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Think Insane's work in progress

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Think insane.

Joined: 26 Apr 2004
Posts: 1577
Location: Night's Plutonian shore
Think Insane's work in progress  Reply with quote  

Ok, since it's here, I'll add a little sumthin-sumthin. I've always wanted to be a writer, and I haven't let the fact that I suck stop me. So here's the start of my "novel". When I think of fan fiction, I think a fan's take on the author's work, or something based on his characters. But I'm a fan, and this is fiction (sort of), so that's good enough for me. Besides, Chris was my inspiration to start this. I figured if he can make a living at it, so can I. I mean, we're both good looking guys, right?Anyway....

Chapter 1

6:00 A.M. The alarm is going off. It’s too early. I reach over and hit the snooze button. Back to blissful oblivion.

6:09. Who is the fucking genius that made the snooze nine minutes? Why would you do that? Why wouldn’t you make it an even ten? For fuck’s sake, WHY? That is just retarded, on many different levels. I slap the button again. Back to oblivion. Sweet, sweet oblivion.

6:18. Sweet Mother of Crap, will it never end? Must I get up? Get out of this oh-so-comfortable bed, and deal with what’s next to me? I look next to me. Yep, still there. Is she sleeping through the alarm? Thinking this makes me angry. Why should I be the one responsible for hitting the snooze button? That hardly seems fair. It wouldn’t hurt for her to do her part, would it?

She looks so peaceful, laying there sleeping. Her breathing slow and regular. Her face angelic while enjoying that sweet oblivion denied to me. Has she been sleeping on my arm all night? Bitch.

I know I have to get up, but I also know that when I do, she’ll wake up. And then she will talk. And talk. And talk some more. Why didn’t she just leave like any decent person would? Of course, it’s her place, but I’m always sleepy after sex. I don’t think I am being unreasonable here. She could have at least slept on the couch, instead of putting my fucking arm to sleep. A little common fuckin’ courtesy goes a long way. I’m going to have to be proactive in controlling this situation.

“Wake up.”

No response.

“Wake up. You there, wake up. Come on.” I say.

A long, contented sigh.

“WAKE UP!” I yell, as I give her a through shaking.

She wakes with a start. For a moment, just a second, she looks scared and confused. Like something horrible is about to happen. Like there’s a monster about to jump from the closet or a murderer coming through the bedroom window. Then she looks up at me and smiles. All worry gone from her eyes. That, my friends, is not good. She snuggles against my chest, looking more content than ever. Not good at all.

Uncomfortable with the situation at hand, and for lack of anything better to say, I mention the time.

“It’s almost 6:30.”

“What?” she inquires.

“Look at the clock, it’s almost 6:30.”

“Oh my God” she says, “I have to get ready, I’ll be late for work. Did the alarm go off?”

“Of course it went off”. I reply, “I had to hit the snooze button twice.”

“Why did you do that?” She says. “You know I have to be up by six to get ready in time. Why did you hit snooze?”

“Well, because YOU didn’t hit snooze, and someone had too.” That’s it, but the blame squarely on her, where it belongs.

“But you know I have to be up.” She pouts. “You know I have to get ready for work. I don’t ever hit snooze, because I set the alarm for when I need to get up. If I wanted to sleep longer, I would set the alarm for later.”

Ah, she’s trying to baffle me with logic. I’m not having any of that shit. Time to lay it on the line. Time to overwhelm her logic with the beautiful, honest truth.

“Yeah, well, that maybe, but I don’t have to be to work until three o’clock” I retort. “And as such, there is no need for me to be up at six o’clock in the friggin’ morning.”

Her brow furrows at this notion. Her little blond brain tries in vain to process this information. What could this possibly mean? Did I put my needs before hers? Did I put my own wants and desires before her own? Am I the kind of bastard that would let this sweet girl be late for work, for no other reason than I didn’t NEED to be up so early?

“You better get moving. You’re gonna be late.” I am such a dick.

“You know, you’re a real dick”. I told you so.

I have some time to ponder my “dickness”, for lack of a better word, while she showers. Sometimes, I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. Sure, I want to be a nice guy, and truth be told, for the most part I am. I just find myself adrift in a sea of cynicism. And at times, drowning in a sea of retards. For someone that is admittedly far too sarcastic, this is a bad combination.

And for what it’s worth, I notice that I have become so sarcastic, that I don’t even bother changing the inflection of my voice. So people don’t realize I am being sarcastic. They just realize that I am a dick. Luckily, I am comfortable with that. But why I am such a dick to this girl? This sweet girl that wants nothing more than to make me happy? Who’s greatest delight seems to be making me smile? Who lets me do things to her that a Scotsman wouldn’t do to a farm animal?

I climb out of bed and pull on my jeans. Time to make amends. I stretch and crack my back and head into the kitchen. Coffee. I need to put on some coffee. I look in her cupboard, and to my dismay, I find only crap. I mean really crappy coffee. The stuff that comes in a big blue can. Now, you must understand, I am a coffee snob. I don’t just like good coffee, I relish it. I bask in the earthy aroma. I savor every delicious mouthful of the stuff. No Juan Valdez Colombian shit for me. I’ll take a nice full city roast, maybe African or Indonesian. A Kenya AA, or perhaps a Sumatra. Yeah, I would go for a nice big steaming mug of Sumatra. But I guess today, I must suffer.

I put the coffee on, and in a moment of remorse, I decided to make her some breakfast. I know that she’s running late, and at least some small part of that is my fault. The least I could do is help out a little. I check the pantry and the fridge to see what I’ve got to work with. I find a package of raspberries in the refrigerator, and a box of pancake mix. I get to work. I put the griddle on the stove, mix up the batter, add in the berries, and mix the piss out of it some more. Big dollops of the concoction go on the pan, sizzling and bubbling away. Time to flip. Ah, golden brown perfection. I scoop them onto plates, adding a pat of butter to each and every pancake. Two mugs of coffee on the table, and we are in business. I, my friends, am a culinary god.

I hear the blow drier turn off just as I set the forks on the table. I rap on the bathroom door.

“Breakfast is done”, I say.

“Oh, what, did you pour the milk into to the cereal all by yourself?”

Hmmm, at least someone remembers to change their inflection when being sarcastic.

“Well, hurry up before it gets cold.”

I head back into the kitchen and take a swig of coffee. It’s fucking gross, but I drink it anyway. What else can you do? When in Rome, I guess you drink shitty Roman coffee.

She finally saunters out of the bathroom, wrapped in her big, fluffy white robe. Her face lights up when she sees the table. All is forgiven. “Oh joy;” I think, rolling my eyes...

“This looks so yummy,” she says as she takes her place at the table.

“Where’s the syrup?”

“For what?”

“For the pancakes silly!”

“Uh, you aren’t putting syrup on those pancakes. They’ve got raspberries in them.”


“So, you don’t put syrup on raspberry pancakes. That’s gross. You’ll just fuck ‘em all up.”

“But that’s how I like them. With syrup.”

See what I mean? You just can’t be nice to some people. Fucking ingrate. You go out of your way to do something nice, to try and help out, and this is how you get repaid. Syrup on the fucking pancakes. I’ve got to get out of here.

“All right, I’ll talk to you later, I’m gonna get going.”

“Are you going to come by tonight?” she asks.

“No, I can’t, I’ve got stuff to do tonight.”

“Like what? What do you have to do at midnight?” she says.

“You know, stuff, man things, stuff you wouldn’t like, stuff you wouldn’t even understand, nor would you want to. Dark and mysterious things that women are ill prepared, nay, ill equipped to deal with. Trust me, I’m doing you a favor.”

“Well, just tell me what it is Mr. Mystery-Man.”

“I’m going to watch Multiplicity.” I say.

“Oh, my God, why do you watch that piece of shit all the time? That movie is so stupid.”

“No, you’re stupid”, I’m the undisputed Master of the Comeback.

“Oh, nice comeback.”

“Fuck you, how’s that for a comeback? Did you like that one?”

“Just leave.”

“Will do Chief! Take care, sweet-cheeks.”

And with that I’m out the fucking door, yo.
"It's like he channels dead crazy people."
-Brock Samson

thinkinsane at mac dot com
AIM: thinkpsychotic

Post Fri May 21, 2004 11:03 pm   View user's profile Send private message Send e-mail Visit poster's website AIM Address
Think insane.

Joined: 26 Apr 2004
Posts: 1577
Location: Night's Plutonian shore
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I’m walking down the street to my car, and I step in a big steaming pile of dog shit. What kind of fucked-up dog shits on the sidewalk? I mean for fuck’s sake, that’s just not right. Not fucking right at all. Don’t get me wrong, I love dogs, I like them much better than I like people, but I hope this fucker gets his balls caught in a sewer grate. Inconsiderate, vile creature. So there I stand, trying to scrape the shit of my shoe, when this guy walks by.

“Step in shit?” Don Retardo asks.

“No fuck-o, this is the latest country western dance, It’s called the dog-shit boogie.”

“That was rude”, he replies.

“Yeah, it was kinda rude; I’ll have to take that up with my fucking therapist, just as soon as we get this whole ‘beating the shit out of people who can’t mind their own fuckin’ business and ask stupid fuckin’ questions thing’ taken care of.”

And off he goes in a huff. You thought I was kidding when I said I was the Master of the Comeback. Never doubt me, for I am all that is man. Plus, if you recall, I am what the learn-ed man calls a “dick”. Nosy fuckers that interrupt me while cleaning shit off my shoes will be dealt with harshly. We tolerate no such fuckery in these parts.

With both the dog shit and the nosy fucker dealt with, I continue the long and dangerous journey down the block to my vehicle, arriving with out further incident. I have persevered. After dealing with all these challenges in my first hour of wakefulness, I have no doubt that the rest of my day will be equally shitty. Nothing good can come out of a day that starts like this. Nothing good at all. I feel pain, rage, drama, and heartbreak in the offing. But you know what? Fuck it. I don’t care anymore, because it’s like this every day. I’ve just accepted my lot in life, the fact that everyone I deal with is going to be a jackass. That I will be angered and annoyed by everyone I meet. It’s just how life goes, and all you can do is deal with it. My preferred method is to do the “Bull in a china shop” routine. Smashing my way through all that stand before me. If the only tool you have is a hammer, treat everything like a nail. Hey, I’m a pragmatist; I think everyone’s an asshole but me.

I arrive home, foul-tempered, but all is made right as soon as I open the door. I know what’s coming, and I look forward to it with undisguised glee. As soon as the door opens, Scott, my dog, my bosom buddy and life long chum, comes charging down the hall and takes a flying leap at my chest, damn near knocking me off the step. He’s such a good boy. He’s the highlight of my life these days. No matter how much of a dick I am, he just doesn’t care. It’s all good in the mind of a dog. Especially one as dumb as Scott. How dumb is he, you may ask? Well, I’ll tell you. For one thing, he thinks his name is Al. How’s that for fucked up. Motherfucker doesn’t even know his own name. How do I know what he thinks his name is? I just know. Sometimes, you have to take things on faith. This is one of those things. Besides, I’m the one that fills in his side of the conversation. He thinks what I tell him he thinks, and that seems to work pretty well for both of us. If only I could find a woman like that all would be just ducky.

Actually, that’s not true. What I really want is a woman I don’t have to think for. I want a woman that’s smart, that’s cynical. That will join in when I make fun of people on the street. I want someone that can sit and watch Multiplicity with me, and see the true genius of it. Basically, I want me with tits. Nice ones. Yeah, that’s it, not necessarily big, just nice. You know, perky. These are my thoughts as I let Scott out. I throw him on his run, and sit and ponder the woman situation as he runs around sniffing the exact same things he’s been sniffing for the last three years. I’m the first to admit, I don’t have much luck with the ladies. Don’t get me wrong; I get my fair share of snatch. That’s not what I mean. If it were just about getting laid, then everything would be great. I’ve been with plenty of women, and most of them were just fine, I guess. I realize that it’s definitely something wrong with me, as cliché as that sounds. It’s just that things don’t seem to click. Sure, we hang out, we have some fun, the banging is pretty good, but I feel unfulfilled. Holy shit, did I just say that? I must be turning into a fucking woman.

I don’t know, it’s not that I want a chick version of me, or even Scott for that matter. I just want someone that I don’t mind doing stuff with. More than that even, but someone I want to do stuff with. I need a woman that I want to spend all my time with. That doing things on the weekend doesn’t become a chore, but something I look forward too. This isn’t the musing of some poor bastard looking for love. I fall in love every day. No shit, it’s true. It happens all the time. I meet a chick, sometimes I don’t even speak to them, and there will just be… something, and BAM, I’m in love, just like that. But I want more than that kind of love, that love that’s based on looks, or the inflection in some ones voice, or the color of their eyes. Whatever that little trigger is that makes me fall in love several times a day. I want The Hammer. I want there to be no doubt in my mind that I just found the right woman. I want that ridiculous made for T.V. Sweet Valley High, sickly sweet feeling in the pit of my stomach love. And I’m not even sure if that’s love, maybe it’s more something along the lines of the best friend you could ever have, that never wants to leave your side, and yet will suck your dick as often as need be, provided your willing to go diving for oysters at a moments notice. And has great tits.

While I’m sitting there pondering my musings and what not, Scott runs up and jams his nose in my crotch. I explain to him, once again, that yes, I’m flattered, maybe even a little curious, but I don’t swing that way. Then, I again explain all the difficulties we would face, the homophobes, the bestiality-phobic, I mean what would his mother think when he brought me to her kennel for dinner? What would mine think when we spent the night at her house while visiting? Well, we do sleep together when we visit dear old mom, so she probably does think we are fucking, but that’s beside the point. She’s got issues. Scott’s oblivious to all these observations as he is busy trying to lift me by the testicles to a standing position. In order to save my self yet another mashed nut, I comply with his wishes and rise. I figure I better take him for a walk before he decides to take a shit somewhere that I might have to deal with it. I run in the house to grab his lead and adventuring we will go.

With stud boy all hooked up, we mosey on down towards the dog park. We get to the corner of Maple Ave and take a right, where Scott decides he can’t take another step without vacating his bowels. He hunkers right down for a good one and lets it fly. Satisfied that he has done The Lords work, he kicks up some sod in celebration. While he finishes his victory dance, I hear a voice, as if from the heavens above:

“Your dog just pooped in my yard.”

“Jesus?” I say as I look for the accuser. Who else could it be?

“I said, your dog just pooped in my yard” comes the voice of the All Mighty again. For some reason, I thought Jesus would sound more masculine. Huh.

“YOUR DOG JUST POOPED IN MY YARD!” Jesus is getting testy.

Looking up, I see, not The Redeemer, but some fat, middle age fag, with his saggy boobs and belly, hanging out the window.

“Yeah”, I say, “I got the memo from the Department of Redundancy Department”.


‘You’ve got a keen eye for the obvious, my friend. You should be working for the F.B.I. They could use a man with your sharp analytical mind.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“Yes”, I reply, “yes I am. Now come along Scott, and we’ll leave J. Edger here to clean up your turds.”

As we walk away I call over my shoulder “At least he didn’t shit on the sidewalk, dumb-ass. You should thank your lucky stars for that!” Some folks just don’t know how good they’ve got it.
"It's like he channels dead crazy people."
-Brock Samson

thinkinsane at mac dot com
AIM: thinkpsychotic

Post Fri May 21, 2004 11:15 pm   View user's profile Send private message Send e-mail Visit poster's website AIM Address
Think insane.

Joined: 26 Apr 2004
Posts: 1577
Location: Night's Plutonian shore
Cont.  Reply with quote  

At long last, we make the six block walk to the dog park. It’s deserted, with the exception of one girl, and what appears to be a pug. A nasty, foul little snorting creature that looks like it has not only chased, but also caught, parked cars. Scott sees this pug and takes off after it as soon as the lead is off. The pug, much to the chagrin of his owner, heads out as fast as his spindly little legs will go, snorting and huffing for all he’s worth. He’s out matched in every area but brains, but once again brawn overpowers smarts. In a matter of seconds, Scott has him pinned to the ground and humping happily away at the little flat-faced fucker.

I glance to the owner, to gauge her reaction, and ascertain if damage control will be necessary. She’s actually quite pretty, with curly shoulder length hair, almost black in color and bright blue eyes almost as pretty as mine, and a fine set of bosoms. And she’s smiling. I like it when chicks smile, especially if they are smiling about their poor pet being raped by my horrible monster of a dog.

“They seem to be getting on well enough” she says when she sees me looking.

“Yeah, they certainly do” I say.

“But what will we ever do with the pups?” she says with a truly enchanting laugh. Bam, I’m in love. Again.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about that.” I tell her. “Scott only has one nut.”

“Really, how did that come about?” she inquires. This is an all too common question when it comes to Scott’s most delicate of delicates.

“Well, I took him to get fixed, but I changed my mind halfway through.” I tell her. “I just didn’t have to heart to castrate my buddy like that.”

“Really?” she asks. “I bet he thanks God every night that you came to your senses almost in time.”

“Yeah, well, he’s not the type to hold a grudge.” I tell her, “plus he’s a little stupid, and I don’t think he knows he’s supposed to have two. He’s good like that.”

“You don’t say”, my new enchantress says with an ear-to-ear grin. Her teeth are perfect. Not just gleaming white, but straight. Nary a crooked one in the whole bunch. You have no idea how important that is in a potential mate. Teeth are very important, ask any horse breeder and they’ll tell you. I think.

“Yeah, it’s true, I think he might be ‘challenged’”, I explain.

“And what makes you think that?”

“Well, for one thing, as I mentioned, he’s as dumb as a bar bouncer”, I tell her, “and then there’s his strength. I’m not kidding, he’s about twice as strong as a dog his size should be. He definitely has that retard strength going on.”

“Is that a fact”, she says quite seriously, “packed full of chromosomes and the muscle density of a silverback gorilla?” I am totally smitten. I’m made for TV. Smitten. I’m smitten in my head, my heart, and my groin. Definitely TV smitten. And suddenly, I’m happy in my pants.

“What’s your name?”, I ask

“Wendy” she replies, and extends her hand.

“I’m Steve”, I say, as I take that oh-so exquisite hand in my own, “and Einstein over there is Scott”, I tell her, reluctant to let this perfect hand go.

“Steve?”, she asks, “did you bring me a monkey?”

Oh my fucking God. I can’t believe it. I sink to one knee, still holding that magnificent, smooth hand, look into those beautiful blue eyes, and say, “Wendy, will you marry me?”

She smiles that lovely smile, and says, “Not before breakfast, what kind of girl do you take me for?”

So there I sit, with this dark haired buxom beauty, this woman who is a total smartass, that knows Multiplicity well enough to quote it, who has stolen my heart.

“So”, she says, “What’s the deal with Scott. Give me the scoop.”

“Well”, I start, “he’s three years old, he has one nut, he’s dumber than a bag of hammers, and he’s my best buddy. And he thinks his name is Al.”

“Are you sure? About the Al thing?”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure all right. We go through it a lot. He won’t accept his name is Scott.”

“Why’s that?”, she asks.

“I don’t know”, I tell her, “he’s just stubborn like that. Once he decides something, there’s no telling him otherwise. People always think I’m crazy or being a wiseass when I tell them that, but it’s true. If you call him Scott, he ignores you, but if you call him Al, he comes running. Try it if you don’t believe me.”

“No, I believe you”, she says, “maybe he’s not as dumb as he lets on, maybe it’s all just a ruse.”

“Oh no, I’ve considered that, but seriously, it’s no act. He’s that dumb…”

“Hmmm. What kind of dog is he? Some kind of Shepard mix?”

“Nope, he’s a pure bred Belgian Malinois”, I explain.

“What’s Malinois mean?” she asks.

“It’s Flemish for ‘sounds French.’”

“That makes sense”, she says, “I was thinking it was French for ‘sounds pretentious.’”

“A common misconception”, I assure her, “but I can safely say there is absolutely no pretension in that dog. He’s as down to earth as they come. I mean look at him banging on your pug. Does that look like snobbish behavior to you?”

“No, it certainly doesn’t look pretentious”, she says, “but it does look painful. Do you think there has been actual penetration?”

I survey the situation.

“I would have to say not yet.” I tell her, “I think if there had, there would be a lot more noise coming out of both of them. I mean, that’s a pretty little dog and all, and Scott tends to be quite vocal when he has his happiest moments.”

“Yeah, me too”, she says.

Did I mention how happy I am in my pants? It would probably be in everyone’s best interest if I didn’t stand up right now. For fuck’s sake, she’s beautiful, smart and sassy in that Cosmo sorta way, and has really nice tits. She’s a goddess, and I’m not worthy. My God, I don’t even know what to do, what to say. For the first time in my life, I am speechless. The only thought going through my head is “don’t fuck this up”, which pretty much guarantees that, yes, you guessed it, I will indeed fuck it up. It seems predetermined. Because God hates me.

“So tell me about yourself, Dorothy, and your little dog too.”

“Well”, she starts, “let us clear something up right up front. That little sodomy victim is NOT mine. That’s my mother’s dog. I claim no responsibility for it or it’s actions.”

“Duly noted.” I assure her. I can’t really blame her for wanting to clear that up.

“Other than that”, she continues, “I just moved back here from Portland. I’m 25, a currently out of work photographer and graphic designer, I’m living with my mother, who is quite insane, and I haven’t had sex in over a year. Guys seem to be scared of me. I mean, sure, they want to get to know me, they maybe even want to fuck me, but as soon as I start mocking them, being a smart-ass, say something over their heads, or even just speak, they head for the hills, tails between their legs.”

“Really?” I tell her, “That’s kinda funny, because I was just thinking:
1. You are incredibly beautiful.
2. I love that sarcastic, smart-ass thing you’ve got going on.
3. I would really like to bend you over my couch and bang the Jesus out of you.”

“Wow, that’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me. Seriously.”

“Well baby, get used to it, cause I’m a romantic.”

“I think I could get used to it at that.” And suddenly, I’m a happy guy.

“You wanna go get some coffee?” I ask.

“I thought you were never gonna ask.”
"It's like he channels dead crazy people."
-Brock Samson

thinkinsane at mac dot com
AIM: thinkpsychotic

Post Fri May 21, 2004 11:23 pm   View user's profile Send private message Send e-mail Visit poster's website AIM Address
Miss Betty

Joined: 02 Mar 2004
Posts: 359
Location: Outskirts of Da 'Burgh
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ok - I actually read thru all of this -- very good actually -- I'm kinda of suprised -- being a coffee house brawler and all - but very good. Very Happy
Blessed are the cracked ... for they let in the light. - Maxine

Post Sat May 22, 2004 3:53 pm   View user's profile Send private message Send e-mail Visit poster's website AIM Address Yahoo Messenger
Think insane.

Joined: 26 Apr 2004
Posts: 1577
Location: Night's Plutonian shore
Cont.  Reply with quote  

The response has been good, so here's some more:

So with that, Wendy, Scott, Silly (what kind of retarded name is that?) and I head of for a few cups of the sacred juice. Who knows what lies ahead? If I was a betting man, I would say some coffee and conversation, followed closely by some hot sex with my future wife. Works for me. Although I’m not sure how well received this will be by the future Mrs. Steve Sullivan, so I inquire.

“After coffee, you want to go back to my house and get all sweaty and naked?”

“Only if you’re buying the coffee,” she tells me.

“Hell, I’ll buy you a blueberry turn-over.”

“Make it apple, and you can sodomize me…”

“I love you.”

“Yeah, I noticed”, she says with a smile. “You be a good boy, and who knows what wonderful things will come your way.” All I can do is smile, like the retard that I am.

We take a detour on the way to the coffee house so she can drop Silly off at her mom’s. They live pretty far from the dog park, but the walk is kinda nice. Scott has found a novel way to amuse himself by sticking his snout between the pug’s hind legs and flipping him over while he walks. This gives the three of us, you know the three that aren’t getting flipped over, a good chuckle. A good time was had by all, well, except Silly. But who cares about that?

I am surprised when, as we are walking, Wendy takes my hand. It’s not like I’ve never held hands with a girl before, because I have you know. But this is different, and I realize that it’s because I don’t mind holding hands with her as we walk along. I like it. I don’t ever want to let go. My friends, I have been smashed with The Hammer. I think this is it.

We chat as we make our way to her mom’s, about everything in general. How she moved to Portland with some guy, who she thought she loved but turned out to be a complete tool, and a violent tool at that. How he sold her car and made her lose her job. So two weeks ago, she packed a bag and headed back to New York. So, of course she comes back, no friends, no job, just a crazy mom and a pug for company. Apparently, all these circumstances have left her vulnerable to the misguided affections of Scott and myself. Oh yes, my Droogs, Scott is quite smitten too. And it shows. As a matter of fact, he’s had his nose in her crotch so much that I am becoming slightly jealous. We’ll discuss that in private though. I don’t want to have to fight him over her, but I will.

We get to her mom’s house and she asks if I would like to meet my future mother-in-law. Hey, I’m game for anything. I mean, she says the woman is crazy, but I’m used to dealing with that at work. Well get into that more later.

I tie Scott of on the porch rail, and accompany this goddess inside. Silly little Silly seems exceptionally happy to no longer be sodomized or forced to perform acrobatics that he is ill equipped for. He takes off down the hall all snorts and huffs, thrilled to be free of the tyranny of large dogs.

“Mom, we’re back,” she calls.

“OK dear,” comes the reply, “did you have a good time?”

“Yeah, I made a friend,” Wendy calls out to the ether, “Come meet him. He’s cute and I think I’m going to let him breed me.” My friends, I am afraid to say I blushed a bit at that. I am a tough guy to embarrass, but having the future Mrs. Sullivan introduce me to her mother as someone up for stud was enough to do it. And it didn’t go unnoticed. I got that winning smile.

Mrs. … Wendy’s mom, made her appearance. She doesn’t look to crazy, but I know from considerable experience that looks can indeed be deceiving. She was kind of pretty in that MILF sort of way, but we won’t dwell on that. My heart belongs to another.

“Hello,” she said.


“Oh my, he’s a talker, isn’t he?”

“Oh, he talks,” said Wendy.

“Well then, I am Jean. You may call me Mrs. Spencer,” she said, extending her hand. “Is it true that you’re going to breed my daughter?”


“If things go according to plan.”

“Well, that’s nice. And your name is?” she asks.

“I’m sorry,” I say as I release the proffered hand, “I’m Steve Sullivan.”

“Well it’s nice to meet you Steve. I’ll let you kids get about your business then. Have fun and be careful,” she said as she turned and waked away.

“Come on,” Wendy says, “lets go get that coffee.”

“Yeah, lets”

We free Scott from his bondage, and head down the street. Once again, to my unabashed delight, she takes my grubby paw in her own perfectly sculpted hand. It’s damn near heavenly. Rapture and all that. I swear it’s true. I have been smote, to speak in the most biblical terms. I’m Adam, she’s Eve, and we are going to stuff ourselves on apples. Oh, the apples we shall eat. Golden delicious, Macintosh (mmmmm Powerbooks), Empires, you name it, and we are going to munch serpent endorsed lust fruit until we are gorged and sated, then we are going to eat some more. Sorry, I get carried away sometimes.

“So Steve, tell me about yourself, “ she said

“Well, not much to tell really. I’m 29, I have a twin sister named Megan that moved to San Francisco to become some sort of liberal-hippy-lesbian-environmentalist hybrid. My mom lives in Arizona, and my father died when I was 11. He was a total fucking cock. After High school, I joined the Marine Corps, did my time, went to college, and became a History Teacher. I hated that, so after a year, I quite, and got my current job as a guard at the state hospital.”

“By ‘state hospital’ do you mean the ‘hospital for the criminally insane?’” she asks.

“Yeah, that’s the one, although the PC storm troopers don’t like it called that anymore.” I explain, “It’s now the Upstate Maximum Security Forensic Mental Health Facility.”

“Yeah, I can see that” she says. “I mean you wouldn’t want to offend the ax murderers or anything. So, you’re like a security guard or something?”

“Not exactly,” I tell her. “We’re sworn peace officers, with full police powers on site or any job related duties off premises.”

“So you’re a cop?”

“Not really, more along the lines of a corrections officer, but with expanded duties. Currently, I’m a sergeant with our E.R.T.” I tell her.

“What’s an ‘ert’?” she asks

“Emergency Reaction Team. It’s our equivalent of a SWAT team. If there is a problem, like an out of control patient, we go in and punish the wrong doer.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“It has its moments.” I tell her with a smile.

We arrive at the coffee shop, and I even hold the door for her, because I’m a fucking gentleman. At this point, Scott goes batshit. He loves the coffee shop because everyone there feels the need to feed him whatever tasty morsels they happen to be snacking on. He literally mops the floor with his tongue, much to the chagrin of Jen, the owner, who must then mop for real or suffer the wrath of the health department. As we enter, Jen manages to flip me the finger, while simultaneously tossing a dog biscuit to Scott, who happily snatches it out of mid-air.

“What’s up Hootchie?” I inquire.

“Nothing fucker. Who’s your friend?” she asks.

“Wendy, Jen, Jen, Wendy.” I make the introductions. “I’m gonna marry her. But first we are going to have some coffee and then go have sex.”

“Do you have apple turnovers?” asks Wendy. “Because I promised that if he bought me one, he could sodomize me.” A customer sitting at a table has overheard this and sprays coffee all over the place. It even came out of his nose. No shit, I’m serious. I love this girl…

“Isn’t that sweet?” Jen says. “It must be love.” She adds with a grin. “But, I hate to break it to you stud, we are out of apple. But we have cherry, and that somehow seems… appropriate…”

“Oh my, you’ve misunderstood” Wendy notes. “It’s been an awful long time since me and my cherry have been on speaking terms. It’s long gone and not missed. Although lately, it’s seemed as if it was about to grow back.”

“I know the feeling honey, if it wasn’t for the Lickin’ Lizard, I think mine would have healed over.”

“What, may I ask, is the ‘Lickin’ Lizard’?”

“Only the greatest sex toy ever invented.” Jen explains. “It’s got ten different functions, twists and rotates as well as vibrates, and has a little lizard on the end with its tongue extended that flicks back and forth on the good spot. Wait, I’ll show you.” Jen says as she heads into the back.

“She seems nice.” Wendy tells me.

“Yeah, she’s a cool chick. We’ve been friends for a long time.” I tell her. “I figured you two would hit it off pretty well.”

Jen returns, with said instrument in hand. Mr. Coffee-out-the-nose seems quite flustered by all this. He looks like a man confused, rattled by contradictions. His brain wants to flee, but his dick screams stay. It’s not his fault; he’s a guy. While the rational part of him thinks this is grossly inappropriate for a business, for the proprietor no less, the irrational part, the part that does most of the thinking, his johnson, thinks he should stay because of the chance of hot lesbian sex breaking out right here on the floor. I’m siding with this guy’s dick. I love that lesbian shit…

“Can I see it?” My little Wenders asks.

“Sure” said Jen. “it's the best, I just finished using it when I went to stock the cookies.” More coffee out the nose, and this proves too much for our hero. He’s out the door like a shot and Scott wastes no time finishing off his half-moon cookie.

“I hate to interrupt you wanton hussies” I gladly interrupt, “but I would like some fucking coffee.”

“I’m sorry,” Jen says, “all I heard was ‘blah blah blah’. Did you want something?”

“Yes, I would like a cup of fucking coffee. Real coffee, cause all I got this morning was shit in a cup, and I’m not happy about it. Although recent developments have remedied a lot of such of wrongs in my life.” I explain, giving a little sideways nod towards Wendy. Jen, being a bright lass, catches my meaning quite clearly. And she’s smiling. My girl looks out for me.

“So don’t you two just make a cute couple?” My dear Jennifer intones. “When did you two meet, what with all this talk of marriage and sodomy and all?“

“A couple of hours ago.” Wendy replies. “We met at the dog park. I think he might have been with someone else, cause he absolutely reeks of sex, but I thought that was kinda hot. Plus, he’s pretty funny, with his little story about the dog only having one nut. How can a girl resist?” Oh, believe me friends, plenty have resisted.

“It’s not a story, take a look. Al who is called Scott has but one nut.” I say. “Check it out, he won’t mind. I actually think he likes it. The only thing that was made up is the whole coming-to-my-senses-in-the-middle-of-the-vasectomy thing. He’s really got two, but the other one never dropped, so by appearance, he’s a one nutted dog.”

“Yep, it’s true.” Adds Jen.

“Really?” Wendy asks, incredulous.

“Oh yeah. It’s his cross to bear. Mine too, come to think of it, always having to explain his most deficient of deficiencies.”

I take a look around for said one nutter, and find him under another customer’s table, alternating between licking crumbs off the floor and jamming is snout up the skirt of the little college chick sitting there. And she doesn’t seem to notice, or at least not to mind that she’s being violated. God bless her slutty heart.

“Do you have a restroom I can use?” Wendy asks.

“No, we piss in a bucket.” Jen says with a grin. “What kind of place do you think this is?” These two are going to get along famously, my future wife and my bestest of friends. “Top of the stairs on the right.” Jen tells her.


“So, fucker, fill me in.” Jen says. “What’s the story with all this?”

“Man, I don’t know.” I tell her. “Today started out all fucked up. There were issues with that little bimbo from work I’ve been poking, I stepped in dog shit. Some guy asked me if I stepped in dog shit, which pissed me off, some old queer gave Scott a hassle for taking a dump in his yard, and then I met her. I shit you not, I am so fucking in love with this girl, it’s not even funny. I feel like I am going to start giggling until I puke and pass out. I’ve been rendered speechless and I’ve been forced to blush. All in like two hours. I’m telling you, this is fucked. It’s fucking fucked, to be precise. And all I know is, I want to spend the rest of my life with this chick. A chick I met a couple of hours ago, and the thought of being with anyone else is utterly repellent.”

“That’s nice,” she says.

“That’s nice? That’s fucking nice? You fucking twit! It’s not nice. It’s incredible! It’s fan-fucking-tastic! It should be on C-fucking-N-fucking-N.”

“Golly Beav, that’s swell.” She replies. Fucking smartass.

“God damn right that’s swell,” I rant on. “If it wasn’t swell, it’d be me under that table licking that girls naughty bits instead of the dog. And what the hell are you running here, a bordello?.”

At this, our young friend looks up, blushing scarlet.

“I’m sorry, shall I leave?” she asks.

“No no honey, your ok.” Jen reassures her, while punching me in the chest. “He’s got a big tongue and he’s enthusiastic. You won’t find that often, so enjoy it while you can.” What an intergalactic fucking freak show this place is.

Wendy comes running down the stairs, and exclaims she's 'feeling frisky'.

"Can we get that coffee to go?"

“Can’t he stay a little longer?” our little undergrad friend asks?

“Sorry,” I say, “but I’ve got needs of my own to attend too.” I call Scott, but he ain’t budging. I even call him Al, to no avail. Finally, I get down on my hands and knees, and go under the table to get him. I have to give him credit, he is stubborn. I notice while trying to yank him out from under the table that Little Miss Thing has a damn near transparent thong on under that skirt. Slut.

“Nice vadge,” I compliment her, yanking my erstwhile companion out from her nether regions. “I like the trim. Very neat.”

“Thanks,” she says. I feel like I am in another dimension. Seriously, when does shit like this happen in real life?

“Bathroom.” Jen commands, dropping The Lizard in front of the little jezebel. She just nods, picks up and heads up stairs.

“I think you missed your calling, my dear,” I tell her. She just smiles and pours us a couple of to go cups.

“It was nice to meet you Wendy, will we be seeing you again?”

“I think so.’” She says. “I kind of dig this big asshole, so I am sure I will be around, unless he doesn’t want me.” Delivered with a heartbreakingly authentic fake pout. God damn, I don’t even know what to say, so I just give my charming retard grin. I get stupid on the leash, take my girl by the hand, and step through the door. Just as it starts to close, we hear “Oh YES!!!”

“That's a really good vibrator.” Wendy says with grin.
"It's like he channels dead crazy people."
-Brock Samson

thinkinsane at mac dot com
AIM: thinkpsychotic

Post Sat May 22, 2004 5:17 pm   View user's profile Send private message Send e-mail Visit poster's website AIM Address
Think insane.

Joined: 26 Apr 2004
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Location: Night's Plutonian shore
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We take the long way back to my place, just walking along, holding hands. Not really talking too much. This seems kind of strange, but I feel so comfortable with her, it feels like I’ve known her for years, not hours. Who would have thought that after this morning, sitting there doing my “woe’s me, I’m gonna die alone” routine, I would meet the perfect girl. I mean chances are good that I will fuck this up, but for right now I am a very happy man. I am relaxed, content, and grinning like a fool. For whatever it’s worth, Wendy looks fairly content herself.

“What are you thinking?” I ask.

“Oh, nothing,” she says. “just thinking.” Now, for the first time, she looks like she’s a little embarrassed. It’s a good look for her. But aren’t they all?

“Well, what are you ‘just thinking’ about?” I am nothing if not persistent.

“It’s nothing really”, she says kind of sheepishly. “I was just thinking about this. About us. I mean, we’ve just met, but I think I am really quite taken with you. I mean, it’s more than just sexual attraction. I think your funny, You’re sweet, with a wickedly sarcastic sense of humor. I feel like I’ve known you forever. I feel like you would never hurt me, that you would do anything to keep me safe, but not in that smothering sort of way. I don’t know, maybe I’m just projecting all the qualities that I wished Jim had onto you.”

“I’m guessing that Jim is the tool in Portland,” I say.

“Yeah, that’s him.” She confirms. “I thought he was nice at first too. He seemed like he was a good guy, but I never noticed until later that it was so… forced. He had to make an effort at it. And it was never so important that he actually be a good guy, but that he appeared to be one. And I noticed that it felt fake, but I had been alone for so long, I just wanted to be with someone. I’m never going to let that happen again. After the first time he hit me, I knew that’s it better to be alone than to settle for someone that’s truly awful. At least with you, I don’t get any sense that you’re faking anything. You seem very genuine, and completely unconcerned with what anyone thinks about you.”

“Well, that’s true to a point, I guess. I mean,” I continue, “I want to make a good impression on you, I just don’t even know how to go about putting on airs. I can’t pretend to be something I’m not, and to do so would be unfair to both of us. And Scott too, as he gets confused very easily. So, I just will be me, and hope that’s good enough, and although I know in my heart that I will fuck this up somehow, I’ll just keep trying. About the best I can do is I’ve made a concerted effort not to spit on the ground in front of you.”

“You say the sweetest things,” she says. “Have you really not spit because of me?”

“Yeah, I’m a total fucking gentleman like that.”

“Come here you big jerk,” she says, pulling me to her. She kisses me, not that searching for the tonsils type of kiss, but soft, gentle. Lingering. I like it, and kiss her back whole-heartedly. It’s the best kiss ever. Romeo and Juliet wish they had kissed like this. Everyone should, one day, have a kiss this wonderful, because if they don’t, they will die unfulfilled. If Gandhi never kissed a woman like this, then his life was pointless. Seriously, it’s a good fucking kiss.

While in the middle of this rapturous kiss to end all kisses, my boy Scott, my bosom buddy, my life long chum, my faithful companion, see something so irresistible, so marvelous and wonderful, so mystifying, that he can’t control himself, makes a break for it. Apparently this item of unrequited beauty that has transfixed him moves to my right, and as he runs to seek his grail, he manages to wrap his lead around my legs and makes a run for the river. His mad dash comes up short however, due to the simple fact that in the process, he pulls us off balance and we all come tumbling down in a heap on top of him. That’s ok by him though, as he has the attention span of a goldfish. He just takes advantage of an opportunity to lick Wendy’s face. We laugh, as Scott licks happily away, tail just a waggin’.

I help her up, laughing, and just all around feeling pretty good about things. It’s nice. Yeah, I know I’ve said that, but really, it’s been a long time since I have felt this good, and nice is the best word for the situation. I have never felt so comfortable with someone before, so if nice is the word I want to use, well, fuck you guys, deal with it.

Back on our feet, we continue the walk to my place. Scott is busy sniffing everything he comes across, and that slows our progress a bit. That’s ok though, as I feel like I have all the time in the world. Of course, I’m supposed to be to work at three, but truth be told, I really don’t see that happening.

My building is right along the river, in the newly developed “arts and entertainment” section of town. Until a couple of years ago, it was nothing but a bunch of dilapidated old factories and warehouses. Nothing too impressive, it looked like the whole area was going to be razed, when some smart developers, taking a cue from their brethren in other cities around the country, started renovating the eyesores into theaters, restaurants, and storefronts. The transformation has been quite tremendous, a huge improvement over all. And it was a boon to me personally as well, since I not only own the building I live in, but two others in the area. All thanks to my long dead cock of a father. He was a real-estate developer himself, and bought up twelve of the vacant buildings on the waterfront. His plan was just to rip them down and hold the land waiting for a drug store chain to come and offer him top dollar for the lots. The man, in addition to being a cock, had no foresight at all. The buildings are worth a hundred times more than they would have been if he had completed the plan. Good thing he died when he did.

We make it to my building, and Wendy looks suitably impressed.

“You live here?” she asks. “You must be paying a fortune in rent.”

“I own it,” I explain.

“Oh, is it a co-op or something?”

“No, I actually own the building.” I tell her. “And the one next door and another around the corner.” She looks a little incredulous. “Seems like a pretty big expense for a cop in a loony bin.” I tell her my tale, just as I have told you.

“Really,” she asks, “You aren’t putting me on? You really own this? That’s so cool! Take me inside, I want to see it!”

My building is a three story former piano warehouse. The top floor is where I live, and has it’s own entrance. The second floor has four one-bedroom loft type apartments. The ground level houses a small art gallery and the owner, Denise’s studio, as well a studio and show room of a glass blower named Pete. Although I am not really all that artsy of a guy, I like having these folks as tenants. I think they bring a certain sense of cool to my home. Where others have opted to have bars and restaurants in there downstairs locations, I have something with a little bit of style. A little character. Besides, I really like their work, and I hook them up with much better rents than they would get from any other landlord in the area. It’s win-win. I actually rent the four apartments up stairs for far below the market rate. I’m not looking to get rich, and it makes me feel better about being so picky about who I rent to. I don’t extend this to the other two properties. They go for market rate. I’m only picky about the building I live in.

We enter through the side door, which has a long hallway and a stairway at the end. I let Scott of the lead, and he takes off at a run for the stairs, visions of water and dog food racing through his head, I’m sure. We follow, but I’ve got visions of other things racing through my head. What, did you think I forgot all that coffee shop stuff? Hell no, I’m gonna get me some! Oh yeah…

We head up the stairs into the loft. I’ll give you the basic layout. When you come up the stairs, you’re in the kitchen. It’s not really the kitchen, as it’s just one giant room. The kitchen and the living room are joined together in a large open space, with my bedroom on the south end of the space. It’s really a great loft, with floor to ceiling windows on both sides, one side looking out over the mouth of the river as it enters the lake and the other facing our newly emerged arts and entertainment district. The view alone would command a huge rent, and add in the 2600 square feet, and I could make a fortune just on this one apartment. I have four others in the building, so it’s a pretty sweet deal. Thanks Dad, you cunt.

We enter in and Wendy takes stock of the place. She seems duly impressed. This pleases me. Not that I want to impress her with my material things, it’s not like that. I’m just really proud of my place. I know that sounds stupid and all, but I am. I’ve put a lot of work into the place.

“Oh my God”, she says. “This place is incredible. Your dad really left this to you?”

“Well, not exactly, my dad left me a festering eyesore that I turned into this”, I explain. “There were twelve buildings total, each and everyone a complete shithole. Meagan, my sister sold her six out right, took the cash and split for California. I sold three of mine, the ones I thought were the least desirable, to a developer, and used the money from that to refinish the three I wanted to keep. The developer I sold the other buildings to, the one that came up with this whole waterfront revitalization thing, hooked me up with an awesome architect, who drew up the plans to redo the buildings I have left. Since this is the one I wanted to live in, it far and away got the most attention. The others are nice too, but this is the flagship of my land barony.”

“That is so cool. I wish I could have all this at such a young age. I can’t even get a fucking job around here.”

“Well, it’s not like I really worked for it. It got left to me, and luckily by the time I got out of the Corps they were heavy into the development of the area, so the timing all worked out right. I dumped the property I didn’t want, and worked with the architect to design these places while I was going to school. It’s not like I really earned them or anything. I just got lucky.”

“Even so, I am jealous. I don’t have anything, not even a car. I haven’t had any luck finding a job, and it’s so depressing. I mean, it’s not like I begrudge you your good fortune or anything. I just feel lost lately. It drives me crazy. I hate feeling like this.”

I take her hand and walk over to the sofa, sitting and pulling her down next too me.

“Alright, let’s take a look at this and see what we can figure out,” I say. “What is that you want out of life, or at least what do you want right now?”

“I don’t know, and I guess that’s part of the problem. I want to be happy, as trite and cliché as that sounds. I want a job I love, maybe my own business. I am good at what I do, and could make a go of it, except I really have no idea how to run a business, and I sure as fuck don’t have any money to get started. It’s very frustrating, to know what you want and be totally clueless about how to get it.”

“I can relate to that”, I say, leaning back and putting my feet up on the coffee table. “The day I was discharged from the service, it hit me that I had no idea what I was going to do. I mean, I planned on going to college, but I was evaluating my job skills. I was a Scout/Sniper in the Marine Corps, and I realized that there probably wasn’t a whole lot of openings for that particular skill set in the civilian world. Most companies don’t run an ad in the paper that read, ‘Seeking strong candidate, good motivational skills, ability to work unsupervised and eliminate targets of opportunity from distances greater than 1200 yards’. It just wasn’t in the cards. So at least you’ve got me on that. You are good at what you do and you like it. There is a market for it, even if it isn’t readily apparent.”

“I guess so, it’s just so much easier to be all doom and gloom about things. It’s easy for you to stay positive, you’ve got all this already.”

“Believe me, all this aside, I have plenty of doom and gloom moments”, I tell her. “Maybe not about money things, or job stuff, but just life in general. Shit, this morning, I was sitting out there on the step thinking about how I was never going to find the right person, that I would have to settle for someone just because they didn’t annoy me too much. Then 20 minutes later, I met you and have a whole new outlook on life. And I know that sounds stupid, but it’s true. I feel like a weight has been lifted off of me, even if nothing comes of this. Every once in a while, you just need a little something to reaffirm that all is not lost.”

“You know what?” she asks.

“What’s that?”

“I want to take a shower. Care to join me?”

“Yes, yes I would…”

Ok kids, I know you want all the dirty details, and all I can say if too fucking bad. Let’s just leave it at it was the single most incredible experience of my life. Life altering, if you will. I know how the masters felt upon completion of their most definitive works. I know what it must have been like to plant your flag in a new land, how it must have felt to discover the cure for polio. I feel like I accomplished something far above and beyond getting my rocks off. It was fucking special.

I know what your thinking, how could it have been all of that? Once again, it’s something that must be taken on faith, knowing that I would never lie to you, my dearest friends. I feel like a new man, all doubts cast aside. I’m optimistic in ways that I haven’t been since childhood. I am content, happy in my own skin. Things couldn’t be better. Except for one minor detail. Wendy is a man. Naw, just fucking with you. I just have to take care of work.

“I need to call into work”, I say.

“You don’t have to do that,” she replies, “we have plenty of time to get to know each other and do things.’

“You’re right, of course, but I’m calling in anyway.”

I grab the phone of the nightstand and dial up the office.

“Public Safety, can I help you?”

“Jean, It’s Steve, I need to speak to the lieutenant.”

“He’s in a meeting right now, you wanna leave him a message?”

“Yeah, tell him that I won’t be in today. Tell him my stigmata is acting up.”

“Ok, I’ll give him the message. I hope you feel better. Try some soup.” I don’t know if she is kidding or not. Could go either way with this broad. She’s got a good sense of humor, but she’s not too sharp either.

“I will. Thanks babe.” I say and hand up the receiver.

“Babe?” Wendy asks. “Is there something I need to know?”

“Yeah, I probably should have said something earlier, but I am hopelessly smitten with our 57 year old dispatcher. She weighs about 350, but she’s got a good personality.” I explain. This elicits a chuckle, and that makes me happy. Lots of things make me happy today.

“So, what shall we do today?” I ask.

“I’m feeling a little hungry. How about we get something to eat?”

“I’m good with that, do you have anything in particular in mind? If you want, I could make you up a protein shake…” I tell her with a wicked smile.

“No thanks, I need a meal, not a snack.” Brutal.

“Come on, get your lazy ass up out of bed and lets go get us some food.”

“What are you in the mood for?” I ask.

“I don’t know, really anything.” She replies. “I’m a vegatartian, but I can usually find something I can eat in any restaurant.”

“Great, your one of those…”

“One of what?” She says, with a dubious stare.

“A vegetarian. You eat what food eats.”

“You shouldn’t eat meat. Animals are too cute to eat.”

“If they weren’t supposed to be eaten, they wouldn’t be made out of food.” I explain, once again demonstrating my firm grasp of logic.

“Oh, well I can’t argue with that. I better call PETA and let them know. Who would have thought they could have gotten it so wrong.”

“Come on smartass, lets go get some food,” I say with a smile. I sure am smiling a lot today. Weird, huh?

We get up out of bed and begin to dress. I have to pause, pants half on, just to admire her. She is perfect in every way. She’s tall, her hair perfectly framing her face. Skin the color of alabaster; it seems to glow from something inside. She notices me staring.

“What are you looking at perv?”

“You, I can’t help it.” I tell her.


“Because you are perfect. Seriously, in everyway. I could spend my whole life searching for a girl that looks like you and never find her. And then one day I just happen to find her at the fucking dog park, of all places. Next thing you know, my dog rapes hers, and a conversation ensues. Turns out that this most perfect of women is also the coolest chick I have ever met. I’m thinking fate, kismet, serendipity if you will.”

“Stop it, you’re embarrassing me.”

“I’m serious.” I tell her. “Don’t be so modest. You have to know how wonderful you are.”

“You think so now, but that will change. I’m stubborn, and I can be very difficult to deal with. I don’t respond well to compliments, because I am not used to getting them, and I never know if they’re sincere or not.”

“I will never give you a compliment that you don’t deserve, I promise. I’m a very honest guy.”

“Is that a fact, Mr. Afflicted With Stigmata?”

“Work lies don’t count, Jesus said so. It’s in the bible.”

“Yeah, I must have missed that part in church school,” she says, again showing me that beautiful smile. Foul temptress.

While all this has been going on, we have managed to get our things on. Lunch is the rule of the day, and we head off in search of something tasty. We head down Lake St. walking hand in hand. I am amazed at how totally comfortable I am with this woman. I know it sounds trite, and I know I have said this before, but it’s quite unusual. I don’t even know what to make of this, and I’m trying not to think about it too much, and just enjoy it for what it is. Even if I never see her again, I will die happy, with the memory of this one perfect day.

“You just stepped in dog shit,” Wendy says.

“What the fuck! What is this, fucking retarded dog day? If I was the paranoid type, I would think it’s a conspiracy or some shit.” I say this as I try and scrape the shit of my Doc’s on the curb. While I am so occupied, a scruffy little mutt comes strolling by.

“Did you do this?” I ask him.

No response, which just bolsters my suspicions. He just stops and cocks his head at me.

“Do you always talk to animals?” Wendy asks.


“Ok, just checking.” Again with the smile. She’s killing me with these smiles. Usually people just scowl at me.

Feeling all rumbly in my tumbly, to quote Kaiser Pooh-bear, I make a command decision and pick the first place we come too. A little bistro style café with great sandwiches. I don’t know what kind of vegetarian fare they have, but that’s not my fault. She said she could find something to eat anywhere.

We head inside and find a table at the window. Its got a nice view of the river, and it’s sort of romantic. It’s a good place for our first meal together. We seat ourselves and look at our menus. I can’t help but sneak glances at Wendy. I feel kind of childish, giving her these sly glances, that is until I catch her doing the same thing. Well, I still feel childish, because I feel like a schoolboy with his first crush. This is so odd, so out of character for me. If someone had told me yesterday that I would be sitting here, completely smitten, just waiting for my heart to get broken, I would have laughed and called them mad. Things like that just don’t happen to me. I have been around the world, spent time with many a beautiful women, and I mean some good quality, naked time, and I have never felt this strongly about anyone. The irony does not escape me…

The waitress comes to offer us drinks and tasty treats. I get water, with a lemon, because I am a pretentious asshole, and Wendy, not the pretentious sort at all gets a diet cola. Why didn’t I think of that?

“Water with a lemon, eh, fancy-boy?” she inquires.

“Well, you know, the water here tastes like ass, so the lemon helps.” I swear to Christ, this girl can read my mind. And I like it.

“So, what are you having?” I ask.

“I don’t know, maybe the mozzarella and tomato sandwich.”

“That sounds good, maybe I’ll get the same thing, but substitute roast beef for the mozzarella and bacon for the tomato.”

“Mmmmm, that sounds fucking gross”, the Queen of My Nights intones, a dreamy look in her eyes. She’s the best!

“Yeah”, I explain, “bacon is my favorite vegetable.”

“Isn’t that sweet,” she said. “You’re so dumb you think the flesh of swine is a vegetable.”

“Yep.” I reply, beaming proudly. “I’m the dumbest motherfucker goin’.”

‘Sir? Could you watch your language?” the waitress calls across the room.

“Um. No.” I tell her, annoyed at having such a deep and meaningful conversation interrupted. Now I’ve lost my train of thought. Where was I again? Oh yeah, how dumb I am.

“See, now you know where Scott gets it. It’s genetic.”

“So, you’re Al’s biological father?”

“Maybe I am.” I tell her with a knowing wink. “Maybe I am…” She laughs at this and tells me that I am such a tool. Maybe she’s right, maybe I am a tool. But I’m a smart, sassy, well-hung tool. I’m a well-hung tool with a great sense of humor, and indelible sense of right and wrong, and a wicked cool loft. I am the greatest tool the world has ever seen. Behold my toolness, worship it, fear it, as it is more awesome than you can comprehend. I’m sorry, I think I wandered off on a tangent.
"It's like he channels dead crazy people."
-Brock Samson

thinkinsane at mac dot com
AIM: thinkpsychotic

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