Sleep Talkin' Man (10 page)

That’s right.
Crème anglaise, motherfucker.

Yeah, you can keep looking at my ass as I walk away.
It’s having a spectacular day today.

All things considered, you are more attractive than a monkey’s vagina … on heat.

Happy Birthday! It’s a dead puppy! …
Now listen, you: You didn’t specify a live puppy, you just said you wanted a fucking puppy! Jesus you’re spoiled.
Now go take it for a drag.

Stop telling everyone we’re friends.
Don’t amplify my shame.

Oh, calm down.
You don’t wanna get him started.
You DON’T want a kick-boxing hamster on your case.

Right. So, I’ve punched the singing telegram. Now all I need to do is throw up on the cake. Party time!

Opposable thumbs! That was nature giving man the opportunity for twenty-four-hour fondling. Thank you!

You’re full of horseshit!
Like bullshit, but it’s dressed up to be prettier.

Since when did my underwear look good on you? Take it off. Take it off your face.

Don’t leave the duck there.

It’s totally irresponsible. Put it on the swing, it’ll have much more fun.

You are as much use as a cup full of monkey spunk at a monk’s retreat.
And just as pointless.

I’m scared by the power of your vagina.
It can control whole armies.
No, nations. The world!

Fuck. Tits! Shit, I brought the wrong shit!
It’s shower-hat Wednesday, not cracker-pants Thursday. Bollocks! I really like shower-hat Wednesday. I’ve got the best.
It’s so pretty … these cracker-pants give me nasty chaffing…. Oh, I shoulda put margarine on them! Lubricate the cracker bits. Yes, yes, yes …

Llama clouds! Mmmmm.
Great big bug-eyed fluffy ones …
Oh great! Now they spit. Bollocks.

“Ah, glass. My nemesis.
One day I shall beat you.”

If ever there was a time that STM spoke out for Adam, it was the very moment that he uttered the quote above.

Adam has a rather unfortunate relationship with glass. Or you might say that his head has a rather passionate relationship with glass, as the two don’t seem to be able to stay away from each other. In our apartment, the windows and glass doors are all ornamented with oval-shaped grease marks from Adam’s forehead. Ditto the driver’s seat car window. I don’t know what the problem is, whether it’s a matter of faulty depth perception or a complete absence of kinaesthetic awareness, or what. There just seems to be a magnetic attraction between Adam’s face and any vertical sheet of glass.

Adam’s daughter, sympathetic to her father’s handicap, has taken to making all sorts of pretty little art projects that she can tape to our garden door at Adam’s eye level. You know, like people put up for birds, so they don’t crash into windows? What a sweet kid. His son, on the other hand, delights in trying to lure Adam into these minor mishaps. “Look, Dad, a pygmy hippo in the garden!” “Wha—”
CLONK.

Adam’s tendency toward self-injury is not limited to interactions with glass. He is outlandishly accident prone; every corner, table leg, door frame, and household item from can openers to light bulbs poses a potential hazard to his person. Being Adam is a truly perilous pastime.

Take the other night. We were out to dinner with the editor of this very book. Adam left the table to go to the bathroom, which, like many London restaurants, was in the basement. When Adam got back to the table, he was rubbing his forehead. “Oh no,” I said, “What did you do?” It turned out that, while he was going down the stairs, he’d been distracted by a sign and hit his head on the low ceiling. What did the sign say?
“Watch Your Head.”

Adam crashed his moped on an open road with no one else around. He went on a school ski trip, fell off the chairlift on the first ride up, and spent the rest of the trip laid up in the hotel. The first time he ever threw a boomerang, it worked.

Is it any wonder, then, that I’ve forbidden Adam to participate in any of the following activities:

• Skateboarding

• Snowboarding

• Paintballing

• Riding motorcycles

• Riding horses

• Contact sports

• Any activity that ends in “-gliding” or involves a racquet (Except badminton. Badminton is allowed. I’m not a monster.)

Adam’s propensity for damage is so powerful that it can infect those in his orbit as well. For example, when Adam was nine, his parents brought home a new kitten from the SPCA. Little Suki was having a delightful little kittenhood,
until she decided that her favorite pastime was to climb up Adam’s body and perch on his shoulder like a parrot. One day, Suki took a tumble from her special spot. You would not expect this to be a problem: cats always land on their feet, right? But, don’t forget, this is ADAM’s cat, falling from ADAM’s shoulder. Poor Suki landed on her side, breaking one little kitty leg.

Because Suki was still a kitten, the vet made her a tiny cast with a little extra space to allow her leg room to grow. For the next six weeks, all anyone heard around the house was pat pat pat THUNK … pat pat pat THUNK. Her relationship with Adam was never quite the same.

Fortunately, unlike STM, who consistently presents himself as God’s perfect gift to the world, Adam has always had a knack for being able to laugh at himself. This ability has allowed him to translate a lifetime of mishaps into an endless supply of amusing anecdotes. It’s certainly been a skill he’s gotten lots of use out of.

Letter to Sleep Talkin’ Man

Late one night, I awoke to find my computer-geek husband palpating my abdomen as though he was carrying on some sort of medical exam. This is the conversation that ensued:

Him:
(with authority) Mmmm, yes, I see, uh-huh, this is not good.

Me:
What’s going on?

Him:
(continuing his physical exam) Well, it’s really clear, Sweetie. This thing has to come out.

Me:
(a bit alarmed) I don’t think so.

Him:
Well, there’s no doubt, it’s gotta go or you won’t make it up this hill. You need to make it to the top.

Me:
Well, I think I’d like a second opinion.

Him:
No need for a second opinion. I can do this, it’s easy, just let me find my Leatherman.

In case you don’t know, a Leatherman is a utility knife that some men wear on their belts.

Lucky for me, he fell back to sleep.

Sarah B.

Homer, AK

My badger’s gonna unleash hell on your ass. Badgertastic!

“At the rate I’m going, I’m gonna need another dozen turkey bags. Oi, back in the bag. Back in the bag, damn you!”

Frozen yogurt is ice cream for pussies.

Ground Control, this is Weasel. I’m all ready to go. Just waiting now … itchy fur, itchy fur … Ground control, this is Weasel.
I think I’ve got fleas … begin countdown
… Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep … Ground Control to Weasel, I hope you’re house trained.

You’re a happy little soul, humming away.
If you like humming so fucking much I’ll staple your bitching lips together. Shut up!

Smell my hands. They smell of bacon.
Go on, smell. It’s okay, it’s kosher.
Mmmm, bacon hands.

You’re right, elephants in thongs are not something you see every day.
Enjoy it.

You cannot go to college unless I teach you shit. So you can take that ‘those who can’t do teach’ crap, and shove it up your flabby ass.

You’re pretty.
Pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty….
Now fuck off and be pretty somewhere else.
I’m bored.

I’m a fucking goose, dickhead!
Duck, indeed.

Jellyfish are attacking.
Everybody grab your ice cream guns.
Let’s get those little things!

Reach for the stars!
You’re gonna have to, no one on this planet wants anything to do with you.

Bad germs, bad germs.
Whatcha gonna do?
Whatcha gonna do when I throw bleach on you …

You’ve got a nice face.
But your personality is one huge cock block.

The cake! It must be psychic.
It’s using Jedi mind tricks to make itself irresistible to me. This is the cake I want.

Run along, run along. Next!
I love being a judge on Nobody’s Got Talent But Me.

Thank you for dinner.
Now if I ever say that something tastes like the anal evacuation of the recently deceased, I’ll have a frame of reference.

Here I am: Captain Yeast Infection!
Making you uncomfortable no matter what you wear.

I bet you wish you could wear a onesie and look this good.

Next time I lend out my chest hair, it won’t be to a dick face like you. You’ve got it covered in lots of stuff.

It’ll take ages to clean up.
One hair at a time.
It’ll be less painful to put my tongue through a cheese grater and lap up vinegar with the remnants that are left in my mouth, than to accept a dinner date with you.
I think you can take that as a ‘no.’ Bye-bye.

So, you want a super massivo decaf low-fat stupido motherfuck cappu-fucking-ccino?
OK. Coming right up, cunt.

I swear, if I ever have to listen to you, I’ll claw my ears off, and fill the bloody gaping holes with decaying afterbirth.

Do I love you a little or a lot? Hmmm?
No, it
’
s a lot. It
’
s your shithead inner self that only loves you a little.

Back off Robin.
Batman is my bitch now.
You’re just a bitch’s bitch, bitch.

You know what I’m gonna do?
I’m gonna make turd biscuits.
It’s like a shit sandwich, but for kids.

It’s not so much a wave of indifference that washes over me when I look at you.
It’s a fucking tsunami. Fuck off.

Nature pooing gives a whole new dimension to life. Mmmm. Now that
’
s freedom!

Stop hitting me! You’re always hitting me!
Hmm, maybe I shouldn’t be a boxer.
Postman, I’ll be a postman, yes.
No one hits a postman … except if you’re a boxer. Yeah, maybe I won’t be a postman.
I’ll just be a god. Much easier.

I love you. No, sorry, I missed some words out. I love it when the world shits on you. Yeah.
That’s the full sentence.

Jesus needs me.
If I don’t believe, he don’t exist.

I’d like to apologize on behalf of my mother.
She didn’t mean to call you an asshole … she meant to call you a cunt.

I want to see the piglets.
Let me see the piglets.
Why can’t I see the piglets?
Ohhhh, piglets!
… Fuck they stink!
I want to go home now.
Stinky fucking piglets.

Yeah, you lay down,
I
’
ll get the tennis racket.