Fucking Valentine's Day.
Every year on this date I am surrounded by lovestruck, candy-buying, stuffed-animal-trading faggots and faggotettes necking in their hot rod convertibles or rolling up $5 Hallmark cards for insertion into various erogenous zones and orifices. In, out, in, out, in comes the money from their glamorous college-graduate jobs, out goes the money into their successful pursuits of genital interaction by means of gifts and expensive automobiles.
OH, WOE IS ME, this dawn of my twenty-fourth year. All I have to keep me company is a right hand that I have dressed up as Carrot Top, and a left that is painstakingly replicated from the Jennifer Lopez handpuppet on South Park. Each of them will take turns gently gnawing on my turgid maleness, while I watch the only thing on Lifetime Channel that is remotely entertaining today:
MY SEX-ADDICTED ALCOHOLIC HEROIN ADDICT EX-HUSBAND HAS COME BACK TO KILL ME AND CUISINART MY REMAINS INTO MILKSHAKES WHICH HE WILL THEN FEED TO MY KIDS--BUT NOT TELL THEM THAT THEY ARE DRINKING THEIR MOTHER--BUT ON THE PLUS SIDE, I WILL BE IMMORTALIZED IN THEM BY BEING CONSUMED IN CONJUNCTION WITH FROZEN BLENDED MOCHA-BASED DAIRY PRODUCTS
starring Meredith Baxter Birney, former co-star of Family Ties, only to end up stipulating in her contract that all future television and movie appearances involve her being a battered wife/girlfriend/mannequin that is brought to life and then battered (Mannequin 5: coming Summer 2005!); and/or a psycho mom/girlfriend/housewife a la Serial Mom (starring that thieving hag Kathleen Turner), in which case knife-wielding scenes shall exceed three, and blood spatter shall be minimum four gallons, with an extra $1,500 allocated to the movie budget for a virtually unlimited supply of glycerine drops for the tears, and a studio-provided 8-ball to intensify the wailing, sweating and sobbing that comes with such a movie role.
Afterwards, at 4pm Eastern, there is another movie starring Meredith Baxter Birney, this one entitled:
I WILL GO PSYCHO AND KILL MY WORKAHOLIC ABUSIVE RAPIST EX-HUSBAND AND SET HIS CAR ABLAZE WITH HIS CORPSE INSIDE IT AND THEN WILL BURN AN EFFIGY OF JUDITH LIGHT, LEST SHE ENCROACH ON MY NEUROTIC BITCH/BATTERED WIFE ROLES -- AND THAT SALLY STRUTHERS BITCH IS NEXT
where she also goes into a fiery rage at a traveling carnival, recalling an incident during her early 30s where she was gangraped by a band of carnies, one of whom sired her first son, Darren, who later changed his own name to Bubblypuff McScragglies. Bubble, as he is known, was adopted at birth by the workaholic abusive rapist ex-husband Stan Hendershot, little-known host of the little-known game show Tic Tac Dough 2004. Stan had a traumatic experience involving being gangraped by carnies as well, and they also took all his G.I. Joes and melted them together in perverted sexual positions.
DUN DUN DUN: Stan's father, Warren Q. Hendershot Esq., was a former carnie gone legit in suburban Philadelphia, but tracked down by his carnies' union, Hotel Carnie-Fornia 7777, where he found out the hard way that you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave. Warren has a short musical number in Stan's obligatory trauma flashback:
On a dark Kansas high-way,
Cool wind in my hair,
Warm smell of cotton can-DAY
rises up in the a-a-air
Up ahead in the distance,
I saw a big ferris wheel
My head was swimming and my ass grew numb
It needs to sit on some steel!
Welcome to the Hotel Carnie-Fornia!
Such a lovely group! (Such a lovely group!) Kinda smells like poop.
Livin' it up with the Ho-tel-CAR-NIE-FOR-nia!
The roadie wai-ting list (the roadie waiting list!);
was too long for Kii-i-i-IIISS...
etc, etc, etc.
Anyways, the gyst of the story is that Stan finds out on the Maury Povich show that he's not the real father of Bubble, and he and his wife get in a fistfight on camera, with the obligatory face-turning-red-and-devil-incarnate-kinda-shit-starts-happening setup.
Stan lost two of his fingers and one bicep in the ordeal.
He vowed to get a divorce and take everything, right down to the 5,415 Hummel figurines they had jointly purchased on eBay, each with its own name, inventory number and date purchased written on a post-it note and stored in a safe place. Stan's logic was, of course, no fuckin' carnie blood may course through the veins of any resident of my house, you whore! You lied to me! I loved you! I'm gonna make you hurt so bad, physically and emotionally, that they're gonna make a Lifetime movie out of it! RAWR!
And tearful hilarity ensues, filmed on location in Willow Grove, Pennsylvania!
So I shall spend this Valentine's Day smoking Camel Lights, crying for Meredith Baxter Birney, and sipping Haagen-Dazs and beef jerky through a straw after they become too melted to enjoy with silverware.
Furthermore, I shall lament the passing of my libido and my will to live, and to love, because my life has been that of misery, pain and poverty. I shall tell you why now.
My father was a multi-millionaire who lost his vast fortune in a bad oil dealing with some dimwit in Midland, and my mother was a progressive hippie turned poseur trophy-wife, running along for the ride.
See, Father introduced things to her that she will always cherish: Culture, cuisine, and Jack Nicholson-like mindfucks that left her a weeping mass of subservience and wrist-cutting.
Father never wanted children. But when my older sister Starla came along, he fell in love with parenthood. Awww, daddy's little princess. Blah blah blah.
Then came me. In the spring of 1979, my mother found out that Father was sleeping around with the tax accountant, the waitress at the local diner, the realtor, and interestingly enough, the Castro Valley Carnies' Union 3283. He'd brought home some -- viral and bacterial friends to bring some spice to the love life at home.
Momma did what she had to do. She was going to have a son. She would train him to grow up with such contempt for his doofus dad™ that he would one day rise up and explode some people and things, hopefully including her assclown husband, on the way to prison and/or the Holy Shit, You're A Fucking Lunatic Wackjob State Ne'er-Do-Well Pen and Feeding Trough in Chico.
She was a smart cookie. She replaced the tube of spermicidal lubricant with a can of whipped cream whose label was altered to read:
"Fluff-E-Goo Pasteurized Whipped Topping
^ and Spermicide!!!"
It worked, and a week into the New Year, out I came!
Well! Father was none too pleased, but went along with it, because kids can improve your status as a wealthy businessman! All the while, he knew that I was a tool of his destruction, and kept a close eye on me.
You were a thorn in my side too, old man.
A messy divorce came about after Father's bankruptcy at the hands of his business associate, whom he only referred to as Jorge. We were subsequently kicked out on the street with only the clothes on our backs and the Mercedes that had been put in the cat's name to prevent seizure.
The IRS got most of the clothes off of our backs, my piggy bank, and extracted Mother and Starla's sanity juices to pay off the remaining balance on the marital estate.
Two weeks later, we received a letter from the IRS:
SNUGGLIES BOOGAARD, Feline
1420 GHETTO AVE APT 111
HAYWARD CA 94541
Dear SNUGGLIES BOOGAARD,
We have issued you a Social Security Number: 952-08-0462. You have hereby been granted American citizenship and taxpayer status despite your non-human status. Congratulations!
Because you have benefited your entire life from the Boogaard marital estate, you are, in fact, part of the Boogaard marital estate, including all property. When you open this letter, a small chip embedded in the envelope glue will summon a local towing company to the spot where your 1976 MERCEDES BENZ 4-DR is parked, and liquidate it to pay off your newly established tax liability.
Internal Revenue Service Seizures and Figurative Sodomy
P.S. Your kitty collar is ours too, to be melted down into metal for IRS envelope summoning chips. Because it is no longer your property. Yoink!
None of us would ever be the same.
With their sanity juices gone, Mother and Starla were, from that day on, faithless and violent predators with a fierce hatred of the "Y" chromosome and anything it represented.
Many of our family meals consisted of vegetables such as zucchini, carrots and cucumbers, sliced and diced so thinly that they became juice, dribbled from the cutting board into our drink glasses on the kitchen floor. Mother had an ongoing lesbian love affair with Janis Ian and Gloria Steinem, who came over to the apartment while we were in school. I found a poster hung up in my bedroom that read:
MEN: The 'WHY?!?' Chromosome!
Despite Mother's growing celebrity status, things became tougher for the Boogaard family. Snugglies had to get a night job at 7-11, and was gunned down during a late-night Funyuns heist a few weeks in. I found myself increasingly despondent and depressed, despite the super-intelligent brain development I was seeing as the result of my daily glass of vegetable puree.
Daddy had moved in with a Carrows waitress named Moniqua. The realtor, a close family friend (the same strain of Hepatitis that we all had contracted by birth and/or cheating scumbag husbands) died of ass cancer from too much cigarette smoking. See, when it gets bad enough to where you can't smoke through your mouth or your tracheotomy hole anymore, you should just stop.
As the years went by, Daddy was fit for a spiked collar and leash, and got "MONIQUA'S BITCH" tattooed on his left buttock. We visited from time to time, and were luckily spared time in Moniqua's Marital Chocolate Dungeon. Moniqua let Starla and I know, all the while, that their daddy belonged to MONIQUA from that point on.
Daddy changed his name to Mr. Moniqua shortly thereafter, and Mother decided it was time for a change.
With her last drop of sanity juice, she got high with Gloria and listened to John Denver for four hours. They decided that it would be best if we moved across the country somewhere and started over.
No sooner had we unpacked our things than things gone worse than they were before.
In between driving rugged Jeep vehicles, wrestling wild wolves in the Rockies, and skiing to our hearts' content, I was in trouble with the law.
Starla had taken a liking to using me as a punching bag. One afternoon, we had been in an argument over the color to varnish our old coffee table. We decided it would be fun to wrestle me in the front yard, in plain view of the neighbors, and beat me to a bloody pulp.
I stayed outside and licked my wounds while Starla and Mother went inside and played another game: Indoors Wrestling Involving Heavy Projectiles And Throwing Them!
It was so much fun that the neighbors took it upon themselves to call the police! Friendly Officer Mayberry showed up at my front step and promptly carried me away for the heinous crime I had committed: Provocation of Damsel to Beat Shit Out Of, a misdemeanor. I was sentenced to eight hours' community service, giving foot massages to and doing chores for the residents of the Littleton Lazy-Ass Retired Folks Community.
That'll teach me for having a wang.
Mother became the lead singer of The TurboDykes, a death metal band out of Denver, with such hits as Lorena Had The Right Idea:
MEN ARE SCUM
MEN ARE SCUM
THEY SHOULD ONLY LIVE TO SERVE ME
CUT OFF THEIR DICKS
AFTER FREEZING THEIR SPERM
PUT THEM TO WORK IN PRISON CAMPS AND CONCEIVE TURKEY-BASTER CHILDREN
The rest is a blur until now, when I find myself incapable of loving or being loved, but perfectly capable of engineering vagina-bots, dressing up my hands, and jacking off violently to Lifetime Channel movies while stuffing my face with coma-inducing amounts of ice cream and candy hearts.
One pastime I have is to sand away the cutesy lovey-dovey messages on the hearts and use an X-Acto knife to carve in new messages, such as:
- I will imprison you with my vagina
- Suffer for my hot pussy!
- Make me your bitch, you vixen
- Sanity juices are for losers
I also have a poorly edited VHS of Disney's The Lion King, where one song has been edited:
You'll have no pe-niiis, for the rest of your daaaaYS..
It's a problem freeeee -- philosopheeee --
..I blame it on society.