slick n' dirty | story blog from dr. menlo

INT. Simpsons master bedroom – Nite
Homer tosses and turns in bed. Drool starts to ooze from the sides of his mouth. He says, “Mmmmm,” and we pop into his head.

Homer is walking along a road atop a hill going “La-la-la-la” when suddenly a cloud in front of him balls itself into a doughboy shape and points to him, “Hello, Homer!”

Homer starts drooling and faints to the ground.

Marge is shaking him.

The drool has nearly reached the bed. Outside, in the hallway, Maggie floats by, manically doing the doggie paddle.

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Roll Over

I heard them talking above me and kept my eyes shut.

“What’s he got?”

“I dunno, dunno if he got anything.”

“You know him?”

“Seen him around.”

“Think he got something?”

“Well, he probably got something. I mean, most of us got something.”

“Not me, man. I ain’t got nothing.”

“I know you don’t, loser. But this guy, he looks like he ain’t been on the street long.”

“How can you tell?”

“Dumbass, anyone can tell if they didn’t start their day off with a 40 and can think straight.”

“You mean me, right? It was only half a 40, man. And that’s rare. Rare that I had it still from last nite after I passed out. Usually it spills or someone takes it.”

“Or someone pees in it.”

“What?!”

“Nothing, hey man, we gonna roll this guy or what?”

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Black Box Revolution

He was just walking down the street head immersed in effluvia when a man bumped into him. “Oh, I’m sorry about that!” the man said, smiling broadly. He had such a wide smile you tended to take him for his word, so Joel did, but thinking so, he heard a clatter to his right. He turned to look and there his umbrella had gone down the steps in the scuffle.

Joel turned back to the man who had interceded him: “Oh, that’s quite all right, no harm done.”

The man with the wide smile tipped his hat and walked on. Joel looked after him for a minute before walking down the steps to retrieve his rain shield. As he bent over to pick it up the door there opened and a hand reached out, grabbed him by his lapels and pulled him in, slamming the door shut behind him.

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“So.”

“So.”

It was two of them awkward sos. They were making each other nervous and each felt like the geek.

She licked her lips and looked up at him again, her oversized eyes pooling with warmth.

He fought to keep from hyperventilating. “Am I sweating profusely?” he rapidly wondered.

She smiled–her last resort when feeling socially helpless. And also her first. In between she snorted and odd parts of her body got sticky.

He, on the other hand, when pressed, exerted a unique aroma which smelled like the result of an unholy congress between old Cheetos, young snails and yam. Also, he chortled.

“You, uh, got an extra box of staples?” he asked. He wiped his hands against his khakis. They left sweat marks you could take fingerprints from.

Her coming nite passed before her eyes: bus, Jane Eyre, boorishly-talkative roommates and ice cream and masturbation alone in her room. She looked him over hotly.

“Um, yea. Right here.” She fished them out of her top drawer, and while leaning over she faced his sloppily-laced sneakers. She wanted desperately to relace them for him.

She handed him the box and tried to brush fingers. Instead she jammed the box straight into his index finger’s hangnail and he let out a howl; she convulsed and the box went flying.

“Ow!” Jeannie in the back said. Apparently it had struck her in the throat. Jeannie would then go home sick. She had that thing going around anyway.

“Oops!” the girl cried, aghast.

He was glancing over at Jeannie, red moons emerging on his cheeks.

He looked back down at her.

“Oh well, I’ll see if the mailroom has any. Thanks anyway . . . “

“Sorry about that,” she said, smiling. Her mind flashed to ice cream.

“See you around,” he said, offended digit already placed into hot wet mouth.

“You too.” she said.

She watched him go and then turned back to her monitor. In a minute, Jeannie would trundle over and ask her in that accusing voice if she knew where the first aid kit was. But for now, just for the moment, she could look at that beautiful beach wallpaper and dream.

[originally published @ Gimmicky June 16, 2004]

Jackie and the Cheese

She laid on her towel profusely.

She imagined the sun sending microscopic missiles into her pores exploding in 20 years into some awful noma. She often had dreams where she was chased down an alley by an extremely agitated posse of grey, billowing nomas. Today, she soaked.

An unusual amount of sand blew onto her arm and she opened her eye to see a steel-tipped boot. Shit.

“Where’s the fucking cheese, Jackie?”

She turned over quickly and stood up, nimbly clutching her towel to some of her nakedness as she did so.

“The fuck you doing here, Lenny?”

Lenny grinned his greaseball smile and re-manuevered the toothpick around in his mouth. “I came to play with the beach balls. I like playing with beach balls. What are beaches for, if not for playing with da balls?”

She attempted her evil eye, unfortunately weak in lieu of her clothinglessness.

“I don’t know nothing about no cheese, Lenny.”

Lenny smacked one fist into palm. “It was his best sonata, Jackie! You shouldn’t a just took it like that. He’s a wreck, now. A complete catastrophe. He needs that sonata back!”

“You damn fool!” she screamed. “He would have been a global laughingstock had he released that piece! It was called Cheese, for christ’s sake! It only consisted of one note!”

He put his hands on his hips.

“You bitch!” he sputtered. “Plus, you look like a lobster!”

He ran off into the high grass. She put the back of her hand to her forehead; she did feel unusually hot. Plus, she freckled; she was the type to burn easily.

She applied some oil and laid back down. She liked how the sun warmed all her parts.

[originally published @ Gimmicky June 16, 2004]