Stuart Parker

My uncle was re****ed. I sit next to a re**rd in church. I joined the church I am in because I was at a house party hosted by people who invited re****ed folks to attend. And I thought, "my uncle's church was so great; they treated him with such kindness, such generoisity. Maybe this church will be loving the way Uncle Barton's church was." So I joined their church.

When I see these fu***ng pearl-clutchers telling me off for saying "handicapped," "disabled" or, God forbid, "re****ed," I know immediately that they spend no time with actual re****ed people, nor are there any they care about. They don't understand the sense of humour you need; they don't understand that re****ed people may have cognitive struggles but they do actually know they're re****ed and have made peace with it. They don't understand that the re****ed person often laughs first at how they made a mistake and wants you to laugh along to downplay things, focus on the good time.

I fu***ng hate these pious secular church ladies telling me not to say "re****ed." Do they know how much it upset and confused my uncle in the 80s to have to go from being "re****ed" to "challenged" in order to make, them happy, not him!?

I spent every Christmas holiday as a kid, until he died when I was 17, helping my re****ed uncle Barton learn his ABCs and how to spell his name. Yet, once again, somehow, I'm the bad guy.