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Home of the Dead 3

By 1922-1993 at 2007-12-02 | Ridiculous!, Romance | Printable version

Home of the Dead 4 (Preamble) »

Home of the Dead (The Rhyming Years)
It sure was nighttime. The trees were dark, the walls were dark, etcetera, etcetera. Patrick arrived home from the fields, but I could not see him (it was pitch black, you shit head). I began to realize that Patrick owned the odor of man. Previously, I believed 1922-1993 to be a man of very little stench, if you catch my drift. So help me, this smell was so strong that it knocked the creatures from my features.

"Holy smelly," I said, "you smell
  like bread."

1922-1993 didn't so much as skip a beat, he removed his belt and approached like a roach.

Part 2 (Butt-Sweat Rising)
I questioned 1922-1993 regarding his whereabouts and his smell factor. The best he could do was to concoct a story about a grizzly bear. According to Patrick, he was on his way home from work, when a grizzly bear pissed on his mom. Too bad she had been dead for a hundred years. I came to grips with the fact that 1922-1993 had cheated on me, and made myself a death and gun sandwich...blam!!!

a Slice of life (Home of the Dead)
Our relationship was beginning to crumble and tumble.
1922-1993 and me were so morbid.  He wore all black and I wore
a trench coat mafia. It must have rained for like a month solid because. Me and Patrick just sat insad and played Clue, "Professor Pinch, in the conservatory, with the stab." I accused 1922-1993 of murder and he began to weep like a creep. We never did find out who was wiping out all those people, but for an aspiring detective I was pleased to have experienced such a tragedy.

Tuskegee Airmen
1922-1993 and I were massive, but not in the biceps (or the region). As I cracked open a rosebud red, the pigment in my fingers blanched. 1922-1993 continued to cook eggs for nourishment. Nutritionally, we were garbage, so I had picked up some chewable vitamins. 1922-1993 sautéed them up nice in a real western omelet. We wined and ate and licked our plate. I showed 1922-1993 my balls. Lunch was always a special moment to us; time out of our busy lives to hold hands and watch our garden grow. Naturally, we cherished the omelet tightly in our clenched embrace. The garden was vicious, it yielded tomatoes and dog hair. Some called it vicious. To 1922-1993 and I, it was Italy. I happened to pick up the classifieds on this particular afternoon, this particular smafternoon. The words jumped off the page like a fox jumping through the page I was reading, catching me off guard. "HELP WANTED - the Marine Corp." I read the ad again while I was taking chirp. "The Marines," I thought to myself. There was no more two-ply so I used the ad to wipe my chimney. The next order of business was to head up to the church and get in good with the Marine Corp....I slammed the freshly painted ad on the podium of the Corporal. "Corporal," I says, "take me to the Marines." I said it with authority. The platoon prayed for me, for my glory. I raised the stakes and entered my wormlord into the Corporal's mustang. He showed me little girls. That night I made an oath; the Marines was my new family and so was 1922-1993 (because he was in the Marines also).

VICIOUS as the FISHES
After receiving my discharge papers I had to lose the umbros and 1922-1993's father was forced to retired from Chief Master Coastguard, leaving us to the hunt. We were so determined that we bought a rowboat and a flare gun. There was no way this fish was going to eat any more kids, who were riding yellow rafts! Out at sea, we decided there was no turning back and we had to fight. The other factor was that 1922-1993 dropped both oars to the bottom of the ocean while we were playing a game of "hide the oars in your asshole." Nevertheless, our hearts were lit on fire with passion and fishing. In order to trick the shark into showing his shark-of-a-face, I dipped my foot into the chum bucket and hung my leg over the side of the boat.

"Chummin' all day you sons a bitches," I sang. The only bite we got all day was the shark eating us. There was good news, however: we were now in the belly of a killing machine. We took fire to our candle and sat down to plan our escape. We had escaped from the slammer, jailhouse birdie slammer...but this would be a whale of a tale. 1922- 1993 changed his name to Moby Dick, but not his name - his butt hole's name. I was in for some literature, but I wasn't.

Home of the Dead (the Last Snow of his Life)
Welp, school was cancelled so 1922-1993 and I decided to take the sled down to Hell Hill. For years the neighborhood kids told legends about the thing that lived at the top of Hell Hill. As the story goes, a family was sledding when the father and the mother spotted a loch ness monster sleeping in the treetops; thus the name Hell Hill. Since then, no one has dared to return to the hill. That, and the surrounding villagers all have an English accent. In any event, 1922-1993 and I were itchin' for some bitchin' so we didn't resist. Despite the warning we grabbed our sled and headed for sleddin' heaven. The climb to the top of the hill was furious but after three seconds or so, we were victorious. 1922-1993 penetrated the snow with his Confederate flag and declared the new name of the hill Slave Dakota. I supported his conquest but I really didn't care, I was all about sledding down newfound Slave Dakota. Just as 1922-1993 was wrapping up his State of the Union, I heard a rustling from above. I never in my wildest dreams dreamt the legends to be true. In other words, I believed the legends to be a fallacy. Loch ness was descending upon Patrick but I was too shocked to shout "beast!" I watched in terrible as this monster ate 1922-1993's head off. Never the less, I sled Hell Hill that day. I sled it in the name of slavery.


Emergency
The head surgery was a grand slam success, and Patrick was almost great. The Doctor, Dr. Damage, ordered 1922-1993 to rest up and watch plenty of tennis. Still, 1922-1993 was a stubborn mule with a stubborn ox. He wanted to go to work so bad, but I made him stay home and play Oregon trail for a few months. I can't say I didn't enjoy watching Patrick rough it with the pioneers. And although my character kept mysteriously perishing of diarrhea, I was always willing to trade 1922-1993 a few eggs for a team of plows (wink, wink).

Superdeath Tornado
1922-1993 was up to his usual tricks. On a Monday morning, he set my alarm for twelve noon and raped me while I overslept. But don't worry, I retaliated at Thanksgiving dinner. "Dear Lord," I began, "thank you for this blessed roast, and thank our blessed host, 1922-1993, for he busted my rear on this very day, last year." My God wasted no time, with vengeance and thunder, the storms did brew. Patrick gasped and peered through the window. What he saw was what I saw, and what we saw was a tornado. In honor of Thanksgiving, I named the twister after the very food that graced our plates - Tornado Alfredo.
The aftermath of Tornado Alfredo was all red. I couldn't help but laugh at 1922-1993, he had a giant dog attached to his throat. I named the dog Throat Bite Ben. Just then, I noticed the dog was really a hooker. Now I was on a roll, naming twisters and wolves, so I decided to test my luck with the stock market. I put all my money on the queen of spades, but that bitch sold me out for a cooking show. Now that we were completely broke and utterly gay, 1922-1993 and I decided to open up a restaurant. We called it, "The Eat House Meat House." The main course was franks and beans accompanied by our famous slaw. The slaw was super secret; Throat Bite Ben was the only living soul who knew the secret recipe besides 1922-1993 and I. To make sure she didn't go spilling the beans, I put a piece of electrical tape over her mouth and blew her head-off. Now my cannon was still smokin' when 1922-1993 walked in and saw the bitch's brains all over the kitchen. It was an upsetting time for Patrick and I, as this was the second dog we lost in our lives. Patrick added her to the slaw while I read the poor girl a eulogy: "Dearly beloved, today is the last day of the rest of our lives. We bury our one and only, we bury her in a delicious slaw." Me and Patrick had tears and fears for the rest of the afternoon, but let's just say business was more slammin' than a dead hooker mixed with cabbage.

Advancements in the Quality of Life
After the restaurant failed miserably and financially, 1922-1993 decided to become a scientist: and not just any scientist - a "confidential scientist." Not only did 1922-1993 coin the phrase "confidential science," but he also wrote the book on "confidential science," and stands alone as the only "confidential scientist" in the modern world of science. By the grace of race, I was fortunate enough to study under 1922-1993 M.D. My formal education up until the advent of confidential science was culinary and disappointing, to say the least. Therefore, I took this opportunity to really buckle down and fuck some corpses. In order to provide summary of our findings, I will speak on an experiment aptly titled "The Exhumed Corpse of Someone who once Lived." It was about 3am when I received a phone call from 1922-1993 M.D. I was informed of the proposed excavation and concurred with the doctor's plan. We arrived on the scene at three fifteen, like it was Halloween. I found difficulty in the process of jumping the graveyard gates dressed as a mummy, but 1922-1993 M.D. insisted we follow protocol. We broke ground at about 4am, 1922-1993 M.D. shoveled so hard he farted. I was sure to note this chemical reaction in the medical report - "bombs at 4am;" Like I said, I was on top of my game. By the time we hit bottom, 1922-1993 M.D. looked less like a witch and more like a witch who was sweating his balls off. Dr. Patrick, proceeding with caution, removed the corpse from the hollow earth and lit that sum-a-bitch on fire. I concluded in my report that 1922-1993 M.D. was "almost awesome, almost satanic."
Thanks to this particular study, I was able to prove that evolution sucks. These findings were so innovative that I decided to add them to my book of proverbs - I penned them in right between "righty tighty, lefty loosey," and "beer, liquor, sicker ."


The Mozzarella Novella (a.k.a. Book Parmesan)
Completely inspired, I decided to write a novel. At two paragraphs, it ran a little short; but I had confidence in the diction of my fiction...

There was this girl in the woods. In the woods and in a car, she was in the company of a gentleman. This particular young man was a monster and a beast. He so happened to be a rapist. When he began to rape her, the leaves began to shake. This rapist boy choked his victim. She was dying indeed.
As the incident went on, a shadow peeked through the shut windows. The shadow peeked its eyes and witnessed this incident. That very same shadow took out his weapon and became a guardian. From now on the rapist was dead. He was slain by the sword of shadows. Beware of the Wooden Ninja.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't think of how to begin chapter three. One day while I was scrubbing dishes with the amigos, me mesa turned ugly, and chapter three came to me like a flying Mexican of Death.

The Flying Mexican of Death
Welcome to heaven, welcome to town, at River de Pollo, a Mexican drowned.
He gasped for his air, he choked on his life, on Cinco de Mayo, he murdered his wife. Now is the tale, of Gonzalez the Third, a man so unhealthy, he smelled like a terd...
Immediately following this creation, I warned the nation with evacuation. In other words, I sent a copy of my story to the President of the United States. I knew the President didn't like my story, because two weeks later there was a burning cross on our front lawn. 1922-1993 tried to cheer me up with stories of my babyhood, about how he always knew I was special and different: Apparently, when I was wee, John F. Kennedy kissed me, for publicity. This story cheered me up so much that I asked 1922-1993 to be a damned baby kisser politician for the rest of the evening. I was only teasing and sexy when I made this political suggestion, but Patrick was serious. He ran for mayor, but lost the race once the public saw he was a sick old bitch-man.

Dumb Ending
Patrick and me were plum pooped. When the sun would begin to bail, 1922-1993 liked to place his face in the grassy outside and let the bugs bite his shoulders. Comparing my childish shoulders to his, I remember wanting to tie him up with the rest of my lightning bugs. Man, I watch them suckers glow.

Home of the Dead 4 (Preamble) »