Exouthenismos (ex-ou-then-is’-mos): An expression of contempt.
I hate you for everything you don’t do. You don’t compliment me. You don’t hold me tight. You don’t make me breakfast. You don’t text me back. You don’t visit me at “The Nervous Gorge Home for the Differently Wired.” Sure, you think I tried to drown you in my little brother’s fishbowl. But, it isn’t true. You are so mistaken. I was just trying to wash your dirty little face. You should be grateful you great big giant whore. (I learned that bad word here at “The Home.” I learned a ton of bad words from Wilbur the talking puffin. He comes from Iceland where he was a crazy old man’s pet. The old man taught him to talk in English after slitting his tongue in half.)
Most of the time Wilbur just sits on his perch and says “fu*k you” over and over until somebody swats him off the perch. I love taking my turn at giving him the swat! It makes me feel virile like I used to feel before I met you at the “Corn Town High School Senior Prom.” Neither of us had a date. We were a stag and a stagette, lonely, wandering lost in the festivities, when we bumped into each other. Your giant boobs cushioned our impact like a pair of rubber baby buggy bumpers. My skinny frame was awash in human contact as we embraced while looking into each other’s ears and dancing slowly and sensually to “Earth Angel” the prom’s final dance. Romance was in the air, so thick you couldn’t cut it with a bandsaw, or even a chainsaw. It was ROMANCE!!
When the dance ended, you told me to hold out my hands as you deftly zip tied them together. You dragged me into the bushes by the parking lot and stuck your tongue in my ear. This was my first time, and it stoked my fever for you. In return, I held my restrained hands around your head and blew real hard in your face. You cut my zip ties with the scissors you had stolen from art class and we went our separate ways, and I hate you more than whatever you hate the most. When and if I see you again, I will push you down, bitch (another bad word I learned from the bird).
POSTSCRIPT
Bobbie will never be released from “The Home.” As you can see from what he’s written above his thoughts are deranged in such a way that they can’t be rearranged. He is what we call a bearer of “Vivid Experience Error.” All of the above never happened or doesn’t exist. Robbie lives in a world of his own making that intersects the real world in dangerous ways. In Bobbie’s case it involves trying to push anybody down who gets within three feet of him.
His “cell” floor is cushioned with memory foam mattresses so he can safely receive visitors.
The Daily Trope 