Free Sleep Talkin' Man by Karen Slavick-Lennard

readings of STM’s latest zingers. There he is, sitting with these fifteen-year-olds whose impressionable minds he is tasked with helping to shape, as they proclaim:
    “It’s the soup!
    It tastes like rancid cock butter!”
    He knows he’s supposed to stop them, but all he wants is to cackle along. And it can’t help that they all know that it’s come to them care of his little sister. AWKwaaard!
    Speaking of awkward, try sitting next to your mom as she listens to a recording of your husband saying:
    “From now on, papaya shall be known as cunt fruit. Nasty cunt fruit. Mushy and smelly cunt fruit. You don’t like the word, don’t make me say it again.”
    My mother—a woman more likely to exclaim “fiddlesticks!” than its four-letter counterpart—is surprisingly enthusiastic about Sleep Talkin’ Man, particularly when you consider that it involves hearing all manner of obscenity from the man who married her daughter. What a sport.
    Heaven for a depressed masochist is an ice cream headache.
    Ladies and gentlemen, please remember to put your oxygen mask on first, followed by your favorite child.
    Oh, I could be rummaging around in here for ages, I ’ m never going to find some zebra ears!
    Ugh, I know you. You’re alwayson the corner of Fuck-off and Cunt-bag.
    I’m so sorry about the Pop-Tarts.
    It really should never have happened.
    I want to dance in the rain but without the getting wet bit.
    Just put the fucking cow’s head on the pavement and walk away. Leave it alone, stop playing with it. It’s just a head.
Ooooh, it’s got it’s eyeballs in still.
    Hey, who put my elbows on backwards?!
That’s not fucking funny!
    Right. I’ve had enough.
I’m splitting you two up.
You over there and you are going all the way over there. I tell you, you’ve got to be really fucking quick and hard on these chinchillas.
Take no prisoners.
    Don’t judge me.
Anybody can fall in love with semolina.
    Stop throwing mangoes.
You’re going to take somebody’s eye out, or worse!
    Put Mr. Squidly down!
How DARE you try and milk him! Come on, Mr. Squidly. Let me put you back in your tank. Aw, it’s okay. Why don’t you hug my arm. Yeah, use all your little tentacles.
There there. Everything’s gonna be okay.
He’s only a douche.
    Listen, it’s not as if I put ear wax on my penis and shouted ’snake warts!’
OK?
    Yeah, OK, you’re sorry. You’re French, you’ve got to be fucking sorry!
Mange tout twat.
    I can’t believe you went to pick up a turkey without introducing yourself first.
How rude of you. How presumptuous.
A turkey has its own mind. Be kind.
    Seriously, I can open my mind and empty it of everything and still do menial tasks. Picture that.
I am the perfect husband.
    Sure you’re beautiful.
But when you crap you smell like every other asshole.
    Leave my gnomes alone. They’re MY gnomes, living in MY house, doing MY gardening, and they’re happy. Look at their fucking smiley faces. Can’t you see how frickin’ happy they are? Who are you to judge me?! Go on, gnome, cut the grass.
Good gnome. Good gnome.
    Stupid fucking fizzy fish. Never liked them.
Have some of that, you sugar-coated cunts.
    If you’re looking for sympathy, go get a fucking dictionary.
You’ll find it between ’shithead’ and ’syphilis’.
    It’s your hair. I’d like to see it on your head, not on the side of the fucking bath like a dead mouse.
    You find me attractive?
Well, congratulations. You’ve now joined the rest of society.
    No, don’t laugh at my goose.
Come on, goose. Oh, this is going to cost me a fortune in therapists.
    The ravioli’s plotting something.
Always hiding his agenda. Stick with fusilli.
Really trustworthy.
    Okay everybody. It’s time for some whale song. Get ready: mmMMMMMMMMmmmm, MMMMmmmmm, mmmMMMMMMmmm, MMmmmMMMMMmm…. Oh, I’m filled with so much humpback happiness right now.
    “Don’t judge me by the friends I keep.
No, no, no. Judge me by the enemies I have