Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Sleep Trouble

I went to my doctor because I’ve been having trouble sleeping. He asked me how I sleep. I told him I lay on my back with my legs and arms sticking straight up in the air and scream at the top of my lungs until I fall asleep. He said, “I think the problem is that you’re screaming at the top of your lungs.” I said, “I think your suit is too big. It looks like you put on your dad’s coat.” He told me he recently lost a lot of weight. I told him that if he wasn’t such a pussy he would gain it back. He told me that was rude and to take it back. I told him I lost the receipt. He said, “What the hell are you talking about?” I said I didn’t want to get into the details of retail customer service, since it would only confuse him. He asked why I came into his office if I wasn’t going to show him respect. I asked why he came into this world if he was going to be a pussy and not even try to be the fattest man on the earth. He asked why he would want to do that. I told him to read a fucking book every once in a while. He said, “I’m a doctor; of course I’ve read books before.” I said, “Before what?” He said, “What?” I said, “Jesus Christ, how old are you? You look fourteen.” He told me he is sixty-one. I said, “I’m surprised you haven’t died yet.” He told me most people live longer than sixty-one. I asked from which asshole he pulled that bullshit statistic out of. He said he read it in a book. I said, “Nice going, you fucking bookworm. I’m sure the ladies love your numbers and equations.” He told me he’s been married for forty years. I said, “Last night I drank forty beers.” He told me I was lying. I said, “You’re right. Yeah, I came into your office just so I could make up fairy tales for you. Let’s cut the shit, doc. Want to get a burger?” He declined and I ate my burger alone. I still can’t get to sleep.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

"Pure Class"

“Holy Christ I have to fart. Good god, man. Come on, why now? This thing is gonna be huge. One of those fifteen-second rips that’s so long the stink hits you before the show is even half over. Don’t expect an intermission: This is one straight-through, non-stop bass guitar solo from the inner depths of my bowels, played in the key of regret. I bet there’s gonna be skid marks. Yeah, pretty much a guarantee of long brown streaks in these underpants. I might as well just commit myself to throwing them out as soon as this thing erupts from my asshole and belches a brown haze of grime all over the inside of these Hanes. I bet the fart came from those three meatball subs from lunch. I had a few of them last week and my farts that afternoon were so disgusting I had to get up and leave my office for an hour. It was one of those times where I was on my computer and the fart cloud just sat directly between my legs and under my nose, stagnant and humid, for what felt like an eternity. As soon as I felt the vomit creeping up my esophagus, I ran out of there. I’m glad the asthmatic kid from across the street is not here because this fart would kill him. He would instantly drop dead from the stench of this hellish and nauseating gas. His young, weak lungs would literally drown in this fart. When I die I certainly don’t want the fowl stench of a grown man’s colon bacteria clogging my nostrils like a cork made of diarrhea. This will be one of those rips that reeks of death, like a hundred rotting corpses. The kind that makes me briefly consider putting a bullet through my brain just to escape the odor for one god damned second. I can tell already that as soon as this thing wrestles its way past my sphincter and ruins our evening, I will be ashamed for, and disgusted with, myself. But before it does, sweetie, will you marry me?”