Saturday, October 21, 2017


When I came home my apartment mate was in bed. An entire day of watching Extreme Cheapskates on the telly had pooped her out.
As I was preparing my meal, she told me all about it.

While I ate I got to listen to road kill dumplings (squirrel), mixed leftovers from next door stew, and tunafish salad made with canned catfood ("I just saved thirty cents!"). Plus the guests getting sick from the hors oeuvres.
Thank you, my dear, that made my wonton noodle soup "special".
I have Aspergers. She has Aspergers. Worse than I do.
Some things aren't dinner table suitable.
I am far more aware of that.
But she's sweet.

Both of us are mild, and fully functional.

[Her boyfriend has Aspergers too. He thinks she's "neurotypical". Poor little innocent wuss!
But then, he's the lizard king of Asperger. She's also Cantonese American, so a fascination with white people and what they eat and their manifestations of pinchfistedness, must be factored in. She's analytical in that regard. He's an unknowing labrat.]

See, if you really want to see Aspergers in action, possibly the best and worst example is Little White Nipple Dude. He was at my place of work recently, and festered my entire break with more discussions of little white nipples. Plus details of a date on which long ago he asked a girl, she didn't show, he destroyed the beautiful single perfect rose, and smoked a cigar. She had her chance. She blew it. Then he told me about his gangster image in high school, and how people believed that he had pull, and could get things done. But mostly he talked about little white nipples.

He also did that back in early September, and though a few of us knew what he was on about for nearly an hour, many of the people who came in during that time did not realize that Dunhill butane for lighters comes with an adaptor for older models. The adaptor is the "little white nipple".
They simply thought that he was a monumental perv.

Which, as it turns out, he is.
Although harmless.



One of the lounge members mentioned that his son had gone to highschool with Little White Nipple Dude. Who at that time tried to sweet talk girls by offering to paint their toenails. And, in the more than two decades since then, he has been spotted at shoe emporia trying to catch glimpses of ladies' bare feet. Or offering helpful shoe suggestions.

This probably also explains how he claimed to be a podiatrist. Which was aeons before he manifested himself as an astronaut, nuclear physicist, doctor of divinity, ex-marine, martial artist, and brain surgeon.

He has never offered to paint any body's rocket, reactor, bible tract, guts, random broken body part, or skull. An omission, I'm sure. Sometimes it feels like he is drilling into all those things, especially the last one.
Even more when he's ranting about little white nipples.

When I was eating my lunch, he tried to engage me in conversation. So for the benefit of random strangers I got him onto the subject of Dunhill butane. Firstly because I am an evil sonofabitch, and secondly, I wished to get him off the subject of the love-rival's finger he had snipped off with a cigar cutter as well as any other fanciful elements to his imaginary love life. I have heard more than enough about the wife and the fourteen year old daughter he did not yet have until a year and a half ago. And whatever weird dates he had.
I relish other folk's pauses in conversation when they start listening to in-depth disquisitions about little white nipples. Some of which wobble.
Some fit better than others, and some don't feel right.

This is NOT a can of Dunhill butane!

I'm just sitting here looking pained.
Eating a sandwich.

It's not just Aspergers. It's a lack of social skills, obliviousness, obsession, neurosis, paracosm, mythomania, and a fantasy prone personality.
What some people might describe as full-blown batshit.

With feet and nipples.

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