ya see, it's a crime to eat vegetables, if you don't strap 'em back in their wheelchairs. And it's also a crime to pack yer Mr. Wobbly in the body cavities of these spoilt and abbreviated life forms in wheelchairs leaking cat piss. But, it is perfectly legal to encourage them to bone each other.

No shit, we'd place bets like dog fights on the farm.

Bill Pace was the popular request for horny gimps. Not for sex, but for sexual assistance.

Since mobility is job 1 for those lacking limbs, grabbing a quick snack of handicapper sex required the staff to help these droolers fuck. To help you visualize this, imagine two big guys shoving two miniature citizens together. Mashing nasties is the medical term.

I ain't fucking kidding. When all you coppers are crippled from yer nicotine related strokes, you can call my good buddy Bill Pace, he'll hook you up with some prime cadaver pussy, warm or cold. He'll even put you back in yer wheelchairs, and wipe yer butts.

The general public fears the handicapped. I do too.

My brother Cully's day job was servicing medical equipment like mechanical beds, killer gimp module controlled wheelchairs in facilities all over the killing fields of the Pacific Northwest. So did Ted Bundy, 'cept Cully probably never humped unconscious elderly woman in their appendectomy sutures.

Handicapped folks also enjoy drug abuse. I didn't say 'drug use' 'cuz that wouldn't be accurate. The word abuse is an old colloquialism and an abbreviated hyphenated term known as "abnormal use." According to my 2 doctor brothers, this term eventually became abuse. Didn't know that did you?

I used to slip Mr. Pace a few bomber joints for him to covertly deliver to a choice few of his choice clients. I imagined Bill and his droolers trying to hork down some pine chron out back behind the building, or on the freight loading dock.

I was wrong.

Bill was double dutying as sexual assistant, and aphrodisiac supplicant. These micro citizens saved their doobage for their scheduled sex with the prettiest drooler they can rope. UCP also facilitated assisted sex for gay couples.

Ok, lean over and puke.

Feeling better?

Viagra, Cialis, and Levitra were still a decade further down the time line trail we stroll each day, so the staff at United Cerebral Palsy allowed controlled usage of controlled substances facilitating micro boners on human slugs with big heads.

Viagra class drugs are prescribed to more than nicotine stroke stricken coppers, they're widely prescribed at facilities all over Washington. Everybody has the right to fuck, including gimps.

I never had the courage to ask Mr. Pace exactly how he assisted these little horny toads in splitting gimp biscuit. My disgusting imagination is sufficiently awful, yet shrouded in fear.

Bill did mention he had 2 other staff persons that helped out. Whew! I ain't tough enough to lift and hold 2 droolers at once and smash them together like a fucking accordion.

I don't have the strength to even walk through the front door.

As stated previously, Bill Pace did eventually go insane. He loved his impaired party mates, and was truly dedicated to his horror house of wheeled clients.

Like myself, Bill was greatly upset when Tobus shot DJ, but was truly horrified when Keely blasted his brains out in my front yard. We chatted at length about the 5 W's (who, what, where, when, why, and how) into the causality of my persistent distribution of good and bad products, and understood my preplanned disappearing act my father and I cooked up.

He even phoned me during graveyard shifts at KPD (old jail) late at night. He made astute comparisons between his clients, and mine.

No shit. For me to comprehend my FAS clientele I developed a context of understanding retarded drunk native inmates with retarded stoned gimps.

Reading and seeing how disgusting native kids behave at school in Kivalina and Barrow supports my thesis about chronic and culturally enforced fetal damage. When I make the comparisons to impudent spitting gimps, I understand and tolerate more of the Eskimo and Athabascan cultures.

The behavior and handicaps are analogous.

You boys need reminding that God is a comedian.

But we're all are far too stupid to laugh.

Next time you feel the urge to beat the piss out of another native punk ass retard kid, think of mini-limbed droolers and exercise a little compassion.

Due to the strict binge drinking schedule my native neighbors stick to, it ain't these brown retarded children’s fault they're so dumb, spoiled and nasty.

They were meant to be this way.

'Cept I ain't laughing.



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