Valley Oaks Neighborhood Memories

You know what I hate? I hate the semi retarded kid down the street. You know what I mean, you’re growing up, you have the kids you play sports with, football, basketball, baseball, having the time of your life. Your whole neighborhood is a bunch of normal boys who just want to play some sports. I mean, I crapped sports as a kid. Well, there was always one kid in the neighborhood who didn’t share the same interests as the majority. He was more interested in helping his mom knit sweaters than playing tackle football. He’d rather cross stitch than swing a bat. Yes, this is the semi retarded kid down the street. All of the kids in the neighborhood hated him, all of the parents loved him. You’d avoid him like the plague by coming up with elaborate plans to ditch the degenerate. You’d ride away on your bikes on purpose. You’d tell him to meet you somewhere and go to another place. When he finally did catch up to you, you’d ask him “have you ever played smear the queer?” and then say “here, hold this football”. It made for hours of fun… at least until bones were broken.

Now, when I say I hate the semi retarded kid, I don’t really mean I hate him personally, I just mean that I hate everything bad that happened as a result. Say we’re playing smear the queer and the kid gets hurt (obviously this was bound to happen) well, the tears start a flowin, and the kid runs like an uncoordinated donkey all the way back home. The next thing you know, his parents call your parents, and out from your house you hear Fran yell “JEFFREY ROBERT SAUER GET YOUR F***ING BUTT IN HERE,” now this is bad for a few reasons. First, I don’t think Fran has ever swore in her whole life, and second, it meant that I was in trouble. Now I was a fortunate child because my punishments didn’t involve whips and extension cords, but I was also unfortunate, because my punishments involved massive guilt trips that were probably worse than a few petty scars. If I beat up a neighbor, my parents would likely call their house and be like “yeah, we feel bad about our bonehead son, so in order to make it up to you, we’re going to have him come over and trim your shrubs.” No wonder why all Sauers and Koch’s (my mom’s maiden name) are all such adept green thumbs, because when their kids screwed up they sentenced them to yard work, and screwing up was our forte.

Now trimming shrubs wasn’t too bad, but there was another thing that was much worse than that: having the kid over to dinner afterward. You know, the parents are like “we will not be the laughing stock of Valley Oaks, we must invite that semi retarded kid over for dinner to make things better.” Watching this kids eyes pop wide open at the sight of Fran’s homemade fried chicken and grits was like watching Augustus Gloop when he first sees the chocolate river in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory; you can tell something bad is going to happen. So this kid devours my moms home cookin like he just got liberated from a civil war prison camp. Now this is not a pretty sight, bear in mind this kid is semi retarded, and can hardly hit his face. There’s food everywhere! There’s food on his face, food on your face, food on the walls. This kid is hitting everything but his mouth. Fran sees that the kid is enjoying her meal (the way to Fran’s heart is enjoyment of her cooking) and is pleased as punch. So we finish dinner, and I’m like “bye Semi.” And start moving him toward the door. Fran intervenes and is like “hey Semi, would you like to play some Backgammon with little Jeffrey?”

CRAP… I suck at Backgammon and Semi is probably going to beat me. There’s nothing that can damage a child’s self esteem more than losing to a retarded kid in board games. Trust me on this one. So sure enough, semi beats me in Backgammon, and I have to run to the bathroom to hide the tears. While I’m in the bathroom, Semi is entertaining Fran and Jim with a series of one liners that gets them riled up. Jealous of the situation, I go into my bedroom to play with my legos, while this kid is making his best campaign to be the first beneficiary on my parents final will and testament.

So the time comes when it’s time for Semi to leave, after many hours of razzle dazzle’ing my parents with his uncanny charm. My parents can’t even believe that a 9 year old can be so endearing. What was he talking about with my parents? Whatever it was, it had some sort of lasting affect on them, because the next thing they said was “you should have more friends like Semi. And in order to make sure you do… we have decided to arrange a play dates between you two every day for the next two years.” NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

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About Jeff Sauer

I started blogging in the year 2000, and go in spurts of inspiration followed by long dormancy. I love writing, and your comments keep me going, so comment!

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Comments

  1. Who in the heck was the kid you were talking about?????

  2. I completely made this story up.