Free Sleep Talkin' Man by Karen Slavick-Lennard

that seeing their dad happy (which they hadn’t seen much of lately) was all it took for them to immediately accept me as part of their family. Since then, it has been smooth sailing all along.
    Adam’s children get nearly as much pleasure out of STM as I do. We don’t let them actually read or hear most of it for themselves, mind you. After all, they are only eight and elevenyears old, and we do have some respect for age-appropriateness. But, of course, they know about their dad’s funny little habit, so most mornings when they stay over they come bounding in, asking “What did Daddy say last night?” and I feed them a sanitized version, replacing “bum” for “ass” and “jerk” for “motherfucker.” And let me tell you, it sometimes requires a fair bit of creativity to take STM’s latest and greatest and translate it into something that’s palatable to youthful sensibilities (and won’t scar them for life). Other times, there’s no sanitation in the world that will render something shareable with young ears: “How can I tell you you’re as welcome as a twenty-eight-day-old used tampon infested by maggots without offending you?” just doesn’t have a G-rated version.
    Of course, some quotes are kid-suitable, and we happily let the children listen to those for themselves. The lengthy, wacky animal ones go down especially well. Here’s the kind of thing they go crazy for:
    â€œHey, look at me! I just made bumble bee pajamas. They’re so cuuuute, with their little leg holes. This one’s bright fuchsia with some black spots. I think that’s my favorite. And this one’s got a night cap that fits right over the antennae … WING HOLES! I forgot to put wing holes! Oh, well.
‘… and all the honey was oozy woozy, sticky and gooey, but it tasted good.’
Awww. Bed time story for tired little bumble bee. Go to sleep, bee.”
    It’s a blast to watch their faces go from eyebrow-knitted puzzlement to wide-mouth amazement to unbridled glee. Kids haven’t yet learned the regrettable skill of moderating their reactions, and it’s such a pleasure to see it all hang out like that.
    As delightful as it is to play this stuff for the kids, it still comes second to my marathon STM-sharingsessions with my brother. Running his own theatre company on top of a full-time job chairing the arts department at a private high school keeps Jason frantically busy, and he doesn’t have much time to peruse the Net for sheer pleasure. When we Skype, we often get on the blog together and go through all the entries that he has missed. As we make our way through the quotes, he throws his head back and howls, his body contorts with laughter, he drops his forehead to the desk and pounds it with his palm. I’ve even seen the occasional tears of glee. It’s embarrassingly gratifying to be the bearer of such merriment to my big brother.
    It happens that Jason’s young high school students have also discovered Sleep Talkin’ Man. Many a time he has arrived at a drama club meeting to find the kids doing dramatic 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:
    â€œIt’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:
    â€œFrom 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