I have no time for glurge. If a piece of glurge came up to me in the street and asked me for the time of day, I would say, “Get the hell away from me, you offensive freak. And quit dripping sugar syrup on my shoes!”
Still, occasionally I receive some in my email, and I’m forced to deal with it in the only way I know how; with heavy-handed sarcasm.
At a fundraising dinner for a school that serves learning disabled children, the father of one of the students delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all who attended. After extolling the school and its dedicated staff, he offered a question. "When not interfered with by outside influences, everything nature does is done with perfection."
Like botulism, and tsunamis, and asteroids striking the planet and wiping out 99% of all life.
"Yet my son, Shay, cannot learn things as other children do. He cannot understand things as other children do. Where is the natural order of things in my son?"
‘Shay’? You named your son ‘Shay’? Where is the natural order of things that stops the earth from swallowing you up for giving your child the gayest name in the history of nomenclature?
The audience was stilled by the query.
Or maybe sleeping. It was hard to tell.
The father continued. "I believe, that when a child like Shay comes into the world, an opportunity to realize true human nature presents itself, and it comes, in the way other people treat that child."
So that’s our choice? Eugenics or Glurge? Don’t make me choose!
Then he told the following story: Shay and his father had walked past a park where some boys Shay knew were playing baseball.
Shay asked, "Do you think they'll let me play?"
“It depends,” his father replied. “How well do you know The Baby Elephant Walk?” Ah, that paternal sense of humour.
Shay's father knew that most of the boys would not want someone like Shay on their team, but the father also understood that if his son were allowed to play, it would give him a much-needed sense of belonging.
He also knew that he had a reputation around town as a violent psychopath, and that little boys who crossed him tended to end up in shallow graves in the old cornfield.
Shay's father approached one of the boys on the field and asked if Shay could play. The boy looked around for guidance and, getting none, he took matters into his own hands and said, "We're losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team and we'll try to put him in to bat in the ninth inning."
“Now put away that knife, mister, and let’s play ball!”
In the bottom of the eighth inning, Shay's team scored a few runs but was still behind by three. In the top of the ninth inning, Shay put on glove and played in the outfield. Even though no hits came his way, he was obviously ecstatic just to be in the game and on the field, grinning from ear to ear as his father waved to him from the stands.
Because that’s what them retards enjoy most: being patronised.
In the bottom of the ninth inning, Shay's team scored again. Now, with two outs and the bases loaded, the potential winning run was on base and Shay was scheduled to be next at bat.
Should they, at this juncture, let Shay bat and give away their chance to win the game?
For no, SMS ‘DIE SHAY DIE’ to 1900 000 040. For yes, SMS ‘HUZZAH FOR GLURGE’ to 1900 000 041.
Surprisingly, Shay was given the bat. Everyone knew that a hit was all but impossible 'cause Shay didn't even know how to hold the bat properly, much less connect with the ball. However, as Shay stepped up to the plate, the pitcher moved in a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Shay could at least be able to make contact.
The first pitch came and Shay swung clumsily and missed.
Sweet merciful crap, Shay! Just how much of a free ride are you expecting here?
The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly towards Shay. As the pitch came in, Shay swung at the ball and hit a slow ground ball right back to the pitcher.
The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could have easily thrown the ball to the first baseman. Shay would have been out and that would have been the end of the game.
Then they could all go out for icecream and lashings of ginger beer!
Instead, the pitcher took the ball and turned and threw the ball on a high arc to right field, far beyond the reach of the first baseman.
Yeah. Right. At this point one is forced to question whether the author of this story has ever met an actual child.
Everyone started yelling, "Shay, run to first! Run to first!"
And I mean everybody; the boys, the dad, the President, Christopher Walken, the surviving members of Air Supply… everybody!
Never in his life had Shay ever made it to first base.
[muffled juvenile sniggering]
He scampered down the baseline, wide-eyed and startled.
Oh, wait, that was the dog. Which story am I telling again?
Everyone yelled, "Run to second, run to second!"
By the time Shay rounded first base, the right fielder had the ball. He could have thrown the ball to the second-baseman for the tag, but he understood the pitcher's intentions and intentionally threw the ball high and far over the third-baseman's head.
And the third-baseman intentionally didn’t intention to catch the ball.
Shay ran toward second base as the runners ahead of him deliriously circled the bases toward home.
Delirium brought on by standing in the hot sun for hours, waiting for the retard to hit the frickin’ ball.
Shay reached second base, the opposing shortstop ran to him, turned him in the direction of third base, and shouted, "Run to third!"
As Shay rounded third, the boys from both teams were screaming, "Shay, run home!"
Find help! Get Maw an’ Paw! Little Timmy’s fallen down the well!
Shay ran to home, stepped on the plate, and was cheered as the hero who hit the "grand slam" and won the game for his team.
"That day," said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face, "the boys from both teams helped bring a piece of true love and humanity into this world and to his."
This world and Shay’s world are apparently separate, him bein’ a ‘tard an’ all.
You’d think that would be it, but no. The author, perhaps fearful that the subtle moral of this story might be lost in the thrill of the narrative, yells:
AND, NOW A LITTLE FOOTNOTE TO THIS STORY:
We all send thousands of jokes through the e-mail without a second thought, but when it comes to sending messages about life choices, people think twice about sharing.
The crude, vulgar, and often obscene pass freely through cyberspace, but public discussion about decency is too often suppressed in our schools and workplaces.
Let’s put this to the test. Right now, run over to your co-workers or classmates and ask, in a high-pitched tone, “Won’t somebody please think of the children?” Then see what happens.
If you're thinking about forwarding this message, chances are that you're probably sorting out the people on your address list that aren't the "appropriate" ones to receive this type of message.
“Yeah, Susan; she’s the sort of brain-sapped lame-arse who’d go for this sort of crap. Janet; no, she’d kill me. Fred; he’s going to laugh his bollocks off at this. Ha ha ha!”
Well, the person who sent you this believes that we all can make a difference. We all have thousands of opportunities every single day to help realize the "natural order of things."
Like Survival of the Fittest. Hunt and devour one of the junior staff in your office during your coffee break today.
So many seemingly trivial interactions between two people present us with a choice: Do we pass along a little spark of love and humanity or do we pass up that opportunity, and leave the world a little bit colder in the process?
All together now: Col-DER! Col-DER! Col-DER!
You now have two choices:
Or 3. Excoriate, however ineptly, in blog.