David Sedaris - Barrel Fever and Other Stories

(Eileen, I'm going to allow a few minutes here because it might take a while for certain people to get into the swing of it. Pop in the cassette marked "Stoning" and wait until both Randy and Annette are lifeless. Wait until everyone has finished with their paperweights and then I want you to hand the microphone over to my mother. Watch the way she trembles and stutters and remember every gesture as if you were me.)

OH, CHAD," Mrs. Holt called brightly in her irritating and bright voice. "There's someone here to see you!"

Chad groaned and stepped out of the shower, taking special care to dry hisfour inch his seven inch his enormous thirteen-and-a-half-inchpenis cock. He was a stud andhe knew it. His ass was still a little sore from last night's marathon drill sesh with the guys at the auto plant, but other than that he had no complaints. Wearing only a scant towel, he stepped into the kitchen, where he received a gigantic shock at the sight of his entirehideous nosy hateful family surrounded by a dozen naked but heavily armedguys studs.

"SURPRISE!" they all yelled. And surprised he was!!! Chad had completely forgotten about his birthday. His father stepped forward and handed him an alcohol cocktail. "We thought maybe for once we'd give you exactly what you wanted," the elder Holt said, and everyone laughed in a good-hearted way.

Chad finished his potent highball in one swallow and then he turned his glass upside down, giving the secret signal, which meant for the studs to open fire and kill everyone in the family except for him.

When they finished Chad said, "Thank you, men. You've given me just what I've always wanted," and then stepping over the bodies, Chad and the studs headed toward the master bedroom to begin agreat fun filled sexy sexsational orgy that none of them would soon forget!!!!

Last Christmas I received a set of golf clubs that, my father likes to remind me, cost a goddamned fortune. He says that he would give his right arm for such a beautiful set of clubs. The obvious solution would be for him to take the stinking golf clubs and give me what I wanted in the first place. I had asked for a typewriter I didn't think it was asking for too much. Terry Glassman got one last year and he's the same age as me. Terry used his typewriter to compose dull, misspelled, and unimaginative letters, which he sent to his father in Arizona. I don't blame Dr. Glassman for never responding. When he got bored with it, Terry threw the typewriter off the roof of his house.

In my manuscript, Terry Glassman plays a minor role as an ungrateful and spoiled Boy Scout who learns the meaning of the expressionHard Times when he is discovered nude and vulnerable by a group of randy park rangers who prepare him for a merit badge in give and take! Terry should be grateful to appear in my book but, knowing him, he'll probably threaten to sue. That's Terry Glassman all over. Here I've given him a good eight inches and a shot at immortality and he'll turn on me the same way he did last year when I asked him to pose for a few nude sketches. Ingrate.

A few months ago, for my fourteenth birthday, I asked for a portable tape recorder with a discreet suppository-sized microphone; but did I receive one? Of course not! That would be too obvious, to give someone what he wants. My father told me that if I want to listen to music then I should learn to make it myself. Who said anything about music? Dad said that the guy who can play guitar is going to be the life of the party. He's confusing life with death. The real life of the party is flattened beneath the bed, taping actual sex encounters, not sitting crosslegged on the floor with a guitar, embarrassing himself and others.

I took guitar lessons for two months from Mr. Chatam, an actual midget who teaches at Instrument City over at Northgate Plaza. Mr. Chatam sat perched on the edge of a footstool and wore outfits that a child might wear: checkered suits with clip-on ties and buckled shoes. The guitar was huge in his lap and I would almost feel sorry for him until he opened his wee mouth to say something stupid like "Here's a little number those girlfriends of yours might enjoy hearing!" and he'd force me to follow along as he played another tiresome ballad from something calledThe Young Person's Contemporary Songbook.

In my manuscript, Mr. Chatam is kept in an orphanage, completely nude, his head and body shaved bald, until he is adopted by a group of truckdriving studs for use as a sex baby. Unlike most babies, Mr. Chatam just loves getting spanked and once he starts bawling there's only one way to pacify him!

I never touched that damned guitar except during lessons, so last week my father told me I had to quit. Boohoo. I thought he might follow up by threatening to give my guitar to a deserving person who wouldn't look down his nose at such an expensive gift, but no such luck. Instead he bought me a five-record instructional kit and wants me to teach myself. On the record, the guy plays "If I Had a Hammer" and "Kumbaya" and says things like "C'mon now, let's everybody sing along!" Life of the party.

While he was growing up, my father lived under what he likes to describe as "harsh circumstances" in a small, ugly apartment. By harsh circumstances my father means that they had a curtain instead of a bathroom door. He never had a bedroom and had to sleep on a back-breaking foldout sofa and go to work before and after school, shining shoes and selling newspapers. He has a point there, that's harsh. Unfortunately, they never gave him a medal for it and as a result he brings it up time and time again.

On the way home from my final guitar lesson my father started in once more, telling me how lucky I am. I was thinking that he should spend an hour playing "Up, Up, and Away" while locked in a windowless room with a midget before he came to me talking about luck. What does he know? During the depression, both of my parents had relatives who would crawl out of the woodwork to stay with my grandparents. They were just freeloaders but, in their own way, they made an impression. Picking me up after my last lesson my father told me a story about the longest freeloader, a guy who was studying to become a Greek Orthodox priest. He wasn't a blood relative, but whisper the word priest to my grandmother and she'll fall to her knees and cross herself with a speed that betrays her years. So the priest student moved in and slept on the bone-crushing foldout sofa with my father. This is chock full of possibilities as far as I'm concerned. A freeloader can be just as hot as anyone else. I asked my father what the priest student looked like and he said it wasn't important.

One day, my dad said, he came home from school earlier than usual. Both his parents were at work and he came upon the priest lying upon my grandparent's bed without any pants on. The student did not appear shocked or embarrassed. He told my father that he was just conducting a little experiment. Then he doubled over, held a lit match close to his ass, and farted so that the match flared out. He told my father to lie down beside him and give it a try but, knowing my dad, he didn't. My father said that he couldn't tell his parents, but he knew in that instant that this priest guy was a pogue, a queer. I don't think that lighting farts with a match necessarily makes someone a queer but I went along with it and kept my mouth shut. The flame-thrower stayed on for another three months, during which time my father slept on the hard, cold floor. Hearing of some genuine blood relatives with more money and a spare bedroom, the priest moved on and they never heard from him again. My father told me all this while we were in the car. He usually doesn't talk at all but he had this timed perfectly. He paused at the top of the driveway and turned to me asking, "Have you ever met anyone like that?"