I could call the kid a genius, but I didn't. A rose is a rose ya know?

Recently I killed my personal Facebook page.  Simply put, not everyone needs to read, or can understand, my retarded posts. Did you hear that Sarah Palin?  That’s right.  I said, “retarded.”

“Retarded,” is a very harmful word on Facebook.  When Sarah was one of my Facebook friends I posted that dangerous retard word on my page somewhere and she found it.  Oh my god, she went totally apeshit on me.

I know Sarah, she can have her bad days and good days, just like any of us; I forgive her.  I know she was having a bad day.  She told me so in a Facebook email time-dated before she posted to my retarded remark:

10:13 AM:  ”Oh my god you won’t believe what I did last night.  I got so fucked up because I had the kid at the nanny’s all night and I needed a break from all this political bullshit… anyway, I got drunk off tequila and slept with this Mexican guy.  Holy fuck dude, what happens if I get pregnant?  Oh fuck, I can’t have an abortion unless I switch parties and I already bought all those fucking red suits…  What if it’s got Down’s too?  A Mexican Retard?  Oh shit my career is over.  Chat with me if you’re on.  I don’t know where I am so I’m just waiting for Pedro to wake up and Facebooking until this Xanax kicks in.”

She must have started scrolling around my page because shortly afterword she evidently found this twisted post of mine:

“I’d vote for her retard baby before I’d vote for Sarah, but she does look good in clothing from Dillard’s.  You know I love you Sarah.  We’ll always have that night in Cincinnati.”

Granted, I was feeling weird that night, and the post is as out there as I felt that evening, but I felt because of its hyperbolic qualities it was perfectly safe for Facebook.  Sarah had a different opinion and left it on my mechanic’s Facebook under a question I left him about a power steering pump:

“I can’t believe I would befriend a monster like you Richard Peter Johnson (my real name).  You are the most two faced, evil person I have ever met!  OMG!  How dare you!  And you think that is funny?  I’ll pray for your soul you poor wretched man.”

At 10:53 AM I get this email from Sarah, but typed by Xanax:

“u moterfucker! im gonno kik ur fuckn ass the next timje I fuck you up fight you.  no more masterbatin cam show for you fukr!!! I FUKN HAT YOOOU!!!”

Suddenly, well about 36 hours later when I came down, I logged onto Facebook and had an angry group of retarded supporters harassing me about the mentally challenged anguish of their re-tard babies.  Sarah, wired on Ritalin for 24 hours, had called in her dogs.  They got so worked up that they created a Facebook page specifically as a forum to rip me apart because I like the word, “retard.”  This was emailed, Facebooked, blogged on, texted and Twitted to all the retarded twits they could find.  In a day and a half, my retarded remarks snowballed into a Fox News pro-Palin segment that mentioned my Facebook page and how an ugly little man’s words spawned this swell of support for Sarah’s Dillard’s Catalog brain and her sympathy sucking retard baby.  Bill O’Reilly  whipped my corpse for fifteen minutes.  The bastard even called my mom and got her to cry on the air.  (Mom told me the producers told her that I was found dead wearing a dress)

And all of this for a goofy remark left on Facebook about re-tards…

Which by the way, if you’re pro-retard as we are at ADZ, you should be understand retards don’t know when they should be offended.  Retards are gloriously un-self conscious.  They don’t care if they’re wearing a Larry the Cable Guy tshirt, orange polyester pants with white loafers and a skateboard helmet inside the mall.  All retards know is that they get a Coastal Cookie on mall day and soon they’ll be back at MHMR, happily jerking off to the Golden Girls on the community television.  Retards have the life.  I’m jealous.  It’s the semi-intelligent that are in hell and should garner our sympathy.

My point, I guess, is Sarah has no business reading my Facebook and she’s too retarded to understand that when I’m drunk or on a visit to Jesus Ranch, I am fond of hyperbole.  It’s too much work to thoroughly explain my every word to those who take personal offense to my whimsical Facebook remarks. But Sarah, if you’re reading this, my son doesn’t mind when I call him retarded, he’s just like his dad in that way.  He calls me Turdwig.  Don’t forget the Hot Wheels when you drop him off this weekend.  Me and the boy likes some cars…