Let the Good Times Roll:
Congregation of Retards Meets Weekly at King’s Bowling Alley
Mudd Stone apologizes in advance for reporting on such a retarded story
Barlett (left) celebrates a gutterball
STILLBROOK, Mass. – Amy Barlett may not be able to dance well or even move properly, but the patrons at King’s Bowling Alley in Stillbrook are quickly discovering that retards like Amy sure can roll. Amy and her parents, Jonas and Terry, have been making the trip to King’s every Monday for the recently established Retard Bowling League. The RBL has met weekly for a month now and has expanded from just two bowlers to eight enthusiastic members.
“We wanted to be able to do something with Amy that we could enjoy along with her,” says Terry, “she’s at that age when she’s getting into her rebellious retard years and we figured this way we can kind of keep her under control.”
You won’t see Amy or any of her retard teammates complaining about a night out with Mom and Dad, they seem too caught up with the bright lights and the sound of the pins being knocked down or rubbing their noses and genitals with wild abandon.
Gina King, the proprietor of King’s Alley, has completely embraced the new bowlers and has even become one of the league’s biggest fans.
“I really think the RBL is a great organization,” King tells me while keeping one eye on Amy and Co. (the other eye is covered with an eye patch that looks like it hasn’t always been that color brown). “They’re changing the face of the game,” she continues, “and that face is retarded with a big forehead.” I finish my beer with King and move back to the lanes, offended by her ignorant generalizations.
Amy and her retard friends have yet to fully grasp the rules of the game, but that’s not a problem, the Barletts say, it will come in “tine” (they insist on saying tine because Amy supposedly has an irrational fear of the correct word).
“Actually, the only problem we’ve had so far is finding the right shoes for Amy. She wears corrective models because one of her legs is shorter than the other, so you can imagine the difficulty in finding corrective bowling shoes,” Terry tells me, obviously amused by her predicament, but I’m already on my second pitcher of cheap bowling alley beer and I’m beginning to grow tired of the whole situation. “When going around to stores looking for the shoes, people acted like I was the retard.”
I can’t stands no more. I excuse myself politely and head to the bar and sit on the stool next to Jonas, who is muttering to himself “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference,” over and over again, but he shuts up when I offer him a beer. We start talking about the NBA Playoffs and the Red Sox’ gigantic lead over the rest of the AL East, and turn to catch Amy roll a spare and secure her team a victory. I follow Jonas over to congratulate the winning retards, then ask Amy to provide a quote for the story, but unfortunately she murmurs something inaudible and then starts to shudder violently.
“Good luck next week,” I say to the group.
The next morning my roommate, Kevin, wakes me up and I have the worst hangover. I’m serious. It is terrible. The previous night has left my head pounding and I feel like lying in bed for a week. But Kevin convinces me to get up and we head out to catch a late breakfast. As we’re leaving the building I turn to Kevin and say, “Man, I feel like my legs are about to fall off,” just as a man in a wheelchair is rolling into the building. I feel awkward for a second, but then realize he’s just a cripple, he’s not retarded. And it takes this moment of clarity to finally appreciate how remarkable those retards were.
MS
