Sleep Talkin' Man by Karen Slavick-Lennard

though. Little shit.
Let him suffer. Thinks he’s all high and mighty ‘cause he’s got a castle.
    Everybody wriggle. Everybody wriggle.
It’s maggot mayhem!
    I will NOT wear my lobster suit and dance in the street. Not even for rhubarb and custard. Go away and leave me alone. My bee costume is waiting. Bzzzzzzzzz.
    When I’m king of the coalition, nobody’s going to be able to poo at work, ever.
A dirty waste of smelly time.
    I only have eyes for you … and here they are, in this lovely presentation box.
All for you.
    Five balloons. Got to be five.
No point going to the disco without five.
    There’s this guitar riff stuck in my head.
Doo doo doo doo-doo, doo doo doo doo-doo.
Whoever wrote it … is a cunt, because it’s stuck in my head. Bastard.
I’ll stick something in his head.
    I’m gonna mess you up so badly, Stick Man, that when I’m finished with you, you’re just gonna be a scribble. Yeah!
    Oh, get up and wash your shadow.
It’s filthy. Filthy!
    How much for the frog?
No, that one … No, THAT one.
Goddammit, how much for the frog, that one with the tail? …
Well excuse me!
How much for the lizard then?
    The joke’s on you, God.
I’m free will in action.
    Mazel tov, cuntbag.
    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.
    â€œAh, 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