Not #1

Okay, okay. I get it. You win, world. I’m not the best. You’ve convinced me.

The notion has recently occurred to me that I am not better than anyone. At anything. I think it’s safe to say that there is a YouTube video or Guinness Record book somewhere out there to prove that so many people are better than me at so many things. At everything, actually.

I’d like to think of myself as a man of many talents, a jack-of-most-trades, if you will. I can write a good story, solve a Rubik’s cube in a small amount of time, play a number of musical instruments, balance on the hind wheels of a wheelchair, skateboard, play Mario Kart 64, and have sex with a girl—most of these with one hand tied behind my back (don’t read too much into that). And while those are only a fraction of the abilities I possess, I can prove somehow that other people do them better, quicker (or longer, depending on which is desired), and more assured than I could ever hope to myself.

It’s not that I want to be perfect in any particular field—that would be boring and, in all fairness as a 23-year-old, ultra-lame—but the unabashed maleness in me aches at my inadequacy. This realization corresponds with a diminishment of my manhood; if I can’t be “top dog,” I might as well be a “bitch” instead. The recognition that I am not the best at playing ping-pong has utterly deballed me. I am ballless.

That triple-l is very intriguing…

Focus. Goddamnit, keep your head in the game, Slattery.

See, this whole concept of “not being the best” should have been instilled upon me at an early age. In fact, my parents are not to blame at all for my narcissism. There was one night when I was about 8 years old and I was in the kitchen with my mother. She was doing dishes after dinner and I was keeping her company by singing whatever songs came to my head (Disney jingles and boy band ballads were commonplace at this age). Finally, stroking my own ego, I asked my maternal guardian, the protector of my pride, the only infallible woman I knew at the time, if I would ever be a famous singer. And without ceasing her scrubbing, without looking at my reflection in the darkened window in front of her, without so much as pausing to consider the possibility, she said, “I doubt it, sweetie.” In a world where parents incessantly informed their offspring that they can be anything in the world they want to be, I was denied the future that I wanted for myself in that particular two-week period.

My mother may sound cold for telling me that. She may sound rude and uninspiring, but I have to tell you it was good for me to hear. It was a wake-up call, a slap in the face of my self-esteem, essentially saying, “What makes you so special?” Above all, this was an entirely true statement—I was not a good singer.

I will not be the best vocalist in the world, nor will my love-making abilities drastically improve, unless something happens outright Kama Sutric before I settle down. My handwriting is how it will always be, sloppy. I can cook, but not noticeably well.

Thoughts like these add up in the container in my brain labeled SELF-LOATHING until the needle jumps from “Okay with it” to “You Don’t Impress Anyone” to “Go Cry About It, Worthless Ass.” It’s stupid, childish, petty. Obvious. I understand this about myself and about the world, the fact that it is damn near impossible to be the best at anything. Maniacs spend their entire lives training to be #1 at any random thing, destroying friendships, jeopardizing their health, and missing out on Breaking Bad. And for what? To be the person only known for their ability to swallow more glass than anyone else?

Yes, I want to be that guy.

The whole process of humbling myself is fruitless, though, because as soon as I calm myself down—you’re not the best and that’s okay you’re not the best and that’s okay you’re not the best and that’s okay—I inevitably consider the other people out there who could handle this immaturity so much better than I could.

Back to square one.

So, what do I do about this? A common suggestion is to consider the positive; at least I’m not the worst at anything.

Fuck that. I hate that I can’t be the best at failing, too.

Do I just live with this? Everyone else seems to have come to peace with this suggestion, going about his or her business in unexceptional bliss. How do they do it? I may never know, and I guess I have to suck it up, admit defeat, and join the ranks of the mediocre. It’ll be a difficult psychological transition but perhaps it will be good for me to finally let it all go. I could stop caring so much and wear mismatched socks or grow a beard. Lord knows that my facial fuzz is a sure sign of my insufficiency in the most basic of human skills—I can't even grow hair correctly.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have the word “ballless” to study.

In my defense, maybe you don't know what “retard” means | By Ann Coulter

I know what you're thinking. I've been looking at all of the press I've generated from my tweet last night, calling President Barack Obama a "retard." People have been saying that my tweet was irresponsible, that I am simply an instigator for unnecessary controversy, and that I am a cuntwhore hellbent on destroying American liberties (their words, mostly).

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Let me be clear: I was not simply looking for attention—I meant everything I said.

In other words, I firmly believe the President of the United States is retarded. He is a retard and is retarded. I mean this using the most lexical definition possible, specifically that I don't really like Barack Obama and think he's a little weird. (I mean, birth certificate, amiright?!)

That's what "retard" means, people! I didn't mean it derogatorily towards mentally-handicapped individuals; that would be insensitive. What I could have done, possibly, is call "No-bama" (hahahaha!) what conservatives have been saying for this entire election: "an inept political figure with bad ideas and a deplorable track record." Trust me, I'm Ann Coulter; I know all about that subject. However, Twitter has an unfortunate 140-character limit, and as we all know, "retard" just rolls off the tongue better.

I don't agree with my detractors who say that "retard" is offensive. In fact, I'm a little confused. Who would be offended by the word "retard." I mean, besides retarded people, obviously. It means "stupid," which is exactly what the President is. He's so stupid that he probably doesn't know big words, such as "compassion," "solace," or "empathy." I'm still working on learning what these words mean myself, so the President has got to be completely clueless!

Hold on, I'm getting a call from the Westboro Baptist Church. Aw, they wish to congratulate me on such an insightful tweet. What gentlemen...

Anyways, let's rewind the clocks for a second, back to 2007 when I called John Edwards a faggot. (Well, I didn't actually call him a "faggot," but I alluded to the fact that I was thinking it.) This is pretty much the same thing, and I'll say what I told the press then on Hannity & Colmes: "'Faggot' isn't offensive to gays; it has nothing to do with gays. It's a schoolyard taunt meaning 'wuss.'" Just because "the gays" have been called "faggots" for centuries doesn't mean that my usage of the word was in reference to the disease of homosexuality. I was using it like a child uses it, as I suspect my logistical cognizance has not matured since the third grade.

So to any of my followers who may have thought I went the teensiest bit too far, I want to assure you that I know exactly what I'm doing. In the coming years—nay, hours!—this nation will see that I was correct in my usage and my attackers will see the retarded error or their ways.

Until then, I could use a hug. God knows I've never been loved before.

Ann Coulter is a columnist and political commentator who should be ashamed of herself (for a lot of things she's said).