Ace Ventura needs to bear a healthy dollop of the responsibility for making me, as I’m sure my mother and a succession of teachers forced into early retirement would agree, one of the most unremittingly obnoxious children on the planet. There was what must have seemed like an aeon to these poor unfortunates, during which I would not condescend to enter a room without bellowing as many Ace Ventura catchphrases as I could as loudly as I could.
“Fee fi fo fum…I smell….THE FINGER PRINTS OF SCUM!” was, in particular, a source of interminable glee for little me.
And the not so little me. Because I never really grew out of it.
While the other boys put away childish things and became men – became interested in the fairer sex, became aspiring mortgage-holders, became lawn mowers and pension schemers, became void of callow dreams and became the trustees of selfish wives and greedy offspring, became fat and stupid and were pushed to the background of their own lives – I decided it was far more fun acting like a graceless retard.
I kept my jaw slack and my wits sharp. And I blossomed from an amateur status, journeyman simpleton into a full-time, dyed in the wool imbecile.