I have a stutter. I have it since childhood. My teacher at Pine Grove Elementary School feared that I might be retarded and strongly suggested to my parents that I visit a speech expert in Portland, which was the biggest city in Maine.
My father and mother drove me to Maine Medical. A doctor gave me a series of test to divine my IQ. I scored above average and he determined that my tongue was too big for my mouth.
“You son can’t say what he wants to say fast enough.”
“What can we do?” asked my mother. She was a firm believer in the Spoken Word.
“We can cut his palate to speed up his tongue.
“Cut his palate.” My father thought this was barbaric.
“With a razor. It’s worked on 17% of our patients.”
And the rest?” My father glared at the doctor.
“They have lisps with a stutter.”
“Thanks for the advice.” My father signaled it was time to leave.
“What about the operation?”
“I think we’ll give it a miss.” My father was the son of a country doctor. He refused to submit his second son to this treatment and to this day I have retained my stutter.
It works wonders with impatient police officers.
The pigs have no patience for stutterers.