Tuesday, December 14, 2004

Adam's Story

This is going to be a really long blog...so get comfortable and grab a snack.
The "Adam" mentioned in the title is NOT my friend Adam who is in Italy. This is another friend Adam that I had in high school. His last name is Lay, and so we called him Frito.
I LOVED Adam in high school. He was an outcast. He didn't hang out with a lot of people. He was incredibly intelligent but stayed quiet in class. He had this great orange-ish/reddish hair. He was different. And that is why I loved him. I made an effort to get to know him. I said hello to him every time I saw him. I saw the genius and wonder in him that went largely ignored by the more image-conscious jerks that were in my class. As you will see, Adam has quite a sick sense of humor. I knew it well and enjoyed it often. After graduation we emailed a few times back and forth and one time he sent me this story. I had a request for a pointless story in my blog today. This is the best pointless story I can ever remember reading it and couldn't even fathom topping it. So I went back in my old email, dug up this sordid tale, and decided to share it with you all. I hope you enjoy Adam's story as much as I did.

p.s. I went to lunch with my friend Sister today. We went to Subway in the Outlet Mall but had to stop by Rue 21 (clothing store) first so she could exchange a sweater she bought the other day. Cute panties were on sale for 99 cents a pair. I couldn't help myself and bought 3....

Now back to Adam's story:

Timmy and His Incoherent Love Story part 1 by: Adam Lay
Timmy had a problem, a big problem. The usual (and most of the unusual) forms of sexual intercourse didn't interest him. In the tenth grade Timmy wouldn't look twice at Big Boobed Betty, and so the straights beat the hell out of him for being a fag. Two months later the fags kicked his ass because he wouldn't look twice at Perfect Ten Larry. Three days later the zoophiliacs (who'd let him into their social group on probationary terms but forgot to tell him) subjected him to the discipline of the baseball bat after scrutinizing his My Little Pony action figures and Lassie comic books and not finding any traces of dried semen. A week after that the masochists slapped him (and themselves) around because the sick bastard didn't seem to be enjoying his beatings. Then the sadists gave all of them a quick once over because they got off on that sort of thing. Timmy had a problem, and it wasn't just perpetually losing fights.
Timmy recieved his sexual gratification from dead things. Many experts agree that getting off on corpses is just about the sickest thing a person could do--if you don't count trees or styrofoam packing peanuts. Timmy didn't care, because he knew that nothing could ever give it up better than a corpse. And he could prove it too. He'd been sleeping with his dead cousin Jenny for years, and Jenny was the best (and only) lay he'd had since grade school.
It must be understood that screwing Jenny wasn't entirely his fault. Jenny had visited Timmy with her family during his eighth grade Christmas. She had a heart attack when a parasitic worm jumped out of her cranberry sauce, Jack Daniels bottle in hand, and cursing about joint DEA/INS operations. It could have happened to anybody. All of the credit cards had been maxed out on plane tickets and gifts, and the morticians wouldn't accept out-of-state checks, so Jenny had to stay in the attic until she could be disposed of properly in her own home town. On top of that, no means of public transportation would deliver untreated dead matter, and so she ending up staying with Timmy's family indefinitely. Throw in the fact that both of Jenny's parents had notoriously short attention spans and it's easy to see how Timmy could wind up with the body of a teenage girl wrapped up in plastic trash bags lying exactly seven feet, three inches above his bed. And who the hell would ever pass up the chance to enjoy some form of sexual congress with a reasonably attractive member of the opposite gender that probably wouldn't mind in the least? Certainly not Timmy. Thus Jenny ended up hiding on a cart under his bed, ready to be rolled out whenever Timmy needed her.
But if Jenny wasn't entirely his fault, then Petunia certainly was. By the time Timmy had hit his sophmore year poor Jenny was in tatters. Timmy had done a half-assed job of preserving her, and as a result she spent most of her time hanging from a bed post in an old gym bag. Petunia had died in a car accident late in October, and Timmy was one of her 875 closest friends allowed to skip school to pay their respects. Truth be told, Timmy had never even heard of her, but that really didn't bother him--hell, he'd even managed to work up a couple of tears at the funeral. However, he wasn't crying over the untimely loss of life, he was sad because he needed three more bucks to buy a new shovel. Fortune soon smiled upon him, and Petunia was a pemanent fixture between Timmy's sheets before she'd even grown cold. Timmy loved Petunia even more than he had ever loved Jenny. She was embalmed, so he didn't have to fight off the cockroaches and flies nearly so often as he did with Jenny. Petunia's mouth had been permanently fixed into a smile, and she even had another one where an ashtray lodged itself in her throat a ninety-eight miles-an-hour. But perhaps the most important reason was the difference in Jenny and Petunia's breast sizes. Petunia's parents had retained the services of the most renowned (and expensive) morticians in the three surrounding counties, and they had gotten results. Petunia's had been a little bigger than average before a flying chunk of solid steel safety cage removed a good three-quarters of volume, but after the people at the funeral home got their hands on her, they were positively enormous. The morticians had used an exotic mixture of chemicals that were guaranteed to retain a firm, yet bouncy character until the year 3003. Jenny's had collapsed two months in.
Petunia was everything Timmy had ever wanted in a woman, at least until he realized what he wanted. Petunia had been a rather stupid girl in life, and in death she fared no better. In fact, the conversations with her after a good six-hour marathon were some of the most dull he'd ever experienced. Things between the couple became so bad that Timmy used a glue gun to put Jenny more or less back together again, and they secretly made love under the pale light of the moon--when Petunia was asleep. And that was the way things went, for a year and a day, when Timmy Senior discovered him in the throes of passion with what little was left of his cousin. To make matters worse, the commotion woke up Petunia and her suspicions were finally confirmed. Her heart was broken into more pieces than even the impact of a rogue fender could produce.
To make a long story short, Jenny was buried beneath a rosebush, Petunia was returned to the cemetary, and Timmy went to the Cedar River facility. Timmy Senior wanted his son to be lobotomized, but he was afraid the boy might try to have sex with the distended section of brain. Instead, declared Timmy Senior, it would be electrock and enemas daily until Timmy was cured. Timmy did not want to be cured because though he might be the best lay a corpse could ever hope for, he figured he'd do a lousy job with anything slightly animated. The man who plugged in the electroshock didn't give a rat's ass, it had been years since his wife had let him even attempt to do a lousy job with her. Every time he heard Timmy boast of how quickly he could make a dead girl smile he'd turn the machine up a couple of notches. And that was the way things went for Timmy, until he met Sarah.
Timmy met her after he'd just recieved one those real class-A roto-rooter enemas, and the first thing she told him was that she was dead. Flat-lined, stone-cold, dead as a doornail. Sarah used to be one of those girls with lots of emotional baggage, and one day she decided to do something about it. So she slit her wrists, multiple times, intraveinously injected two teaspoons of air, and swallowed a handful of nifty yellow sleeping pills to boot. She said that the ambulance must have mixed up some paperwork, because she ended up at the Cedar River facility instead of the Cedar Springs graveyard. Timmy hung onto her every word; he was totally entranced by her. Sarah was by far the most interesting dead person he'd ever met, and he hadn't even had sex with her yet.
The pair was inseparable. If Timmy went to take some more electroshock therapy, then Sarah would stick her big toe in an unguarded electrical outlet just to sympathize with him. If she was wheeled into a two hour self-worth seminar, then he'd sit through fifteen minutes of PBS children's programming. If she hid Prozac, Prilosec, and General WellNess under her tongue until she could safely spit them out into a potted plant, then he'd hide his Haldol too--at least until it dissolved in his cheek. If Timmy got a class-A roto-rooter enema, then she'd try not laugh at him. And eventually, when Timmy wanted to get physical with a lump of dead organic matter, then she'd lie still while he worked his magic. It was as close to perfect as Timmy felt he could ever get. Hell, it was better than perfect, until Doctor Melvin P. Hoffbringer came and ruined everything.
Doctor Melvin P. Hoffbringer was a disgusting pig of a man. His tanned, clean-shaven, well-built exterior totally mirrored the intelligent, sensitive brain within. He was married to Mrs. Hoffbringer, who seemed to become more beautiful everyday. He made love to his wife three times a week, sometimes more, and always gave her at least one spectacular hour, if not the usual two. Neither had ever cheated on the other, regardless of whatever opportunities there might have been. The couple had two children, a boy and a girl, and they excelled in sports and in their schoolwork. They were both popular in school, but had never, ever smoked, drank, or experimented with drugs. Doctor Melvin P. Hoffbringer drove a really nice sedan, and his wife, Mrs. Hoffbringer, drove a really nice sport/utility vehicle. The whole lot of them lived in a large two-story house with an immaculate lawn and every friday they ordered pizza and watched nice movies together. He paid for his cable television, but mostly read news magazines and financial reports. The family PC was virtually free of Internet pornography and violent games. The liquor cabinet had a dusty sheen of neglect and the bathroom cabinets held no anti-depressants. They even had a dog...a nice, clean one that wasn't too large--nor to small...that was house broken, could play fetch, got the newspaper every day, and didn't bark excessively...it wasn't named Shep.
Doctor Melvin P. Hoffbringer was a disgusting pig of a man. Everyone secretely hated him. Everybody hates perfect people--especially happy perfect people. The Cedar River facility's administrator hated him because his wife really did look better at thirty-six than at twenty-six. The girl who gave the class-B toilet-plunger enemas hated him because men were more willing to watch his ass walk by than hers. The head nurse hated him because he never wanted to go screw in the broom closet--even before word went 'round about her battles with the clap. The night watchman hated him because his (the night watchman's) wife would call out "Oh, Doctor Melvin P. Hoffbringer!" in her sleep. The patients hated him because he was supposed to be the target they were shooting for. Timmy hated him because of the horrible, impure things he did with Sarah.
For starters, he spent ten minutes a day convincing her she was going to walk again, oblivious to the fact that corpses, no matter how lively, can't move about on their own. He also stuck her in one of those CAT scan thingies once or twice a week, and Timmy was always afraid that Little Special Timmy might fall off or mutate into a horrible old lady during the long nights after those procedures. But most importantly, above all the other wrongs, was the thing that woke Timmy up a night bathed in cold sweat. The sin that he would never forgive, not in his lifetime--not in ten lifetimes... ...Doctor Melvin P. Hoffbringer was a quack. An ablsolutely, totally incompetent disgrace that the Cedar River victims had to put up with day in and day out. Ask anyone their opinion of a man who walks around around all day hitting other grown men in the knee with a little rubber hammer. Or man who wanders, smiling no less, freely about the Depression Ward asking the inmates how they feel. Or a man, who claims to have several degrees in various sciences, that doesn't undertand the fundamentals of ritualized, mass artiodactyli suicide. It won't be too high.
Doctor Melvin P. Hoffbringer believed that Sarah was alive, which was bad enough on its own. But he also had the gaul to intend to keep her that way--which was tantamount to murder. Timmy was disgusted, enraged, and troubled. If Sarah was actually a living, breathing being, and God forbid she was, then Timmy had been doing the sickest, most perverted things imaginable since two weeks after he'd met her. If Sarah was actually a living, breathing being, Timmy mused, then the base for his entire sexuality was most decidely defunct. If Sarah was actually a living, breathing being, and please let her not be, then Timmy had...then Timmy had... ...well Timmy spent hours one day washing and cleaning and disinfecting Little Special Timmy--living things have diseases, you know.
For weeks and weeks Timmy did not know what to do. He was torn between his love for Sarah, and the suspicion she was alive. He couldn't eat, he couldn't sleep, he shuffled from the electroshock room to the enema room and back again. The bland songs playing on the PA even made sense to him. He was far more confused than the man who believed Pandas are really nifty animals. Pandas come from China, and there is more than one type of panda. Everybody knows about the big white-and-black kind--which are pretty spiffy in their own right. Red pandas look more like raccoons than bears, and are raccoon-sized rather than bear-sized. Red pandas are colored red, as their name implies, and probably eat bamboo just like their larger counterparts. Bamboo is stronger than concrete and grows faster than weeds, making it an ideal building material for third-world countries. Bamboo is not particularly nutritious, so pandas have to eat lots and lots of it to stay alive. that he was really just an insignificant character in some awful necrophilia story that had an essay (and a bad one at that) about panda bears halfway through one of the few sentences that made up his entire existence. Doctors called him a really sick fuck behind his back. The author probably had nightmares about this character exacting some horrible form of revenge every night he writes about him. The character probably thinks it serves the author right. Damn, that really killed the flow of the story. Well anyway, Timmy was confused. Screw you if you need another metaphor. It's hard enough trying to get back on track.
To be fair, Sarah didn't really think Doctor Melvin P. Hoffbringer was too terribly hot either. Then again Sarah didn't really think anyone was too terribly hot. Sarah didn't think much of anything; Sarah was dead. Everytime one of those recovering junkies or alcoholics or self-mutilators said her life was worth living she just rolled her eyes. Sarah knew the truth; she was as a dead as a door nail. That's why she sort of liked Timmy, sort of. Timmy knew she was dead, and that's why he loved her in his sick little way. In life she might have objected to Timmy dumping her out of her wheelchair onto his bed every time he wanted a little action. But she felt that putting up a struggle was unbecoming of a corpse. Thus Timmy was able to have way with her, and so was Doctor Melvin P. Hoffbringer. She would have told Timmy how she felt, but dead people can't speak.
Then one day day Timmy got an idea. He'd been sitting around, watching The Brave Little Toaster, and just when the radio finished talking about wiener dogs it hit him: build a cold fusion reactor out of duct tape and Sprite cans; use the energy created to flood a DARPA super-laser with massive amounts of power; direct the beam towards the sun; and, sixteen minutes later, watch the universe fall into a wormhole generated by the resulting matter/antimatter reaction and out of existence. Quickly realizing that destroying the universe would ultimately be detrimental to any of the other goals in his five-year-plan, not to mention undermining his recycling efforts, he dropped the idea. Negating all existence is really, really difficult anyway; MacGuyver probably couldn't even pull it off. So it was on to plan B, escape.
Escaping, though easier than annhilating everything imaginable, was no simple task. Timmy tried filing the bars on his window for weeks before concluding that vienna sausages can't do a damn thing to metal. Then he tried flushing himself down the toilet, but the staff pulled him out and shot him up with tranquilizers. You can imagine how stupid Timmy felt when he discovered that all he had to do was walk out of the back door. There was even a wheelchair ramp so he could bring Sarah along too. And they were out, and they were free.
The sun was on their backs (Timmy's anyway) as they went up the driveway, down the street, and away from the Cedar River facility. A half-mile away from the Cedar River facility was the Cedar Lake zoo. Timmy and Sarah stopped by to watch the cheetahs (which are known to accelerate faster than many sports cars when running down gazelles) walk lazily toward the bleeding cow chunks the staff had thrown at them. At the end of the street, past the Cedar Streams deli and the Cedar Falls authentic Japanese garden, were the Cedar Bog housing projects. Timmy and Sarah hurried past them as fast as they could. Beyond them was the Cedar Springs graveyard. When the pair arrived TImmy sat down, his head hurt and his ass was sore. A two mile walk after a year and a day of electrock and enema therapy can do that to you. Besides, doing crazy shit for almost two thousand words can get pretty tiresome. Right about now the now the confused Baby panda bears, after they get their spots, are really cute. man started sending subliminal to author (the one that no one else believes in) to get on with it and stop bitching. After all, the author was stupid enough to start the whole thing off, and, by god, he's gonna finish it.
The couple decided that Cedar Springs ought to be their home, mostly because one of them was dead and thought she should live in a graveyard like a normal deceased human being. Rather than go through the trouble of building a house or digging a hole, Timmy opted to commandeer a mausoleum. But as his life-partner was not any old corpse, not any old mausoleum would do. It had to be as perfect as she was. After hours of searching Timmy found one, and it was everything Sarah had ever wanted in an eternal resting place. First Timmy had to relocate the original inhabitants to the slightly more frugal facilities of a dilapidated dumpster. Then, after giving the place a quick once-over with a dust mop, the two little lovebirds had a home of their own.
Timmy, being a traditional male, decided that starting a family was the next logical step. Before they had children, the pair agreed, they must be in a state of fiscal independence and stability, for they knew that a child born with the burden of financial need was worth much less than one born without. After all, it's common knowledge that a joint operation by the CIA and NSA injects all welfare-family babies with a virus that alters the infant's DNA; the infant will then create proteins that will eventually destroy the individual's ability to resist television; and eventually the person will be rendered impotent and sedentary through massive doses of CRT radiation--but not until after spawning another generation of welfare recipients, creating an ugly, disgusting "demonstration" of what a global communist economy would do to humanity. Not willing to subject his offspring to any half-baked conspiracy (especially one written in a run-on sentence), Timmy began looking for work, and eventually landed a part-time job at the Sizzler. Now completely prepared to handle the cost of a child, or children should the good lord be generous, the couple was ready. Niether wanted their child to be some kind of flipper baby, they paid a visit to the local planned parenthood center.
When the lady at the Cedar Pond Planned Parenthood Place saw some weirdo rolling around a dilapidated young woman, who claimed to be dead, asking for directions on the best possible manner to concieve offspring that would not bear the complications normally associated with a deceased carrier, she was more than a little disturbed. Those right-wing right-to-life bastards had gone to far. She threw a handful of pamphlets and prophylactics and Flinstone's RU-486 Chewables at them and ran away. The lady was later spotted working for a left-wing terrorist organization dedicated to the systematic eradication of conservative activists--mostly through the post-natal abortion of aging white male fetuses, especially the ones that cut financial aid programs.
Planned parenthood being no help, Timmy and Sarah went to the library to read up on the subject. Unfortunately the library had been closed for years and was scheduled to be demolished so that a Wal-Mart Supercenter could be built on the piles of rubble and book ashes. The substandard security systems (more accurately "NO TRESSPASSING" stickers) did little to hamper the pair's entrance, and they were soon knee deep in literature devoted solely to procreation. The general consensus of many texts indicated that in order for reproduction to be possible, the man must inject his sperm into the birth canal, and his little guys would do the rest. Timmy was rather happy with that discovery; after all, he'd been doing that for ages. Hell, he'd shot her up twice that morning, and once after lunch. Further reading, however, suggested rather firmly that both partners must be living human beings, and not only that, but the female must be alive for at least six months after conception before modern science could take over. Neither spoke the entire trip home.
If Timmy was sad about the whole thing, then Sarah was totally destroyed. She was so depressed she wouldn't even let Timmy touch her, which is quite a feat for someone without a pulse. Things between them were so bad that Timmy even caught himself eyeing shovels in hardware stores. There's no telling what would have happened if Jurassic Park hadn't come along to give them hope. Timmy figured that if they could clone 65 million-year-old man-eating lizards from 65 million-year-old mosquito entrails, then certainly they manage to get Sarah to squeeze out a couple of puppies. The confused Which is not to say that baby pandas without spots are ugly. They look like little white balls, and resemble samoyed puppies or baby polar bears. They do not, however, look anything like male elephant seals. Male elephant seals are ugly and mean. Male elephant seals have tusks. Pandas also bear no apparent resemblence to early twentieth century communist propoganda. man often wonders whether or not the plot is actually going somewhere, and will usually wind up thinking (rather pessimistically) that there probably isn't a plot and the author is just making the whole thing up as he goes along, building an enourmously bad and long story about necropheliacs--who really aren't all that funny in the first place. If the plot does have a direction, he concludes, then that direction must be flying towards the ground straighter than a MIRV and faster than a 747 with faulty welding and a sea gull in an engine. For that little diversion his left leg was lost when a '72 Buick Skylark happened out of nowhere and drove right into him, snapping the leg right off, and forcing him to move about in a squeaky wheelchair. But the man held his ground anyway, firmly lifting his arms into the sky, and flipped the author the bird. And then, for no apparent reason, his penis began to wither into a tiny, useless little lump of flesh.
To make matters worse, Alcoholic Nematode Sal burst in to save the day. He said that he'd been running from an angry mob of the animated dead, and was looking for a place to hide. He and the Fat Little Hippo hid behind a mausoleum and heard mysterious "squish-squish" sounds coming from within. Always willing to ruin someone else's good time, he crashed in on Timmy and Sarah celebrating their new found hope in a rather personal manner. The Fat Little Hippo, ever ready to dump his depression onto others, explained their dire situation to the couple. They'd been drinking excessively in a bar geared toward biker surf-nazi lesbians, and Alcoholic Nematode Sal decided he wanted a dyke to shove her boot--foot and all--up his ass in the nearest available cemetery. When she had finished squirting K-Y jelly on her right Doctor Marten, the Fat Little Hippo informed the girl about his dire medical condition. She ran away. Alcoholic Nematode Sal, who had no legs and was too drunk to walk anyway, started after her and slipped on the slimy trail of lubricant that dripped from the girl's patented airwave sole. He sailed down that jelly like it was a Crocodile Mile set a downward angle of eighty-eight degrees, zipping by the tombstones faster than any other bad metaphor could possibly describe. He zipped by so fast that he quickly ran out of K-Y jelly upon which to zip and went flying into the air, over the lesbian's head, through a mausoleum's wall, and into the dilapidated (but fairly animated) corpse of Sarah.


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