Disclaimer: This article is going to talk about mentally retarded children and adults. However, because mentally challenged sucks to type over and over again, I am going to use the word retard. Yes, it’s politically incorrect, and quite mean, but I don’t care. It’s short and to the point and you know what I’m talking about when I say it. So, if you can’t deal with me using the word retard over and over again, shut the fuck up, I don’t want to hear your bitching, so just click the little back button on your toolbar and don’t read this masterpiece.

For two summers, I had one of the most classic jobs in the world … taking care of retards. But let me set the record straight right now, because I already know what you’re thinking. And the answer is no, I never had to wipe a retard’s ass. And I did it because it pays more than probably any of you have ever made with a seasonal summer job. So don’t think I was crazy. Think of me as a person who was richer than you.

Now that that’s out of the way, let me tell you about this job.

More or less, I would just baby-sit retards. I would feed them meals, take them places, make sure they are safe and out of trouble, and basically just be their friend. But I think it goes without saying that when you’re with a retard, you never know what to expect. Those blue helmet-wearing, tongue-chewing, drooling bastards are always saying or doing something crazy, which usually provides a lot of entertainment, even if you feel bad laughing. But then even if they weren’t doing something ridiculous, I was doing something ridiculous for them in my daily taking care of them. Being so, my job was never a dull task.

And that’s what brings me to this article. This job left me with some stories that will last me a lifetime and memories where I laugh to myself. But keeping them to myself would be selfish. I must share them with the world. And share them with the world is what I will do.

One retard I took care of—who we will call Tommy—had Turrets Syndrome. For those of you that are idiots and don’t know what that is, Turrets Syndrome causes you to involuntarily shout out all types of horribly inappropriate shit as loud as you can, all the time. It always made for some interesting times. Before I go on, let me just say that Tommy had a goiter on his neck the size of a soccer ball. No kidding. I can honestly say that there are two things you can see from outer space, the Great Wall of China and this Goiter. Shit was nasty.

But anyways, he would scream out all types of sick shit like “Fuck!,” “Cunt!,” and “Whore!” But I’ll give him credit, he would also scream out somewhat relative stuff like like “Potato!,” “Cheese!,” and “Milk!” when we would take him out to public restaurants. And let me tell you, you’ve never seen anything funny until you’ve seen a retard yell French Fry! at an 80-year-old woman, almost giving her a heart attack. Entertaining? Hell yes. That shit cracked me up more than watching a white boy who can’t dance. With this type of constant entertainment, I hung out with this guy as much as possible, especially at dinner. You just never knew what was going to come out of his mouth, besides drool of course.

Goiters are chick magnets

But then one day I was informed that we were taking all the retards on a field trip. But not just any field trip, we were going to a Triple A baseball game. And who was on the guest list? None other than Tommy himself.

Shit was about to get interesting.

We pull up to the baseball game and I knew the retards were all excited by the excess drool that was pouring out of their goofy mouths, especially Tommy. We get inside and find our seats and wait for the game to start. Unfortunately for me, Tommy had been quiet thus far, which really upset me. Dammit, I had some high expectations for this field trip, surely he wasn’t going to let me down. I considered finding a stick to poke him with to agitate him, but I didn’t have to, because as soon as the first pitch was thrown, like someone just lit a fire under his ass, Tommy became classic Tommy.

Profanity laced jargon came pouring out of his mouth like it was typical conversation. But for the first time ever, Tommy combined his dirty, foul-mouthed shouts with his somewhat relative shouts. At totally irrelevant times, he would yell things like “Homerun Cunt!,” Strike AssFucker!,” and my personal favorite, “Fuck Baseball Pussy Bitches!” Naturally, I found this to be extremely entertaining, however, everyone else did not. Slowly, one by one, each family kept moving out of our section, all the while covering their kids’ ears like earmuffs. By the fourth inning, and several profanity laced shouts later, our section was completely emptied, besides another group of retards and their baby sitters.

Needless to say, we were allowed to stretch out. Thanks Tommy.

We didn’t get to enjoy our extra space very long though, as during the 7th inning stretch, while some girl was singing Take Me out to the Ballgame, Tommy took it upon himself to scream out the girls sexual proclivities when he yelled “Whore!,” causing her to freeze up and start crying during the song. I knew it was wrong, and I knew it was a bad example, but I couldn’t contain myself and I burst into laughter, and then the walls came crumbling down as then all the other retards burst into laughter. A truly ridiculous moment was made even more bizarre when 10 retards laughed in unison sending their large tongues and drool flying into the air as they tried to eat their ears.

But like I said, we never got past the 7th inning, as before the start of the next inning, the park manager came up to us and threw us, and our retards out of the stadium. Yes, retards, who can’t control their behavior, just got thrown out of a stadium for acting inappropriately. But Hell, I didn’t mind much. I bet the girl singing minded more than anyone else. I bet Tommy just sent her on a horrible downward life cycle that will inevitably end with her getting spit out the bottom of the porn industry, of which I will probably masturbate to in years to come. But that’s a story for another day.

Moving on, as you may or may not know, retard girls have more emotional problems than most girls. They are like your classic high school couple that falls in and out of ‘real’ love like it’s nobodies business, and believe they are destined to marry this person they ‘love.’ Well, lucky enough for me, I managed to be the lust object for an autistic 6’1”, 300-lb black retard I’ll call Sarah. And by lucky I mean horribly unfortunate.

Even though I am not surprised Sarah fell in love with me, I for damn sure was not flattered. First came the hypnotic staring while drool poured out of her mouth and snot bubbles encrusted around her nostrils. Then came the obsessive sitting by me and trying to hold my hand. Not too far after that was the hugs that would damn near suffocate my scrawny ass. Just so you know, retards don’t know their own strength, so in case you don’t want to herniate a disk or pop an eyeball out, I wouldn’t recommend hugging a retard.

Then came the love letters. But as you can imagine, retards are, well… retarded, so their English and writing skills are about the same as Helen Keller’s. And again, these things were quite funny and all, but I was starting to get weirded out.

Here is an exact replica of my love letter. Flattering, isn’t it?.

And then shit really hit the fan. Sarah actually tried to make out with me. She ran at me full head of steam, tackled me onto a couch, and attempted to shove her ginormously oversized, horse like tongue down my throat. With every effort I had that wasn’t trying to keep myself from throwing up or suffocating, I had to fight for my life like she was some wildebeest attempting to eat my heart.

Thankfully for me and my self-decency, my life was saved when two other workers came to my rescue and pulled the behemoth off of my withering little carcass.

But I was only temporarily saved. I was next told by my superiors that I now had to sit down with Sarah, and try to reason with her and tell her we are not a couple, and we will never be a couple. Yeah, this is sure to be an easy project, don’t they know Americans don’t negotiate with terrorists? But it had to be done, for Lord knows I don’t know if I could fight off this retarded gargantuan again.

So I sat down with her, and attempted to break the news. However, because she could barely even understand her own name, telling her wasn’t the easiest task. I said “I don’t love you,” to which she leaped at me and tried to give me a hug. OK, so that didn’t work. So I point at me, and then at her, and then said no. She smiles and said yes. OK, so that didn’t work either. So now I pointed and talked in slow motion as if I was teaching this bitch the alphabet. Finally she understood, but it wasn’t a good sight.

Immediately she broke into tears and suicidal gestures. She started yelling “I die!, Brraaaaghhghgh, I die!,” and began to slam her head against the wall, as I sat back and watched, because after all suicide prevention wasn’t my jurisdiction. But before she started to bleed, she was quickly subdued and calmed down with some excess meds. And even though the result was ugly, the bitch never tried to hook up with me again. Thank God.

Incase you don’t understand the physics of beating your head against the wall, here you go.

And don’t worry, she never killed herself, and she got over me when she fell in love with a shoe.

OK, so I managed to temporarily ruin one retards well-being. Yes, I kind of felt bad about it. Kind of. After all, it’s part of my job to be a good friend of these fucks and make them feel good. But, for what it’s worth, I managed to make many other retards feel good in many other ways by playing with them.

For example, there was one retard who loved to play basketball. But he’s a retard, so naturally he sucked more than anyone on the Knicks, and to make matters worse, he was restricted to a wheelchair, because he would have seizures once every two or three minutes. But it was my job to lose to him and make him feel good, and lose to him I did. But do you have any idea how hard it is to lose to a seizuring retard? I mean the guy is fucking shaking in a goddamn seat, and I am supposed to lose to him? Where’s the dignity in that.

How tempting would this be to block into the 3rd row of seats?

And then I had to play Monopoly with these morons and again let them win so they can feel good about themselves. Think about that. I’m supposed to lose to these Mongoloids that are eating the chance cards that they can’t even read and sticking hotels up their noses? How demoralizing.

And then there are some semi-intelligent retards who play video games. But, by intelligent, and play, I mean they are comprehensible enough to mash buttons. And yet, I have to make them feel better, and purposely lose to them. How the hell do I lose in MLB baseball, Madden, and NBA Live to a kid who can’t even control his fingers? This was retarded, pun intended.

Let me tell you, these tasks were amongst the hardest things I have ever done. You can only dribble off your foot so many times, or accidentally go to jail every time, or purposely tell him he was the other team in video games so he would think he was winning. I felt I was the one who needed a blue helmet during this.

I had to keep this in my pocket and keep drawing it by accident

But let me tell you, on my last day of work, I felt like an athletic God. I didn’t give a shit about losing on purpose anymore. Fuck these retards, they can feel better on someone else’s shift. It was game time. It was like taking candy from a baby playing basketball against this retard, and I was having a field day blocking his shots out to half court. And you know damn well I had hotels all lined up down Boardwalk and Parkplace, and even stole some $500 bills when the retards weren’t looking. And then for the video games, I actually made two retards quit the games on me, but I guess I would too if I was getting shutout in basketball at halftime.

I suffered long enough making them feel good for months on end. But when it all came down to it, I owned their asses, and probably sent them all into a depression. But that’s not something a little extra Zantac can’t cure.

So far my job put me in some ludicrous situations. But what I have done thus far was nothing compared to the lunacy they had in store for me in this last mini story.

On a typical day of caring for the retards, my boss informed me that I was going to take a retard—who I’ll call Theo—on a bike ride. This blew my mind, as I had no clue how Theo, who couldn’t even wipe his own ass, was going to ride a bike. Oh, but this is the 21st century, of course they found a way.

They have retard rickshaws. Yes, friggin’ rickshaws. In case you don’t know what a rickshaw is, it’s basically a person on one bike towing a carriage behind them that holds people. And they wanted me to tow retards around town like it was some kind of damn parade. And to make matters worse, they actually made me wear a helmet. But not just any helmet, yeah, you guessed it, a blue retard helmet. Because after all, I had to lead by example.

This has classic written all over it.

So here I am. I’m strapping Theo into a rickshaw, I’m wearing my helmet, the retard house is on a busy street, and I’m setting off on this journey that is sure to be something that I will be made fun of for years if anyone I know sees me. And it was just as I expected. Probably one in four cars honked at me, causing Theo to get excited, giddy and quite rambunctious. He was in some sort of cataclysmic ecstasy. He started wailing around with projectile drooling, and started to jump in his seat, which broke the seatbelt. This bastard was a mess.

I realize shit is getting more out of control than a Steven Segal movie, so I decided I needed to get off of this main road before he started to masturbate with the wooden spoon he carries around and rubs on his nuts when he’s excited (did I forget to mention that?). So I looked for the first available side road and pulled off the main road. However, it didn’t go as smoothly as I had hoped.

Apparently I underestimated the rickshaw’s girth and took the corner too sharp, as even though I cleared the corner, the rickshaw wasn’t so lucky. I ran it into a bush, wedging one tire in the bush, causing the rickshaw to tip over, and propelling Theo into another bush.

Besides for a few cuts, the retard was moderately ok. Thank god for those handy dandy helmets. However, even though I thought it was hilarious, he didn’t think so, as he started to cry and bit me when I tried to help him up. Thankfully the bite was not fatal. But now I had to go explain to my bosses that I crashed the retard rickshaw and hurt Theo. I knew I was destined to get bitched out, but I had to do it. I couldn’t hide the blood running down this mongoloids body. So I tell my boss, and he pulls me into his office for a closed-door meeting.

Oh shit, this can’t be good.

As soon as the door closes, my boss bursts into laughter and tells me that is one of the funniest things he has ever heard. And to make matters worse, the retard got in trouble for biting me. Good, he deserved it. No one bites Ian Valentine and gets away with it.

Too classic.

And that’s it for today folks. Those are some of my better retard stories from my days of taking care of them. One of the best jobs I ever had. So many classic memories.

And I hope you aren’t offended. Well, at least you better not be because of that handy disclaimer I used. But even if you are, go fuck yourself, I don’t care. But not before checking out my archives of course.

Questions? Comments? Want to know how much this job paid me? If so, email me at ikartz11@yahoo.com