Well, I dreamed I saw the Knights in armor coming saying something about a Queen, Torn Slatterns.

Happy 40^th birthday to the cell phone. 40 years of listening to douche bags say; “I’ve got to take this.”

Contracts for NFL quarterbacks have gone berserk. A few over a hundred million. To give you an idea how bad it is, on Easter, Jesus came back just to tell Tim Tebow he was over-paid.

Happy 40^th birthday to the cell phone. Remember how big cell phones used to be? Good thing they got smaller or they would be exhibit A in countless road-rage murder cases.

The Rolling Stones have announced their US Tour. The Stones are getting up there. This is the “Turn Down That Damn Noise, oh, wait, that’s Us” Tour.

Draft experts say the Chicago Bears will pick Manti Te’o for their 20^th pick. The Bears are a perfect fit for Te’o, they don’t have cheerleaders, they have imaginary cheerleaders.

Prior to the NFL Draft it looks like a lot of the top picks will be linemen. Except for the New York Jets, they’re looking to pick up a quarterback who won’t suck as much as Mark Sanchez.

18-year-old Justin Bieber’s monkey is still in quarantine. That’s OK, I didn’t get my monkey out of quarantine until I was 18 and in college. Oh, wait, were not talking about virginity, are we?

Happy 40^th birthday to the cell phone. 40 years of overhearing douche bags say; “Yo, my man, what’s happening?”

Since you asked:

The always awesome Louis C.K. told a hilarious story on “Conan” in '06 about being mistakenly sent to a camp for retarded kids when he was in third grade. (Search YouTube, Louis C.K. Conan retarded camp. For some reason it won’t let me upload it to my blog)

When I was in pre-school Sunday school, there was a girl in the class called Rosealie. The teacher told us that Rosealie was – yes, they used the word back then – retarded and we had to be especially nice and patient with her.

Rosealie was pretty seriously retarded. Her speaking abilities were limited and she was extremely excitable and emotional. She was either laughing or crying. 

The big problem? Rosealie loved me to death.

No lie, Rosealie could not get enough of me. This was so awful because, at that age, I didn’t want to have anything to do with girls anyway, but especially Rosealie.

My parents and the teacher were proud of me because I was so nice to Rosealie, but the truth is I was miserable. She always wanted to hug and kiss me. She kind of drooled and always had food around her mouth and, truth be told, she was kind of smelly.

And I am four-years-old, I didn’t know you couldn’t catch being retarded like a cold.

When I couldn’t take being hugged by Rosealie anymore, I would try to get away and she would track me down and slug me. Hard. What could I do? A, she was a girl, B, she was retarded.

One time I ran away from her so hard while carrying an American flag on a stick, I tripped and the arrow tip actually punctured the roof of my mouth. (Still have the scar, and can still taste all the blood) It bled quite a bit, but my parents were not big believers in the emergency room, so we just went home.

But I got to get away from Rosealie for the day.

Cut to: Summer after third grade, Fourth of July. Something serious is about to take place because my mother gave me a sit-down talk;

“Alex, the Stevens family is coming over for a barbeque and to watch the fireworks.”

“OK?” I said suspiciously.

“One of their sons is mentally retarded.”

“Noooooooooo!” Memories of Rosealie flashed through my head like a brush fire.

“Calm down, he’s not like Rosealie,” my mom said, “He just has trouble with school, that’s all.”

With much trepidation, I wait their arrival. There are a couple of girls, but there is a nice guy my age, Danny, and we hit it off immediately. His brother, Billy, however, is a  couple years older than us. His hair is a little greasy and messed up, he has glasses and kind of a pot belly, shirt tail sticking out. Obviously, Billy is the one who is retarded.

But, much to my relief, Billy is no Rosealie. He is very nice, gentle and calm.

Danny and I spent most of our time playing together, but we would include retarded Billy in games that required more people like Croquet and catching the Frisbee. Unlike Danny and me, (or is it I?) Billy was not good at sports. When Billy dropped a Frisbee, I would run over, pick it up and say;

“Oh, nice try. Here . . . you . . . go.”

“Thanks.” He would say, looking a little surprised at my over-politeness.

This went on for three Fourth-of July’s in a row. Always looked forward to the Fourth of July with the Stevens and my good friend Danny and his retarded older brother Billy.

One night, after the fireworks, I was sad because the Stevens were getting ready to go home. 

“Oh, let me play you my new Bill Cosby record before you go.”

Retarded Billy, Danny and I listened to Coz, and suddenly retarded Billy started laughing really hard. Out of the blue, he said;

“It is amazing how Cosby can take such a poor and tough childhood and turn it into such great comedy.”

What the . . . ? Was retarded Billy suddenly cured?

So I leaned over to Danny and whispered;

“Your brother doesn’t seem retarded at all.”

“He isn’t retarded,” Danny said; “I am.” What the . . .?

Danny went on to explain to me he just was way behind everyone his age in school in math and reading. (Now he would be called learning disabled, but his social and verbal skills were fine)

We were such good friends, Danny and I, (or is it me?)  Suddenly it hit me: maybe I am retarded too? My other good friend, Hughie, sure seemed like a likely candidate.

After they left, I ran up to my Mom and said;

“Tell me the truth, I can take it. (deep sigh) Am I retarded?”

“What? No, Alex, you scored off the charts on your aptitude tests.”

“Don’t lie to me, Mom.”

“Why on earth do you think you’re retarded?”

Suddenly the sheer body evidence against me not being retarded seemed overwhelming;

“What about the time I threw the barbeque fork in my ankle? Or the time I ate a shovel full of sand on a dare? Or the time I tried to save my bubble gum by putting it in my Army helmet and then put the helmet on. Dad had to shave a hole on the top of my head to get all the gum out of my hair. Or when I jumped off the roof of a garage into a moving shopping cart? ”

“Those were all pretty stupid, I admit,” said Mom,  “but no, you’re not retarded.”

To this day I still have my doubts. Or is it ME still have my doubts about I?