It must be an honor to have a complex named after you. I wonder if Lou Gehrig felt the same way after having a disease named after him.

“The fuck?” Seymour Butzandasses was confounded at first, until anger set in. He dramatically raised his fist in the air and proceeded to shake it like a possessed mad man. His intended target was the bus that sped off without once slowing down. What was most troubling was the wicked grin on the driver’s face. As everything else that has ever happened to Seymour, he took it personally. To make sure we’re all on the same page, he pronounced his name Seymour, as in: he was very curious, so he paid full admission to see more.

In order to fully understand Seymour’s seemly paranoid thinking process, we must go back to his childhood. At a tender age, he had an intense allergic reaction to asphalt. Instead of dying from the prolonged exposure, his body adapted until splotches of dark brown overtook his body, covering him like algae coats a lazy small pond.

After six minutes or so of fist shaking, he sheepishly recognized the futility of his outrage. A small crowd gathered to observe and eventually mocked his behavior by imitating his spastic gestures while making grunting noises. Most hurting though, was a comment made by a child, “Mommy, that bizarre pinto of a man with his deformed spotted skin is demonstrating his ignorance in a flamboyant manner. He needs to stop for he is frightening the living bejeezus out of me.”

The truthful words from an innocent, albeit mouthy and beyond precocious, crushed Seymour’s spirit. It slapped him across the face the precise way the side mirror of the oncoming bus did. Long story short, complications, blah, blah, blah, he died.