A Million Little Feces

David Bowie—“Scary Monsters”

MoTW—“Scarecrows”

HELP!!!! Someone was kind enough to leave me a link for their blog last
week but, due to some stupidity on my part, the original post with the
link in the comments section was lost. If that person can kindly post
the link again, it will be greatly appreciated.

The following is TRUE.

I pedaled down the street on my blue Schwinn Varsity. I basically
steered the bike with my left hand since my right was holding a baseball
bat. I was covered in dirt and a little blood since it had been a fairly
brutal practice. Five of my teammates were taken off the field via
stretcher because they had been shot by from the wods that surrounded
the field by some lunatic blind hunters.

I came up to a four way stop. I didn’t see any traffic coming so I
decided to go through the intersection without stopping. The bat
slipped.

Into the front wheel it fell causing the bike to suddenly stop causing
me to fly headfirst off the bike.

I can only blame this on my parents. They never let me watch tv unless
it was something important like “The Wizard of Oz” or “The DIrty Dozen”.
I was sent to bed at 5 pm and was forced to listen to the radio until
5:15 when my father came into my room and pulled down the iron curtains,
shut off the vents and closed the 18 inch thick titanium door.

I was forced to lie in bed smelling my own farts and sweat until the
door was opened at 6 am. Because of this I started to rebel and the
first step was letting the bat slip from my hands into the bike spokes.
When I landed on the soft grass next to the street I knew I had finally
made my point.

I didn’t rebel again until a few months later when I got very sick. I
came home from my job at the model airplane glue factory and found
nobody there except for my sister who told me that there was a party
down the street. I took some Contact and went down to the party and
someone gave me a glass of whiskey. I drank it since I was flying high
from the Contact and then went to a friend’s place a mile or so away.

I had a beer and smoked about a pound of marijuana when the
Contact/whiskey kicked in and I found myself climbing up a telephone
pole. I finally came to my senses about 3/4 off the way up and got
scared. I screamed for help but everyone else was drunk and stoned and
thought it was funny until the police came.

The ordered me to come down and I finally got up the nerve to slide down
the pole. When I finally hit the ground, I found a sliver in my hand
about 3 inches long and I pulled it out with my teeth, right before the
police beat my with their nightsticks until I crumbled to the ground.
They threw me in the back seat of the patrol car and took me to jail.

I was booked and was thrown into a holding tank. When a policeman
brought me dinner, I pretended to be asleep while he shook me awake and
then I karate kicked him in the face. As he fell, I escaped from the
cell and started kicking the shit out of the other policemen in the
building. When I was done I had beaten up over 60 cops and they had to
call in the National Guard to put a stop my rampage.

When they finally calmed me down, they hog tied me and then shackled,
chained and roped me so that escape was impossible and then put me in a
bus and took me to the state penitentiary where I spent the next five
months in solitary confinement with the most vicious convicts ever seen.

When I was finally released, I went home and my brother decided to throw
an apple at me so I hit him and then he ripped my baseball shirt. This
made me mad and I started whaling the shit out of him.

He finally punched me a couple times in the face which made me cry
because it hurt a lot. Then he kicked me in the nuts causing my left
testicle to somehow end up in my upper left thigh.

When I finally stopped crying I showed my brother what had happened and
we both decided that the best thing to do would be to operate.

I felt that it was time to mature and told him I didn’t want any
anesthesia or any pain killers. Instead I had him give me some Nerf
footballs. One went into my mouth so I wouldn’t bite off my tongue, one
went into my ass so that I wouldn’t squidge out some poo and the other 2
were held in each hand so I could feel like I was back in the womb.

He then cut into my upper thigh with a bread knife he found in the
kitchen and continued cutting in a crooked line until he reached my ball
sack. Then he reached into my upper thigh with both hands and rooted
around until he found the nut. He began moving the testicle with his
hands until it was close enough to the sack and then he flicked it back
into place with one of his forefingers.

We both smiled when he was done because we knew we had finally conquered
our demons. We had grown up and were now ready to face life with clear
minds and winning perspectives.

The cut was closed with some model glue I had taken home from work. My
parents came home just after we finished and they introduced us to the
Japanese guests they were entertaining. At this point, the
Contact/whiskey mixture finally caught up with me and I vomited all over
the floor and the shoes of the guests.

The next day I was sent to rehab.

END OF PART ONE

COMING NEXT: Part Two? Reader email? Jerome? Something else?

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