Darrell Vickers – Farting Through Nylon: Chapter Seven – You Want Some JELLLLLLLYYYY!?
The sudden influx of major money was having an ever-increasing effect on the people in the office. Nothing about Alchemy changed, of course. She was still a little paranoid. Always trying to be the top of the class. Her phone let her know when to take a break and when to get back to the phones. When to eat. How many calories to eat. If that phone told her when to take a shit and fart, she probably would have obeyed. I’m not sure if they have an app for that yet.
On the other side of the “Effected” sliding scale was Randy. It has always been my belief that money allows you to become the asshole you always were but couldn’t afford to be. Mr. Dartmouth bore out my theory in spades. One day, soon after he got his second or third advance, he went out and bought himself a new car. Now, owning a car in New York is a little like owning a snowmobile on Mercury. You can’t really do much with it. But owning a sports car is even more ludicrous. Why would you buy a machine that goes from zero to sixty in 3.2 seconds in a town where it’s quicker to travel by bicycle? I guess it all makes perfect sense…if you’re a congenital douchebag.
Of course, it wasn’t good enough that he owned some moronic, uselessly fast, gas guzzler. No, people had to see him owning a moronic, uselessly fast, gas guzzler. So there Randy stood, out in the building parking lot, looking uber-casual for over an hour, waiting for some poor sucker to walk by and puke themselves because he owned a Saleen S7 Twin Turbo. Apparently, there’s a lot of snob appeal in owning something insanely expensive that no one has ever heard of. This highly polished pile of metal certainly fit the bill.
It shows you just how much I know about cars. I thought Saleen was Justin Bieber’s old girlfriend.
Punjab turned out to be the eventual, unsuspecting victim. He was coming back from some store where pimply guys in glasses talk about which was more tragic, the destruction of Alderaan or the destruction of Vulcan. Punjab walked right up to the auto and gave the miracle machine the hairy eyeball. An involuntary smirk worked its way from Randy’s brain to his lips.
“Is it a Ferrari, by chance?”
“Ferraris are for ’Hey, look at me’ jerk-offs,” Mr. Pleasant snorted, “This is a Saleen SL Twin Turbo. None of that Italian made shit for me. This…” Randy took a few seconds and stroked the hood like it was Heidi Klum’s muff before continuing. “…baby has a carbon fiber chassis, 750 horsepower and 700 ft-lb torque. It goes from 0 to 60 in 3.2 seconds and has a seven liter dry sumped V8 engine.”
Heidi Klum’s Muff
Even Punjab’s super technical brain was getting a little lost. “What does this dry sumping mean?”
“I have no fucking idea, but this sucker is fast. Reeeeal fast. That’s the important thing. The only thing, when you’re buying a top-of-the-line speed demon like this.“
“And you have knowledge of how quickly this car is capable of scooting?”
“Just two hundred and forty-eight miles an hour.”
“Mother of all my chapattis. It must have cost a jolly bomb! “
Now, Randy was really in his element. Nothing hardens an asshole’s dick (if indeed an asshole can have a dick) like getting to tell someone how much he paid for something that only an asshole would want to own in the first place. “How’s five hundred and fifty-five big ones sound?”
“Oh my, holy hell in God and shit! That is a king’s ransom.”
Randy’s involuntary smirk doubled in size. “Of course, I got it with all the extras. The accoutrements. GPS. Ultra Quad stereo. It’s even got a video mirror.”
“A what?’
“The rearview mirror is a video screen feeding to a camera pointing behind the car. I’m gonna hook it up to my phone so I can watch “When Animals Attack” on my way in to work.”
“Wouldn’t an ordinary mirror perform the same task, but without the risk of crapping out? Plus be cheaper?”
“Eat shit you sub-continental snake fucker! I should’ve known better that to discuss high-end technology with a number-crunching fucktooth. A generation ago, your family was shitting in a hut in the middle of the jungle.”
“I’ll have you know, for your information, that I was on the MIT track team.”
“And why the fuck should I care about that?”
“Because of this.”
Punjab hocked up a big sub-continental loogie and landed it SPLAT! on the hood of the Twin Turbo. It sat there like a fried egg. While Randy was waiting for his head to stop spinning from paralyzing rage, Punjab took off like a Bengali bat out of hell.
The police, the department of immigration and the NSA were all called in but eventually the whole thing blew over when Punjab apologized and paid for a $500 detailing job. A week later Randy crashed the thing into a stop sign while watching two cheetahs dismember a baby zebra. Douchebag!
Over the weeks, I tried calling my father a few times – just to let the shithead know how well I was doing, and where he could shove his damn money but as soon as he heard my voice, the bastard slammed the phone down. Some people are so fucking rude.
One bright sunny morning, Alchemy and I got called into Punjab’s office. He was as giddy as a tandoori jhinga-munching schoolgirl. Mr. MIT had obviously been spending his dough. The place looked like a geek museum. There were sci-fi posters and models of space craft and aliens everywhere. The room was awash in overgrown foreheads and green-skinned individuals. He’d had all this stuff for a couple of weeks though. The main cause for his excitement was a brand new acquisition, which was propped up in the corner and covered in protective plastic. We stared at it for a few seconds while Punjab nodded his head and smiled as if to say, “Who’s your daddy now, huh?”
“Is it some sort of vegetable?” I queried.
I thought he was going to have a curry-fired shit fit.
“It is Tybo the Carrot, for crikey Jesus, from ‘The Great Vegetable Rebellion’.”
Finally, Punjab’s really-smart-guy-with-a-stupid-childish-obsession was revealed. All really smart people have them. It seems to be some sort of weird internal device for dealing with the harsh reality of being thrown into a world populated by hulking dunderheads with fists. It comes from having too much time to think while the rest of us are studying really hard shit that they figured out before the teacher had finished explaining it. Mostly they’re thinking what antediluvian, knuckle-scraping buffoons we all are. And to be fair, we are all antediluvian, knuckle-scraping buffoons. Can you multiply three six-digit numbers in your head faster than most people could punch them into a calculator? Punjab can. Can you name the capitals of every country in the world, even including all those new ones, in alphabetical and reverse-alphabetical order? Punjab can. He even knew what a gerund was. I take it it’s got something to do with grammar. I can’t exactly remember what he said it or they are but apparently, we use them all the time. And how is he 
rewarded for possessing this kind of super – ask-me-any-question-cause-I’ll-probably-know-the-fucking-answer – brain? When we’re young we take his lunch. When we’re older we take his women. And while the rest of the nanocephalic, turd chewing world is out and about having a good time eating his food and ravishing his women, he’s sitting at home watching reruns of “Robot” waving his arms around, screaming, “Danger Will Robinson!”
And there it was, propped up and covered in protective plastic. Punjab’s big sci-fi Jones was Lost in Space. I think I watched it once in college when I was high on ‘shrooms. As I recall, that blond daughter had a really nice rack on her. Which brings us back to Tybo.
I rubbed my pointy chin thoughtfully as I gazed on its oh-so-orangey countenance, “I thought Tybo was like that boxing-exercise craze.”
Punjab’s face went completely red. Would that make him a Red Indian? “This was the main villain in the penultimate episode of the Lost in Space series, you bi-jimminy nincompoop! How can you not know this vital information? He tried to turn Dr. Smith into a plant!”
Alchemy decided to join me for a dip in the dangerous waters of carrot-based conversation. “Did this cost you money?”
“Are you not listening to me? This is Tybo! THE Tybo. He is television history.”
I couldn’t resist. “Was it expensive history?”
“For something of this historic magnitude, it was positively reasonable. I practically stole it for eighty-seven thousand dollars.”
“Jesus Christ!” That was the second time I heard Alchemy utter something of a fruity nature. I shifted in my trousers.
“What is so surprising, you silly nonsense woman? Spock’s ears, that he was wearing in Star Trek V, and of which was the holy stinker of the series, fetched over ten thousand dollars. And they were just his ears for crikey! This is a whole historical character in mint condition. I will not have my beautiful Tybo impugned in this rude unspeakable 
manner.”
Punjab pointed to his office door with righteous interplanetary indignation. “And if you are not going to be admiring my carrot, I’m afraid I will have to ask you to leave.”
“Boy, how many guys have I heard that from?”
A sex joke from the queen of dignity! Alchemy actually had a sense of humor. I was getting to like Miss Starchy Bra more and more.
Despite the fact that my father was still alive and I had to work in the office next to Randy, life was treating me pretty darned well. I wasn’t lonely anymore. As I lay there, night after night, between the lovely and naked Rebecca and the equally lovely and naked Izzy, I was probably the happiest man alive. In fact, you could fit two or three really, really happy guys inside of me and still have room left over for another happy guy and a ridiculously upbeat boy scout. I can’t recommend living with two beautiful women highly enough. Getting to perpetrate some very intimate and borderline unholy acts upon one unimaginable sex goddess is like, absolutely rapturous, but when you get to add a second oyster to that zesty gamic gumbo, well…. There are no words. And, if you’re from the Deep South, there are no pictures. After being tossed to near breaking on the stormy seas of life, I had come to a quiet rest on the sun drenched shores of my Halcyon Days. Those ladies could turn your hand’s best friend into a Roman Candle.
No matter which way I reached or rolled over in that bed, I’d brush up against a delicious slice of moaning, sighing womanhood. And when I was too spent or sore to continue, I was treated to the heavenly sight of them descending upon each other. I do not fear death, for I have truly lived and I do not feel regret, for I have truly loved.
Don’t get me wrong, I realize that none of this was about me. Even I’m not criminally delusional enough to think that they had any feelings for me whatsoever. It all was about my cash stash. But, it vexed me not. After all, why do we acquire money? To be able to buy what we want. What did I want? Number one: My every sexual need catered to. Number two: Um….um… Well, number one was pretty much it. I don’t require a lot of additional trinkets and gewgaws to achieve perfection down here on Earth. I think having a few simple goals enables you to more easily attain the pinnacle of all existence. “King of the world!” Except that was on a ship and I’m on a pinnacle. Pinnacles of all existence are way better ‘cause you can get real sick on a ship.
And there I was, plopped right on top of that happy pinnacle, and everything was perfect, when Rebecca yawned and quite innocently asked, “So, what are we going to do today, baby?”
I put my hand between her legs and felt the outer lips of her vagina fold over on top of my finger as I plumbed its buttery interior. God, I love doing that.
“I don’t know. What do you want to do?” Why, oh why, did I allow those reckless words to escape my lips?
She let out a little wispy sigh as I continued to gently knead her moist and tenders. “I thought maybe we could go look at some houses.”
“Ooh, fun! Why don’t we go look at some houses?” Izzy joined in.
Perhaps it was because I’d just been hanging around in Punjab’s office but I distinctly heard the Lost in Space robot screaming, “Danger, Will Robinson!”
“Houses?” I tried to sound as nonchalant as possible but I felt like a duck being asked if he’d like to sample the l’orange sauce. Trouble was definitely brewing along with the morning coffee. The girls pressed their case in a rapid and coordinated fashion. My head was bouncing right and left like I was watching two Chinese guys play ping pong.
“A house would be a great investment, sweetie.”
“And you can afford it, honey nuts.”
I do love when she calls me that.
“There’d be more room for the three of us to play in if you had a house and a backyard swing.”
“Doesn’t a backyard swing sound great?”
“And we could make even more noise during sex.”
“That’s right. Because the neighbors wouldn’t start banging on the walls if we had a house.”
“Izzy could yell, ‘I’m cumming’ as loud as she wanted.”
“And when I’m cumming, I really want to let loose.”
“And Artie could have a room of his own instead of your couch. He says it’s hurting his back.”
“I think I’d want way, way more sex, if I knew that Artie’s back was okay.”
I felt the walls closing in on me like a Death Star garbage pit. I had to do something. Say something. Even Caesar “Et tu Brute’d” as the savage blades of infamy rained down upon his Rubicon-crossing ass. I attempted to reason with them. I have absolutely no idea what I was thinking.
“That sounds like it would be a real fun thing to do and all but, see, the thing is, I’m just not quite ready for that kind of financial commitment at this juncture. I mean, I’ve only had the job a small while. Probably, a more fiscally judicious model might be to construct a diverse investment portfolio that would mitigate any income instability due to fluctuations in the economy.” My days of smoking pot while watching those little letters and numbers rolling by on the bottom of CNBC were finally paying dividends.
That’s when the pouting started. I hate pouting. No good has ever come from a woman pouting.
“Oh. That’s too bad. I mean you wouldn’t have to buy anything.”
“That’s right. All you’d have to do is look.”
“Looking doesn’t cost anything, does it?”
“Why, nothing could be cheaper than just looking!”
“And remember, they say sex on a swing is supposed to be incredible.”
Izzy licked her lips while Rebecca rubbed her shaved wonderfulness against my thigh bone.
Fuck reason. Perhaps I could change the subject.
“Tell you what. Why don’t we go someplace really nice and expensive where other guys can see me with you two?”
Nope. Both Rebecca and Izzy started nibbling on my ears. Tiny tingly sensations of delight started running up and down my spine like little blind mice. The battle was not going well. My armies of resistance were being mowed down by their Gatling Guns of lusciousness.
“It’s just…if we were going to look at houses, I think Izzy and I would be so turned on, we’d have to instantly suck your cock.”
Damn! Another division of my resolve torn to pieces.
“My mouth is getting all watery just thinking about it.”
Double damn! I was down to a few reserves and patriotic villagers armed with pitchforks.
“I could lick your balls while she deep throats your ever-so-manly boner and then we can switch off every minute or so.”
My once proud forces of restraint now looked like the opening scene from Terminator 2. Crunch! There was only one last glimmer of hope left.
“Just tell me, if I’m slurping too loud.”
Nope, there went the cavalry! I felt Rebecca’s tongue circling my testicles like they were Custer at the Little Big Horn. All was now lost. Quickly shifting metaphors, my ship was going down (along with the girls) and there would be no survivors. The band was still playing but portions of the brass section were already sliding into the icy sea.
I was not seeing or thinking well at this moment. “Well, no more than five or so. Houses. Not minutes.”
As the cheery head of my pant turtle explored the farthest most recesses of Izzy’s throat cave, I heard Artie call in from the other room, “You’re going to really like your decision.”
=DV=
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Darrell Vickers started out as one half of Toronto area band, Nobby Clegg. CFNY fans may remember the cheery song “Me Dad” which still gets airplay. From there, he valiantly ventured to L.A. and eventually became head writer for The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. Since then, he’s created numerous sitcoms and animation shows in Canada and the U.S. He still writes music and has an internet band called Death of the Author Brigade (members in Croatia, Canada and the U.S.) Mr. Vickers also had a private music mailing-list where he features new and pre-loved music. Anyone who would like to be added to his daily mailing list, just write him at Radiovickers1@gmail.com
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 
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