“Hi there. My name is Stu. Stu Sarian. I’m
in my blue ‘69 Chevy Camaro
going 90 on the one road through Horner’s
Corners, driving with one hand and typing with
the other the way Hunter Thompson used to.
It’s January 1st and I don’t give a
damn about who’s playing who in what bowl game.
I’m on my way back from the storage space on
the east side of the river. I just put a
sitar I found at a garage sale in … uh…
God in Heaven! SCREEEEEECH! Egads and whatnot! I
almost died just now. Three massive trucks just blew
past me. There was red Scout, driven by a
guy who looked like Wladimir Klitschko, followed
by his brother Vitali in a green Ford
and then Hayden Pani … tee … uh … something or
other in a blue chevy. Damned maniacs.
Those people I just described? They live out past
the Butcher estate to the west of my home.
They set off firecrackers year-round and all
the signs around their farm are filled with the war
wounds of drunken shotgun escapades. They are
wild. They are crazy. They’re The Turgidsons
and they’re the bane of my existence. The girl
is all right. Her name is Cecelia Sue.
Folks call her C.C. She dresses like Linda
Hamilton in Terminator 2, complete
with ball cap and aviator sunglasses.
She’s the strange matriarch of her insane brood.
Her two brothers, George and Scott, tend to talk in
fake Russian accents so bad they make Captain
Ramius seem authentic. They’re idiots.
Two massive bastards – big as oak trees, they are,
and twice as dumb. One time I tried to point out
the cleverness of their names and they just
stared at me for what seemed like forever. Freaks.
I wonder where they’re going in such a rush.
Speaking of which, Rush is in my compact disc
player right now, and I bet if I look at
the clock the LED display will say … yep.
Sure enough – 11:11. That’s when
The Author is around and needs me to make
a decision. What to do next? I don’t know.
I guess I’ll go home and write and you can fuck
right off, Author. Dickhead. You know I hate you,
right? Why do I still have to drive places? Why
won’t you let me fly? I can do all these things
but I cannot find a decent fish taco
anywhere in Kansas. Double entendre?
Mois? Of course not. Don’t be silly. I mean corn
tortillas filled with fried fish, lettuce and cheese.
When I lived in Van Nuys I lived on those things.
That’s out on the west coast, where the porn stars live.
I used to smoke cigarettes and watch them film.
I’m from Horner’s Corners originally,
but Mom moved us to California after
my dad drove his motorcycle off the 8th
Street bridge up in Winfield. My cousin Bart lives
up there. He is an asshole. We used to hang
out when I moved back home, but really, fuck that
guy. He doesn’t care about anyone but
himself. He’s like a character from that song
‘Glory Days’ by The Boss, always going on
and on about how he played quarterback for
his high school’s team. As if anyone gives a
shit about that once you’ve graduated. Get
a life and a career. You sell insurance,
Bart! Badly, I might add. And you’re an asshole.
Sorry. I got a little carried away
just now, but you can see why I don’t hang out
with my cousin anymore, right? I’m shocked the
stuff in our storage space is still there. Oh yeah…”