I was at a loss. Who was Barry Windham? Did I look like him? What was this all about? Someone at my table,-Wade Knapik was his name- had a flash of insight.

"Wait! Barry Windham…," Wade said. "That's the name of a wrestler from a while ago. He was tag team partners with Adrian Adonis, before Adrian Adonis became the gay wrestler. I think he's in, like, the crappy WCW now."

"Do I look like him?"

"I don't remember what he looked like."

Later that night, scoping out TOYS R' US for new Nintendo games, (we were nerds) my friends and I came upon the bend-ee WCW Wrestler Action Figures. And there was Barry Windham, in all his non-looking-like-me glory. Dude had a blonde mullet, a goatee, and a flat nose. Apparently, to the Angry Oohblah, who must have felt Windham was a bum wrestler, this was some self-referential insult. Up until this time, I had at least forwarded him the benefit of the doubt; maybe I reminded him of some guy, and he fixated on it. Not so. I was being actively mocked.

By an Ooblah.

But I could not imagine that the Angry Ooblah would have the presence of mind to keep up the barrage. By the next day, he'd HAVE to grow tired of it… Right?

Wrong. Oh, so very, very wrong.

If anything, it got increasingly heavier. As soon as he saw me, the chant began.

I soon found out what other "special super power" the Angry Ooblah possessed. He could, by dint of willpower and dominance, rally his troops for a common cause. The wild, chaotic mess of became a group chant. In unison, they all would sing, at my approach, together, this awful chorus.

He was like the Che Guevara of the short bus set. And I, for no seeming reason, his eternal foe.

It got to the point where I was sick, thinking about going to lunch. I was being "bullied," but with no winning scenario available. I mean, if it were some tough kid giving me crap, I'd fight him, and maybe win, maybe lose, but at least make in inconvenient to use me as a target. But how to "combat" a determined Ooblah? You are damned if you do, damned if you don't. I certainly couldn't FIGHT him; that would be unthinkable. Also, a PR nightmare. I couldn't reason with him, as nature had seen fit to strip that capacity from him. I couldn't rank him out, and win by way of words, because hey! He was an Ooblah. What monster would I be if I responded with anything but embarrassed silence? And I couldn't laugh it off, because it was non-stop, and directed completely at me.

I'd skip lunch, do extra-credit art assignments. I'd pray that he was absent. But hunger would win out, and I'd return. And he'd be waiting, smiling with impish, evil, retarded glee. It was like his old nemesis had returned, and he knew he had the upper hand.

I would go so far as to characterize his tone as sardonic, as he would greet me, like THIS.

I was at my wits end; cracking from the pressure, even. It was, from any angle, an unwinnable situation.

One day, however, after weeks of the same, I had reached my boiling point. As I got my lunch, I was grimly determined to blow up at least at the Keeper, and tell him to get his charges in line. I won't lie to you, Reader. If I had started in, my big mouth would have gone on until I said something unspeakable horrible. I knew myself well enough to understand that my better angels seldom ever prevail. But I repeat, I was at the end of my rope.

I came around the corner, and there he was. Waiting for me. It's like he sensed that I was at my limit, and he was cruelly delighted by it. With a slowness, and precision, he folded his arms, and smugly began:

He used his power again, and soon had the table in full chant.

I breathed hard. It had come. The moment. Like Popeye before me, that's I could take, I could takes no more. I closed my eyes, and prepared for the shitstorm to come.

But before I opened them again, a voice rang out. A clear, clean , radio-announcer's voice. It SAID.

I opened my eyes, confused. The Angry Ooblah, looking angrier than ever, was turned, and facing, of all people, Art Simpso.

I discovered Art's "super power." Although fundamentally retarded, he had the clear, assured voice of a guy narrating a 1950s filmstrip. A little bit of stage setting, before I give you a re-enactment of their exchange. I was wearing, that day, a blue shirt, with the Superman logo. Here is a picture of me, circa that time period, with said shirt, for visual reference. And while I'm at it, next to it is a picture of the actual Barry Windham.

OK. Their exchange was as follows, with the Angry Ooblah soon transforming into the FURIOUS Ooblah, as his word and edict had been questioned:

In my time of darkest need, a hero had arisen… And his name was Art Simpso. Or at least, that's the name I called him. At this point in the battle of wills, the Ooblah table, not known for it's collective attention span, had stopped its chant, and resumed its normal course of Ooblah activity. Flummoxed that his control had been broken, the Angry Ooblah resorted to physical violence. I was shocked and stood incredulous, watching the events unfold, and unable to do anything but stare in mute disbelief.

With a grunting cry of "He is Barry Windham!" the Angry Ooblah dashed toward Art Simpso. A pushy-shovey ensued.

Art was at a marked disadvantage, because it is hard to either push, or shove, for that matter, with disproportionately short arms. Things looked grim. The Keeper was, as always, silent and motionless.

In the fracas, The Angry Ooblah reached out at Art's face, and pulled his baseball cap down painfully low, so that it was over his eyes, and at the bridge of his nose.

And I swear to you, Internet Friend, because I couldn't make this up if I tried, Art waved his too-short arms in a cartoony gesture, and said THIS.

Miracle of miracles! There was motion from The Keeper. His newspaper, usually at full mast, was abruptly folded, and he stood. Apparently, this attack on Art was too much for him to stand. He escorted the Angry Ooblah out of the lunchroom, and Art managed to pull his cap above eye level.

Not knowing what else to do, I looked at Art, and told him. "Thank you."

He smiled, and said, "You're not Barry Windham."

"No. No, I'm not."

"You're Superman."

"Well, I'm not that either, but thank you."

Epilogue: The Angry Ooblah was banned from the lunchroom for the incident. I guess everybody had a soft spot for Art, (Or whatever his name might actually be), and the rest of the school year went by without too much lunchroom drama. When I graduated, and walked up to receive my diploma, and then went back to my seat, I looked up to see who was walking across the stage. There he was, in all of his happy-go-plucky glory, his Simpsons shirt and baseball cap replaced now by a graduation gown and mortarboard, Art Simpso. He waved enthusiastically to the crowd, and a cheering section for him responded with notable zeal. My applause and whistles were added to that joyful noise. I clapped and cheered and tried to be as loud as I could for him.

But really, all emotion aside, it did give me a note of perspective. How greatly could I celebrate or value the receiving of this diploma, when, for all his inherent goodness, Art Simpso was still fundamentally retarded… and he was getting the same diploma I was. Ah well, more power to him. God bless 'em. I hope he's well, and happy.

Ooblah dee, ohblah da, life goes on.