Seems grandiose, eh?
This is one of the more modest, amongst the actual titles I was able to workshop, believe me!
And I’d hope by now you’ve read at least one or two of these here Pickup Truck Diaries, so you are well aware already that I love being grandiose and mock-megalomaniacal for the sake of dramatic effect – ex-drama teacher and producer and all. As per the actual point I’m trying to make – not only do I frequently hack away at my own knees, I often set people up with an axe for the next leg. Artists must be self-sacrificial, I believe.
Trust me. The “Starving Artist” stereotype The Elder McRae uses to jestingly mock me is far from lost with the immensity of the knowledge and wisdom I have hoarded at this point. Even having surpassed him in many ways, his own brand of savantry does make many good points quite often, even unto me.
So this specific Pickup Truck Diaries edition is for me, not for you, dear audience.
I’m opening up my throttle.
Firstly, that means you will get to see the full Machiavellian Superego at play, here. Maybe just a brief sliver of my true thought processes or intentions. I’m not going to waste my time with a filter, thinking about things like which lexicons or dialects will land amongst the widest audiences for the sake of Education of the masses.
I’m so fucking tired of dumbing myself down to be understood by other people.
The most clever of Academics at this point probably have alarm bells going off. Some might remember in a poem or two I’ve used such grandiose Metaphors as: “I’m going to devour the Zeitgeist.”
They’re piecing together that my Education-background is educating my Arts & Entertainment-background. Or tainting it. Corrupting it. A Cartoon Villain; Self-proclaimed of course, does exactly such things as taking tyrannical control of all Media. There have been a few James Bond plots along such lines, so in addition to the satire of Michael Myers (sitting in his fucking mansion cottage lake country bullshit of course), I’m not using anything new to storytelling other than a modernized, glorified Vaudeville Villain.
Cue the Rocky & Bullwinkle music.
I grew up on that shit!
I don’t need to psychoanalyze myself at this point, as I’m always well-aware of every single motivation I have down to the deepest possible root.
“The Infinite Deconstruction Of The Self.”
You can steal the methodology for yourselves, if you can figure it out.
I’m not kidding when I say I think in Exponentials, and joke about touching or running my hands through the very concepts of Infinity.
But that’s merely the random genetic roulette throw of having six or more Comorbid Neurodivergent Diagnoses. They interact in such interesting and fascinating ways.
Funny enough…
My father, McRae The Elder, Ax Men International Star, has finally accepted that he has ADHD and Autism, I think. (Taking the piss with his titles and fame, now.)
You have no idea how badly I want to use and abuse him as a Guinea Pig a la some sort of “Lucy” or “Limitless” experiment. Let’s see how fast we can get a sixty-four year old Logger Guru to move!
Hell, just got off the phone with him a few hours ago, he cracked a fucking tooth right in half on some canned beans, the goober.
Can you believe the dude has starred on Reality Television? A fucking Logger Guru, my silly father, has been on International TV a la History Channel!
He eclipsed even our damn Hollywood D-List Cousin in concurrent views and reach!
What a strange fucking life we lead…
Joking mockery of myself aside, back to cruel cold analysis. Something Academics can steal from my poetry: “The Brutal Calculus.”
Food Chain Truths, etc., hell, I’ve written literal-thousands of Metaphors across my poems at this point – so you’re sure to see some repeats in the Allusion, Metaphor, or Literary Devices category.
I’m not perfect enough to have zero Metaphor repeats.
So sue me.
As of writing this piece, and as far as I can research via Google, I am not “The Most Prolific Human Poet In All History.”
I’m actually currently stuck in third place!
I can explain.
The one source I can find on the topic or record in question is the hated Jim Pattison Empire of “Guinness World Records.” I wrote at least one Thesis on this Evil Capitalist Bastard, who not only owns “Ripley’s Believe It Or Not,” but has his own Son in charge of both Guinness and Ripley brands last I checked a decade ago a la the perfect example of family-based Nepotism.
He also owns the largest Car Dealerships, most of the Food & Grocery Networks, as well as most Billboard and Marketing Advertising.
That’s across most of British Columbia and even Alberta now, I think. His only competition is Loblaws out of Ontario, another huge monopoly.
Multiple different brand names within the same industries, too – a whole mess of disgusting anti-competition and monopoly bullshit. Temporary Foreign Workers as Factory Farm Workers, etc.
Anywho, point of me raking this evil ancient white billionaire is to say “Guinness World Records” lists John Bradburne, the WWII Veteran and Catholic Philanthropist as The Most Prolific Poet, with about six thousand poems consisting of 170,000 unique lines of poetry. He wrote most of his catalogue in just a decade or so, whilst working with Leprosy Victims in Zimbabwe after The World War.
Bradburne is to me a worthy rival.
Some people, a la Ryan Hailey of The Radioactive Chicken Heads, are so hyper-competitive that they lose sight of the whole benefit package behind things like Competition or actual genuine Meritocracy.
My ambitions, hunger, and drive will never end. Spewing creation is a Cold Fusion Engine of sorts for me. Insofar as I am creating and pushing the very limits of what I can affect in Art and Artistry, I am feeding my own Dopamine Deficit, the same symptom of ADHD that leaves me constantly unfulfilled and lethargic without the aid of medication or the creative process.
Cold Fusion = Exponential Free Energy. Easy Metaphor, this one.
Subsequent to this knowledge of my own psychochemistry and various disability-related biological systems failures, largely Endocrine System based, (Ladies, I feel you), I actively seek out methods to fill the infinite void inside me that involves working with the most talented, creative, or intriguing minds in my different fields and disciplines, many as they are. People as talented or weird in different ways from me to achieve that exponential growth in symbiosis for both of us.
I want it all. Art or Creation that pushes the very limits of what I can do, in an ongoing effort to smash past every single limit I ever feel constrained by. My own growth and evolution is tantamount, as I’m watching the ticking biological mortal clock. There is an end date. I think I need to do it this way because I’ve already come to terms with the very hard truths of existence. Things like Entropy and Heat Death, far beyond even our own frail mortality as sentient creatures, Fermi Paradox be damned. I’m perfectly okay with dying, myself, but that also means I have to work as hard and as fast as I can, as death can be tomorrow for each and every one of us.
We never know outside of the general timelines of a normal Human life expectancy!
I told you, I’m not slowing myself down for you this time, audience. Just read each paragraph again and again, googling anything you need, until you understand the words I am using to convey my very thoughts, mind, and soul to you.
Academics a couple centuries from now? I have confidence you’re still keeping up. I’m rooting for you guys – even as a ghost haunting the planet as I will be!
Back when I used to be an Educator, I would often intentionally define big or niche words as I spoke to the children I taught. The nice thing about reading this shit on a computer, tablet, or phone, is that you can copy-paste the words straight off my fucking website into Google or Dictionary.com. I’ll never make my shit weird and uncopyable, because I, as ever, am 100% okay with you pirating my work or even making money off it as long as you credit me as the original author.
(Steal the content, not the credit, I guess? Passing other people’s artwork off as your own is like one of the scummiest scumbag things you can do. You’re trash if you do it, and should see a therapist about your self-esteem and ego issues. Get help.)
Hell, I can only fondly hope that somebody even knows what a Thesaurus is at the end of the day, let alone that they could use Thesaurus.com!
Invaluable tool to any poet, especially one that plays with the training wheels of “Rhyme” firmly bolted onto their tricycle, the scrub. (The whole reason I quit Slam Poetry a decade ago after years of performing is because the most popular shit was the most generic formula based cadence shit!)
So yeah, all this means that I think John Bradburne is a pretty solid Rival.
Problem is, he’s fucking dead. While the motherfucker remains at the top of the fucking pile, he cannot engage with me directly, only via the proxy of his work posthumously, which I’m largely unimpressed with due to his religiosity and plainness. How many fucking poems does one need to write in awe about some big fairy tale man in the sky that apparently loves you on a rather stalkerish level?
(Cue Eve, Isaac, Egypt, Etc. The Abrahamic deity is a fucking sociopath! Funny enough, there’s some dude in the comments on the Guinness Page claiming his wife’s “AZ Christian” site or some shit has 7800 poems. Considering how trite, samey, and stalkery most Abrahamic Faith Art is, I’m expecting half of them to end with “Amen.” And this is me taking the piss outta myself at the same time, as you’ve seen how I mock such theocratic art in my worship to Entropy, satire may it be! Can Quantitative Records be subverted in such simple ways?)
Yeah, get your fucking Abrahamic or other Religious bullshit out of my Art and Artistic Process, please. I’m not as much of a Militant Atheist as I was in my late teens, but I still disdain such Shepherd and Flock-ism trash, as one can see clearly with hammer-clarity within Central Universe Fictions. I refuse to allow any kind of organized religion to take away my autonomy or the autonomy of anyone else. I am quite serious about my Humanism, Anarchism, Scientific Rationality, and The Empirical Method all being part of my prescribed religion and faith, as appealing as Satanism or Buddhism might be!
Back to the title, and the Poetry.
Anyone who knows me well often has heard me complain about Qualitative versus Quantitative evidence, data, and reasoning. Not that I wholly dislike Qualitative Pattern Recognition processes for Literature, Theatre, and the like within the Academic Realm of Research, especially as I myself lean on my Pattern Recognition Superpowers quite often.
Quantitative numbers mean more to me than Qualitative Thesis-Writing.
Data is my 21st Century God.
So what John Bradburne truly offers me is a quantitative comparison of my rate of work, to his. I can only assume his creative process, writing on paper, often within letters and sermons, was mostly at night in the small Leper encampment he served within until his exile for the last six years of his life. Bastard remained outside the fence until the very end! But then again, he tried to become a monk, and I’m known for adopting similar practices as monks unto physical and mental health strategies. So perhaps my judgement and harsh humor is unfair.
As the majority of his work was spread across correspondence as much as random scribbles, that six thousand number is already fraught – new random shit comes up all the time in the old-fashioned pre-digital era. Meanwhile – I can just log into the back-end of my wordpress website I built myself and see the “poetry” category tag. Motherfucking Bradburne didn’t even know what a fucking “website” was.
Then again, I do have this handicap of technology as an aide – so perhaps even in his crazy-religious hermit travel lust, while he wrote every night, I can organize myself to create in fits and bursts easier than reams of paper or stacks of letters.
His intense religious nature also gives me pause for reflection, prolific writing rate or speed as mere contest or competition, be damned. I’m a 21st Century Poet, not just aided by technology, but also by an Education consisting of the majority of lexical artistic changes or movements. I have two degrees. I’ve studied Joyce, to Behn. What does it mean for a Disabled Queer Atheist Artist aided by technology to surpass a dude recognized for Vatican recognition and ascension?!?
Just by writing out pieces of my soul to self-regulate on a daily basis, often late at night on my smartphone on Blue Sky, am I picking a fight with The Vatican? All of Roman Catholicism, in eclipsing one of their greatest records held within the faith? Is some crazy religious person gonna murder me to stop me from beating John Bradburne?
What Martyr Complexes are involved in that?
Never accuse me of not considering the infinite ripple-effects to my choices, work, and actions.
But Bradburne is still a long ways away.
As of now, I’m still stuck in third place.
Although – I’m pretty close to taking the Silver from the guy everybody already knows, unlike Bradburne the crazy priest.
Last I checked, I’m twenty-seven hundred poems published on this here www.McRaeWrites.com (make sure you spell out each “W” with a drawl.)
I am purposely only counting website-published poems to keep everything open, public, and transparent. I don’t want to have to explain myself ten thousand times. “The Butterfly King & Other Poems For Self Reflection” is an anthology of my old teenager/twenties Written/Slam Poetry catalogue. They were the ones I liked the best from everything of the poetry I’d been writing since I was thirteen or fourteen years old or so.
I’m not counting any of that towards the quantitative record of being the most prolific.
Not only do I not remember how many poems are in the published poetry book, I also don’t want to have to go root around in ancient DeviantArt accounts under old pseudonyms just to pad my numbers with shitty teenager poems.
Fuck me that would be awful.
So yes, I’m only counting towards Shakespeare and Bradburne via the public number of published poems on the wholly transparent website category of: “Poetry.”
This methodology keeps everything from record keeping, to progress, all simple and clean, and subsequently the whole world can verify what I say when I am simply stating facts about my output or Artistic Expressions. Subjective opinion of my talent, work, or capability can get fucked. When I say: “I am currently The Third Most Prolific Human Poet In History” and people call bullshit, I can simply point at the big glowing “2700” number, then the Guinness World Record, and shrug.
I’m not saying something out loud that cannot be verified via data. I very much dislike telling lies. I’m not yelling that I’m the best Science Fiction Writer out there, for example, no matter how “Hard Sci Fi” that style may be. Subjective and Qualitative analysis can get fucked two thirds of the time. (Fuck you, professional critics. Your entire existence rides on people assuming your qualitative analysis has a capitalist worth. Ew.)
The actual title, rewards, or whatever other bullshit like fame or clout that come along with being “The Most Prolific” at anything never interested me. For all my evil mastermind savant plotting, I view such things as currency, power, geopolitical force, fame, clout, or public opinion, as tools or metrics rather than end goals themselves. One of my core philosophies is to focus on Function before Form when I can’t have both, and to prefer to see things as Means towards other Ends. Therefore, most of the above are means, not ends.
No psychoanalysis needed. I’ve inherited this belief from McRae The Elder, despite the Brutal Calculus at my root. The bastard would give you the shirt off his back if someone truly needed it. As a result, I’ve become quite cruel, callous, and rather jaded in watching people abuse the shit out of him for decades for his knowledge, helpfulness, and benevolence.
How dare they mistreat somebody so fucking special and unique to Humanity?
By now, you’ve likely guessed “The Second Most Prolific Human Poet In History.”
Good old Billy Shakes.
William Shakespeare, The Bard to My Skald, The Englishman to my Ukrainian and Scot. He’s sitting pretty, at around thirty five hundred poems published across his entire life, unlike me who pumped out 2700 in five years, and Bradburne who wrote 6000 in like eleven years.
So me, looking at 3500 from down at 2700, has to laugh. The dude used the training wheels of formula poetry to an enormous degree, such as the old ABABCDCDEFEFGG structure of Sonnets, for instance. I literally taught this exact Elizabethan style to children and had “Sonnet Races” with my English classes to prove how easy and quick they were.
Like Lego with words!
Sorry, is my disdain for a centuries-old dead man off-putting?
See, I’ve told you I’m a “Brutal Calculus” numbers sort of cryptid, regardless of the current fluidity of my gender, whims, or mindset as ever-changing as they are.
I love Method Acting after all.
When I first did the math immediately after starting my small writing, resource, and consulting business, I calculated that to beat Bradburne at 6000 poems, I would have to write ten poems a week to accomplish the entire task over twelve years, or alternatively, twenty five a week over a shorter period of four years.
The math looks like this, for you science-brains (I know word math problems can be tough.)
10 Per Week X 12 Years = Roughly 6K
25 Per Week X 4 Years = Roughly 6K
Pretty easy math, even for an Arts and Education Major!
For the past five years, I’ve actually been working somewhere between those two rates of speed, obviously at varying rates of velocity or acceleration as I do only write poetry when I feel I have emotions to vent or feelings and ideas to capture in the moment.
Almost all of my Poetry Catalogue could be thus tagged as “Flash” or “In-Moment” creations. Only shit like “The Butterfly King” written as a Heroic Epic entirely in rhyming couplets took years of rewrites.
But that’s more of a quirk of mine due to my quite specific methodologies of grinding my metaphorical “assembly line.”
Firstly, I once wrote my rough poetry drafts first on Twitter, and nowadays I do so on Blue Sky, due to that pesky Twitter Shadowban for shitting on that moron Elon Musk, Emerald Mine Slavery Apartheid Nepo-Baby as he always and forever will be. Wah Wah Blah Blah.
A character limit on such social media platforms gave me the perfect space and restriction to keep big ideas concise, and forced me to make active decisions on every single word choice, especially if I knew I was going to have to chain like twenty tweet replies together for some of the Epics or Heroic Epics. Silly things like Ampersands suddenly became enormously important!
Thank fuck I’ve never degraded myself to the point of writing wannabe Concrete Poetry using nothing but Emojis or Ascii art, as much as I love little weird symbol and syntax experimentations.
Silver lining is that Blue Sky has a slightly bigger character limit than Twitter, so my entire art style and voice has likely changed with the slight difference in artistic constraints sometime in 2023. But again, that’s for the Literature and Poetry Academics to analyze long after I’m dead. They might be nodding along with us there in 2158. Or they’re already smouldering radioactive skeletons, either way.
Even when I do become “The Most Prolific Human Poet In History,” as with most writers, poets and other masters of the written word, we do tend to remain Indie Underground Artists, (my preference largely), until some extended time or grace period after we die.
Why else do you think I add in all those messages to future generations with little wisdoms or foibles about Humanity’s failures? The Last Will And Testament Instructions hidden in my poems?! My catalogue of Poetry serves as both an Epitaph for Humanity during this new coming Ragnarok, but also as a time capsule for future generations or species to learn from our stupidity.
Such lofty “impossible” goals for a little Anarchist Ecosocialist Poet like me, eh?
With Shakespeare in Silver looming ahead of me, I have under a thousand poems to go to unseat him and drop him down to Bronze in a cute little tradesies of Medals.
Again, as with John Bradburne, Shakespeare is very obviously dead. The 1600s were a long fucking time ago. That means Shakespeare’s record isn’t going anywhere. No new poems are coming.
It also means I am literally racing and competing against two dead motherfuckers, because aside from the one 1900s Poet in Bradburne, there are no fitting rivals to grind up against anywhere in modern times! (Or they’re fucked by Capitalism and thus completely unknown, meaning I have to hunt and seek them out myself to elevate them.)
I do love a good “enemies to lovers” trope after all.
If I can be vulnerable for a second, without that filter I mentioned earlier?
It’s actually very lonely to be here.
Subtle threads of Misanthropy bubble up constantly, and I have to really exert my Humanist principles to plug them up. I often wonder why I was doomed via fate to suffer the immense abuse and trauma that forced me to run into art and creation to escape dark rooms all alone. Yes, I have been practicing my mastery of English for over three decades, and I’ve perfected many styles, tones, devices, and lexicons…
But are you honestly telling me there is nobody out there living right now who is talented and hungry enough to be a true rival? That I’m alone, with no true challengers to grow and evolve in competing against?
Who cares if I’m so damn smart if it means I’m going to be alone forever? Especially when I consistently feel Misanthropic already because of the everyday abuses and derision I receive from the stupid, neurotypical majority? Should I be happy that I’m not called a Retard anymore, unlike the 90’s and Aughts where it was constant reality? Want to come up with a plan on reclaiming that word?
Something-something lonely at the top, eh?
Good thing I have so many imaginary friends, I guess.
Or is that pitiable, too? That I had to create such characters in different universes to begin with? Just to not go mad as a small child sobbing alone in the dark amidst the various screaming and other forms of childhood neglect?
We can make funny statements about diamonds in the rough all we like, these skills and talents of ours indeed came at a cost.
Being Queer and Neurodiverse is already quite an alienating experience amongst a dominant Neurotypical world, but most educated folks could tell you that already.
A fun example of such odd differences on the way to write this: I choose to wear foam or rubber flip flops most of the time. A riddle. Why?
While you’re thinking, I’ll spoil it down here for when you give up or make a guess. Even the simple act of wearing flip-flops like this is an intentional choice for many different reasons. Let’s use this as an example of why I constantly struggle with being one of the smartest people in the room, especially when people assume nothing but ego or self-esteem or pride or shit:
- As a large Buddha-Bodied 6’3, person, making the same sound effect as Spongebob lets everybody in public know where I am at all times, in an attempt to make people feel safer, especially at night if I’m walking anywhere near people smaller than me. It may have been unprofessional, but students old enough to know Spongebob even as a meme warmed up to me almost immediately via audio recognition. I literally trained them a la Pavlovian bells – except with Spongebob sound effects.
- I literally passed a blind person on the way here with a stick and sunglasses. I watched them clock me from thirty feet away and carefully align themselves on the sidewalk around me without even using their stick, because my stupid spongebob-sound-effect foam croc flip flops let them know exactly where I was as I moved with every step.
- Before I rocked this current Buddha Body, I was running a half marathon a week. I’m working up to those sorts of goals again for my physical health and giving my feet lots of extra padding helps the strain on my joints as a big person until I can afford new running shoes. It also forces my calves and such to adjust.
- No socks, baby.
- I have a literal spike of keratin from a botched foot surgery sticking out of my right big toe that I have to rip out every few months with pliers. Flip flops make worrying about such bleeding every few months less of a hassle.
- There are more. You get the point. Stupid small shit, many reasons for doing it.
Now, as I try to keep these fucking articles around three thousand words, can you see the thought process that goes into even my most simple choices or decisions in life? Even wearing croc flip flops becomes a fucking process and a half!
Now apply that same level of Machiavellian plotting to something like usurping famous dead artists along quantitative records just for the thrill of a dopamine hit.
Now, somebody out there is gonna whine, or shit on me: “But Shakespeare wrote a kajillion plays and stuff too!”
Sure he did, and in the same time process of “five years equals twenty seven hundred poems,” I also chunked out at least one entirely new book (as The Marionette Man was rough draft form literal decades ago so I don’t count it as new.) My books are usually in the ballpark of a hundred thousand words give or take, for more quantitative data.
Hell, even the stupid-fucking-nerdy-as-shit Rainbow Bible Magic The Fucking Gathering Resources somehow bloated into 62,000 plus words and became the longest MTG Primer or Resource ever fucking written!
I wrote a fucking Master’s Thesis on Tribal Archetypes and Rainbow Color Identity in Magic: The Fucking Gathering IN A MONTH. ON A WHIM. For the most complex format of the most complex game in existence that still hasn’t been solved by computers or A.I.!
Can I get even a fucking iota of credit yet, gesturing to the fact that everything on my god damn website here was put out or released after I started the damn business, outside the poetry anthology? (With timestamps and publication dates, even!)
But that’s Humanity for you, right? Selfishness and Greed drives people to tear other talented people down to make themselves feel better or to get ahead, I guess.
Nobody really gives a shit but me, or about me, which is fine by me! I’m not exactly ravenous for shouting my achievements across the mountaintops. Unless it helps my other goals, I hate shilling myself, I want all my work to be as free as possible, and I prefer to remain as much of a humble Hermit Guru Artist as I can.
This article?
Whether you like it or not, it’s going to sit here on my little shred of internet, largely ignored, until some bastard in a hundred years tries to do the same thing as me – (maybe a future ADHD Generation Cousin,) then accidentally clues into the fact that I surpassed John Bradburne or William Shakespeare in terms of poetic prolific output sometime in the 2030’s.
History churns on regardless, friends.
Chums.
My lovely corpses – bags of meat and bone!
But we’re already running long, so as much as you know I love waxing poetic and scientific about such things as my “impossible” goals… (That bastard internet comedian James Willems literally raised his eyebrows and made an incredulous face at me!) I’m going to have to be okay with currently only being “The Third Most Prolific Human Poet In History.”
I don’t want to say something that sounds even gaudier or worse, like “all time” or perhaps to forget to add the “Human” part due to the Fermi Paradox and the obvious chance for other goldilocks planets to exist across the billions upon billions of universes out there.
Carbon-based or not!
Hell, maybe some aliens completely showed us three Human bastards of Bradburne, Shakespeare, and Baba McRae up, millions or billions of years ago, and then their entire species got swallowed up by their star going supernova or red giant or something!
Fun to dream about such things, eh?
For now, I only have these fucking carcasses and corpses to compete with.
And no, I’m not counting shit like “The Ramayana” and “MahaBharata” because those were written across like six hundred years by entire teams of poets! I can’t possibly shoot for those sorts of titles such as: “Longest Poem Ever Written.”
So this goalpost, Third Most Prolific Poet, feeble as it is, will have to do.
You know, despite losing a decade of writing time due to listening to those who hated me and my artistic expression, I really honestly expected such a “lofty” title not to be so easy for me to achieve in one lifetime.
But maybe that’s the technology factor heading towards the singularity, perhaps. The hilarity of already being a dead artform and artist because shit like ChatGPT has enabled automated poetry or art is not lost on me. I’ve already been replaced, so this output has to all be for funsies, anyways!
I’m still gonna use my ChatGPT subscription, though.
Still gonna keep writing, too!
Dead art medium or not!
This is where I get all my best dopamine, after all.
At the end of the day, I don’t really give a shit what other people think. I don’t create my art to snag fancy bullshit titles outside of trying to hone myself against the best of the best and cultivate new talents, knowledge, or skill sets. Don’t want any corrupting influence on my art. No criticism, no opinions, no analysis, you keep those self-reflective practices to your fucking SELF! I make the art, you engage with it. Only my rivals ever have that right, once they’ve already proved their own competence.
Because don’t forget that art is usually Subjective, not Objective, and Qualitative, not Quantitative.
Such foolishness as to not approach any art or artist with those prior biases and complex problems of abstractism considered – simply means a person isn’t capable of riding the rollercoaster.
“You must be this intellectually capable to ride.”
Who knows.
But then we’re just doing the same thing neurotypicals like The Nazis did to us disabled people throughout history – Inverse Eugenics with a different “Other.”
We have enough Human “Othering.”
So I’ll just keep writing, all by my little lonesome.
I’ll beat the record, take the title, and nobody but me will ever know!
Now, let’s get the fuck out of here!
– “Baba” McRae.
