I know this is a safe space, and I've been here long enough that I feel somewhat trusted and accepted, and thus can express myself as we sit around in a solemn circle, clutching our styrofoam cups and nodding along in commiseration. So on this day, Salad Tosser's birthday, I need to vent about this...this
blight to all that is human and decent. Yes, he even surpasses Chantal in the "wholly unacceptable and inarguably objectionable" department, which takes a level of mastery and skill that even Alex Honnold would admire.
...because Salad is starting to make me miss Peetz. And the way I feel about Peetz is the way all of us feel about Peetz: he has needed to sort his feckless self out with a rope and a ceiling beam for quite some time now. But day after day, month after month of Salad's incomprehensible existence, I find myself agreeing with Uncle Phil that Peetz is of "genius-level intelligence" when compared to the absolute
state of the Syrian Sped.
You can't tell me there's anything going on upstairs. There is nothing. Zilch.
This 80s creation is more sentient and capable than what has been foisted on us for the last year. If
anything is taking place in that caved-in, liver-lipped, brow-adjusting melon of his, it's the chorus of "2 Legit 2 Quit" on a constant loop, again and again, over and over. And even that's a stretch, because it takes some kind of brain matter to process that one chanted line. He surpasses being merely childish. Immature. Innocent. He goes well beyond dumb. Well beyond imbecilic. Hell, he left "mentally retarded" spluttering in his wake years ago. There are few synonyms left to describe Salad, and whatever they are, I don't know them.
People say that he and Chantal fight sometimes, and that's why she falls into a foul mood / looks like she's been crying sometimes...nonsense. Salad has no idea how to fight, argue, or present a cogent point of view (or even a haphazard, illogical one). That's because nothing registers with him; there is no discerning good from bad, up from down, left from right. There is no personality, no self, no powers of observation or reflection, not even the power to form a solid opinion or point of view. In fact, if you were to perform a cross-section of this sack of meat and slice him right down the middle, starting from the top of his head right down to his toes, you would have Solid Salad all the way through: no veins, guts, internal organs, blood, bones, or arteries.
I don't even hate him anymore. I don't know where I'm at. It's a terrible feeling, as though I'm staring into the abyss which is staring back into me, except that abyss has a face like
a fetal-alcohol-syndrome Non from "Superman 2" and speaks like a defective Stephen Hawking.
I'm sure many of you have taken this Salad journey with me: from amused and incredulous, to irritated and intolerant, to outraged and defensive, to wandering into defeated and hopeless, and finally, to where we are now, which is completely lost and feeling as though we are living with a terminal disease for which there is no cure.
Except there is a cure. The doors out of hell can be flung wide open, we all gain in riches and happiness and relief, and normalcy is restored:
Chantal, get your gigantic, pimply, sagging, crusted-over ass back to Canada. Enough is enough.
Enough is enough.
Thank you, everyone. I appreciate the compassion.