I live for that moment where some blonde girl excitedly insists, “Oh- mygosh. I am, *so*, blind without my contacts.” It warms me, I feel it spread through my veins, pulsate in my nerve endings, and sizzle softly in my cerebral cortex. It’s the relief of an addict welcoming a drug back home into his body after far too long without. The girl continues, “I’m, like, a negative three point five.” Three point five! How tragic, she can count her chihuahua’s eyelashes without being in the same room! I smile. My opportunity has arrived, at long last, to revel in my severe disability. I look at her. I hold my hand directly in front of my eye. In slow motion I say, “four inches of clearance. Negative seven point zero. Each eye.” She shrieks, her head explodes. I call her family and tell them, “my eyesight is so bad that your daughter is dead, try not to cry about it.” They cry anyway. How couldn’t they? That’s how bad my eyesight is.
I’m so blind that it makes me believe in wizards. Wizards had to be a thing, right? A few hundred years ago, before corrective lenses were a thing, what possible use would there be for nearsighted chumps like me? Weaving baskets?! I hate baskets! Most of us severely nearsighted folks were probably slaughtered and used for pig fuel. That is, until some fella got a bright idea. What if they invented something to give them the upper hand…? Something like… Magic! Dazzling spells, cryptic runes, and other flashy junk to distract from the fact that they can’t see their own dicks from a standing position. Notice how in Lord of the Rings Gandalf never tries to drive a car or read a scoreboard at baseball game? He’s blind as freakin’ hell!
That’s all I got to say about that. Tony OUT. (drops mic, fuels a pig)