Treatise on the Retarded

Treatise on the Retarded
A position paper for the McDougal for President Campaign

By Xavier Alonzo Mercado McDougal IV

I've killed a man.

That is not to say, "In my lifetime, I have killed someone." As a veteran soldier, freedom fighter, and lifelong meth addict, I've killed scores of men.

I mean that as in, there is a bleeding corpse at my feet as I type this treatise.

In my lifetime, there have been men whose deaths I have lamented. I've even wept at the passing of some. I have, however, no second thoughts, remorse, or concern for this headless sack of shit lying crumpled now at my feet.

The Red Robin offers infinite steak fries as an integral part of the Red Robin dining experience. They offer infinite french fries, towers of onion rings, and some of the best Goddamn hamburgers in the business.

Last evening I dined at the Red Robin.

And this until-very-recently-bumbling bag of monkey shit was assigned to service me.

My dining expectations are not extravagant. There are no complex riders or special requests for hand jobs from Peruvian nuns or dodecahedron-shaped mackerel fillets. My requests are simple. Keep the beer and steak fries coming (don't ask, just bring them), deliver the appetizer in under eight minutes, and my meal within six minutes following, don't speak to me unless spoken to, never look me in the eyes, and NEVER touch me.

These are the understood rules of the serving class. They have been passed on from medieval serving winches to Elizabethan footmen to college students and flunkies working in chain restaurants.

This festering sack of horse entrails must have missed that communication.

These corporate deals, they have training programs. Days of training focused on how to roll silverware, pre-bus tables, and refill my Goddamn Dr. Pepper. It's not codebreaking for the NSA for fuck's sake. It's delivering food to tables of diners. If you're too stupid to remember MY FUCKING TOWER OF ONION RINGS, yet you irresponsibly accept the position as foodserver, then you deserve whatever fate I as patron and holder of the American Express Black card deem appropriate.

Should you fail to live up to your end of the deal, you deserve torture, mutilation, and eventual death at the hands of a 450-pound meth addicted gorilla. For fuck's sake, he never even mentioned the infinite steak fries!

The bleeding heart anti-death penalty banana peel humping hymens who would weep for this man's passing would do well to spend a little less time bemoaning the fate of sinners and a little more time lessening the need for future executions.

I do not know from whence came this notion that all human lives are to be valued as equal. Is Tonya Harding to be considered of equal value to John Wesley? Is Albert Brooks of no lesser value than Albert Camus?

We all start valueless ~ creatures of the happenstance of those who made us. We add or subtract value with each passing day. We define ourselves by our actions, thoughts, and deeds. This value is cumulative. Beat a hooker to death with a rubber mallet on Tuesday, and rescue a chimney sweep from a rabid alligator on Wednesday and the impact to your value score is a net zero.

But it is not only in matters of life and death that one gains value. Did you properly wipe your ass? No? You've just lost value. If you chose to live as part of society, brush your fucking teeth and CONTRIBUTE.

I don't care if you're the mayor of Shitville, Indiana, or a fucking bathroom attendant. If you're going to live off the fat of others - that is sell your time and skills as a service to someone (e.g. corporation, private business, pimp), then fucking do your job.

You don't deserve a paycheck and you sure aren't going to get a Goddamn tip from me.

Show up at my table 19 times with the same shit-eating question, "You doin' alright here?"

No I'm not fucking alright.

Where are my Goddamn onion rings?

Oh, you forgot.

Now I have to cancel my plans for the night, wait until you get off work, club you in the head with a bag of oranges, toss you in the trunk of this stolen Buick Electra and spend the rest of the night teaching you the intricacies of foodservice.

Look, shitmouths. No one is going to fix your shit for you. Figure out what you want to do and do it. Do it to the best of your ability. Don't fuck around. If you can't do the job you've whored yourself out to do, then find another job.

Otherwise, I'm coming for you.