Cosmic Vomit

What a disgrace. I finally get an answer right and fucking Fittipaldi has a heart attack.

Mr. Fittipaldi still had three more questions and he had no intention of dying before he spat them out.

Geoff and Sappho were a competition in themselves, except the competition was for who was stupider. Melanie was more than one Chiclet® short of a full box.

Finally, Mr. Fittipaldi, tired from too many tacos and a heart attack, righted himself.

-¡What the fuck just happened! -He was a gritty bastard-. We’ve always had students who were sensible and salient at the Science Curse-Off. But today every goddamn one of you sons of bitches are fucking brilliant -And then he held his head and looked groggy-. ¿What did I just say?

-You said you were a stupid son of a bitch -Sappho protested-. You said that toads pray to God. You said that comedy is 8/15^th tragedy.

But Mr. Emerson Fittipaldi refused to listen. He didn’t have to listen to a baby crying about her bottle.

-I’m head jeeve at this Science Curse-Off, and I don’t have to listen to anyone -Mr. Fittipaldi declared-. This college isn’t celebrating the time-honored science of cursing again, until either the students get a fucking clue, I get some angioplasty, or some of you motherfuckers start answering the goddamn questions.

Most of the students, teachers and parents started running around the auditorium quickly and indiscriminately. But not my parents. My parents just sat there, staring into space.

First, I had lowered my self even coming to this stupid college. And now my parents didn’t know that I existed. And I couldn’t come up with anything that would convince them that I did.

No one said nothing. But everyone had stopped moving around like manzanita bushes. Then dad broke the silence.

-I didn’t think I could ever say this enough. You are a freak, Al -He said.

-I’m a freak like Galileo’s a freak, ¿right? -I mumbled-. You think that he and I are punk-asses, but brilliant punk-asses, ¿right?

Dad ignored me:

-But I’d rather someone bust a cap upside your head, than hear another dipshit.

-I also would rather bear the winter of my discontent than hear that jackass Fittipaldi even one more time -My mom said-. But some of those kids can sure talk bad words. One of ‘em tried to curse me out while I was praying. Just a total dumbshit.

-Michelle actually had a brilliant summation of the Science Curse-Off -My dad woke up and said-. She said you were nervous and a bit self-serving because you started saying that you would be able to fly if only you could sip from the fruit of the loom. Evidently, Al believes all of that hoo-hah.

¿¡What!? I didn’t even believe that we had a front door to our house.

-Your father and I have to go to work -Mom said-. First we have to go home and think about all of this. Then we’ll go into work late. And then we’ll talk to everyone about everything and then we’ll come home.

-We have what some people call arachnophobia, but what I call the occurrence of tune -Dad announced-. If you didn’t notice, I disapprove of everything that this university, and even the universe itself, stands for.

¡The universe! He probably has never had sex, except when he made me, Michelle and my fangs.

It was plain to see that my parents didn’t know their cars from a marching band from a full case of hasta la vista. It was like they lived at a pick-a-part auto yard, and all they could find were tires. And there’s no front door.

I was tired again, this time because I had missed “Freaks and Geeks”. My segues and parsimony principles were beginning to have a life of their own.

Despite being tired, despite being picked apart, and despite continually being pushed until I screamed, the door was amazingly there, and open. I gulped and re-opened the trap door to paradise.

Paradise made my heart beat even faster than I could bear. The sound was so loud I’m sure I’d never hear the door if it re-opened. ¿What would I do if it re-opened again?

I’d probably try to run back into the house before they put out the camel. Instead, Gordi walked in like the prodigal skunk, come back to piss me off.

I could see what a mess we had made tonight. There was a photograph of a pair of panties in the Porta-Potty. I stared at my name on the program. Instead of spelling “Sterner” with an “S”, they had spelled it with venison and a used tire, and then wrapped it all up in saran wrap.

I couldn’t’ve cared less about that, but my picture was in Technicolor.

And my fangs had been destroyed, just like my life. I couldn’t look. I couldn’t think. And I couldn’t open - or re-open - the door.

Mr. Emerson Fittipaldi looked like a furry goose to me. And my science teacher, one Mr. Gosling, had probably been too humiliated to show his kisser.

And my parents. My parents thought that the sun revolved around our house.

I didn’t want to think about or look at that dingbat Michelle, when I knew she was sitting in a padded room with an Etch-A-Sketch®, counting chickens.

But what was worse than all of this was, I didn’t know where my fangs were. I had lost my fangs.

¿Since when have I been so wrapped-up in my self that I didn’t realize how stupid I was?, I axed my self.

I decided that I didn’t want to sit here thinking and I didn’t want to yell.

I didn’t want to think what my podiatrist would say if she knew I had destroyed my fangs once, and then once again.

I didn’t want to think about it because I wouldn’t be able to remember what I had thought anyway.