“Don’t judge me by the friends I keep.
No, no, no. Judge me by the enemies I have slain!”
As you can imagine, Adam’s sleep talking can turn some situations rather awkward. We now warn in advance anyone who will be sleeping within earshot. This is a lesson that we learned the night Adam yelled out, “SOAPY FUCKING TIT WANK!” loud enough to be clearly heard by the nice older couple staying in the bamboo hut right next to ours on our honeymoon. We even mention it not only to kids who are coming for sleepovers with Adam’s children, but also their parents. We’d rather not have their kid come home telling their parents that they heard in the night, clear as a bell, “If Santa doesn’t bring me my Xbox, he’s a dead fucking fat cunt!” Even if that is a sentiment a ten-year-old boy can get behind.
Once I created the blog, it was no longer just friends and family who had access to the deep, dark inner musings of Adam’s subconscious, but potentially anyone with an Internet connection, and there have certainly been consequences to that. For example, the agency that Adam was working for was not at all comfortable when their account manager attained his fifteen minutes of Internet fame. In no uncertain terms, he was instructed never to reveal the name of the company in interviews about the blog, nor to reveal to anyone in the industry that he was Sleep Talkin’ Man. He was the Clark Kent of sleeperheroes! “What if a potential client sees the blog, doesn’t like it, and takes their business elsewhere because of it?” they reasoned. Personally, I think they missed a trick—Adam is in a creative industry (film advertising) and though I’m no expert, it seems just as likely that Sleep Talkin’ Man could have attracted clients, rather than repelled them. Nevertheless, Adam kept these two areas of his life distinctly separate as was requested.
A few weeks later, purely by coincidence, Adam was headhunted to interview with another agency. He arrived, and soon found himself sitting across a conference room table from the director. “First things first,” Tony said. “Are you Sleep Talkin’ Man?” Given the directive from his current agency to maintain the secrecy of his alter ego, Adam wasn’t sure how to respond. But, he figured, might as well get the truth out there early. Adam’s cautious assent was met with great delight, followed by an announcement to the entire office. As it turned out, he had quite a fan club among the staff. Of course, they hired him for his qualifications, but their love of STM certainly didn’t hurt! And his alter ego has proved, after all, to be a great icebreaker with clients.
STM: MANAGER EXTRAORDINAIRE
10 “Hey, don’t say anything. Why don’t you put it in an e-mail, then I can ignore it at my pleasure.”
9 “Sure you’ve got a job here. If you wanna work somewhere where you’re NOT FUCKING WELCOME.”
8 “Your job is to be ignored. Nobody’s to acknowledge you whatsoever. You should be good at that.”
7 “Wow. If you really think that was a good idea, maybe your mum should rethink having YOU was a good idea.”
6 “You call that work? I call that a fucking fatal accident. I’m a witness to your carnage!”
5 “Can everybody come into the boardroom please! Not you, you don’t work here any more. Bye bye.”
4 “I’m tired of looking for the solution to this problem. Look for someone to blame instead.”
3 “Your blue sky thinking is blighted with dark clouds of piss-poor ideas.”
2 “Don’t come in to work tomorrow. In fact, don’t come back at all. Basically, I don’t want you around, cause you’re—I’ll keep this simple—a cock. A small, pathetic, flaccid, looking-at-your-shoes-constantly kind of a cock. Okay, bye-bye!”
1 “When it comes to being told what to do, I tell, you do. Got that, dickhead?”
Letters to Sleep Talkin’ Man
When I was in my late teens, my mother woke one night to a rhythmic banging. She quickly identified it as the sound of my headboard hitting my wall repeatedly. Figuring I was about to wake the rest of the house with my latest romantic conquest, she hot-footed it to my room to stop me in my tracks.
What she saw when she opened my door was not what she expected. There I was, sitting on our new rowing machine, ON MY BED, covered in blankets, rowing for all I was worth. I only wish I had used it half as much when I was awake!
Les P.
Newcastle Upon Tyne, England
Oh, tremors! Quick, under the table!
Leave the goldfish though. Little shit.
Let him suffer. Thinks he’s all high and mighty ‘cause he’s got a castle.
Everybody wriggle. Everybody wriggle.
It’s maggot mayhem!
I will NOT wear my lobster suit and dance in the street. Not even for rhubarb and custard. Go away and leave me alone. My bee costume is waiting. Bzzzzzzzzz.
When I’m king of the coalition, nobody’s going to be able to poo at work, ever.
A dirty waste of smelly time.
I only have eyes for you … and here they are, in this lovely presentation box.
All for you.
Five balloons. Got to be five.
No point going to the disco without five.
There’s this guitar riff stuck in my head.
Doo doo doo doo-doo, doo doo doo doo-doo.
Whoever wrote it … is a cunt, because it’s stuck in my head. Bastard.
I’ll stick something in his head.
I’m gonna mess you up so badly, Stick Man, that when I’m finished with you, you’re just gonna be a scribble. Yeah!
Oh, get up and wash your shadow.
It’s filthy. Filthy!
How much for the frog?
No, that one … No, THAT one.
Goddammit, how much for the frog, that one with the tail? …
Well excuse me!
How much for the lizard then?
The joke’s on you, God.
I’m free will in action.
Mazel tov, cuntbag.
That’s right.
Crème anglaise, motherfucker.
Yeah, you can keep looking at my ass as I walk away.
It’s having a spectacular day today.
All things considered, you are more attractive than a monkey’s vagina … on heat.
Happy Birthday! It’s a dead puppy! …
Now listen, you: You didn’t specify a live puppy, you just said you wanted a fucking puppy! Jesus you’re spoiled.
Now go take it for a drag.
Stop telling everyone we’re friends.
Don’t amplify my shame.
Oh, calm down.
You don’t wanna get him started.
You DON’T want a kick-boxing hamster on your case.
Right. So, I’ve punched the singing telegram. Now all I need to do is throw up on the cake. Party time!
Opposable thumbs! That was nature giving man the opportunity for twenty-four-hour fondling. Thank you!
You’re full of horseshit!
Like bullshit, but it’s dressed up to be prettier.
Since when did my underwear look good on you? Take it off. Take it off your face.
Don’t leave the duck there.
It’s totally irresponsible. Put it on the swing, it’ll have much more fun.
You are as much use as a cup full of monkey spunk at a monk’s retreat.
And just as pointless.
I’m scared by the power of your vagina.
It can control whole armies.
No, nations. The world!
Fuck. Tits! Shit, I brought the wrong shit!
It’s shower-hat Wednesday, not cracker-pants Thursday. Bollocks! I really like shower-hat Wednesday. I’ve got the best.
It’s so pretty … these cracker-pants give me nasty chaffing…. Oh, I shoulda put margarine on them! Lubricate the cracker bits. Yes, yes, yes …
Llama clouds! Mmmmm.
Great big bug-eyed fluffy ones …
Oh great! Now they spit. Bollocks.
“Ah, glass. My nemesis.
One day I shall beat you.”
If ever there
was a time that STM spoke out for Adam, it was the very moment that he uttered the quote above.
Adam has a rather unfortunate relationship with glass. Or you might say that his head has a rather passionate relationship with glass, as the two don’t seem to be able to stay away from each other. In our apartment, the windows and glass doors are all ornamented with oval-shaped grease marks from Adam’s forehead. Ditto the driver’s seat car window. I don’t know what the problem is, whether it’s a matter of faulty depth perception or a complete absence of kinaesthetic awareness, or what. There just seems to be a magnetic attraction between Adam’s face and any vertical sheet of glass.
Adam’s daughter, sympathetic to her father’s handicap, has taken to making all sorts of pretty little art projects that she can tape to our garden door at Adam’s eye level. You know, like people put up for birds, so they don’t crash into windows? What a sweet kid. His son, on the other hand, delights in trying to lure Adam into these minor mishaps. “Look, Dad, a pygmy hippo in the garden!” “Wha—” CLONK.
Adam’s tendency toward self-injury is not limited to interactions with glass. He is outlandishly accident prone; every corner, table leg, door frame, and household item from can openers to light bulbs poses a potential hazard to his person. Being Adam is a truly perilous pastime.
Take the other night. We were out to dinner with the editor of this very book. Adam left the table to go to the bathroom, which, like many London restaurants, was in the basement. When Adam got back to the table, he was rubbing his forehead. “Oh no,” I said, “What did you do?” It turned out that, while he was going down the stairs, he’d been distracted by a sign and hit his head on the low ceiling. What did the sign say? “Watch Your Head.”
Adam crashed his moped on an open road with no one else around. He went on a school ski trip, fell off the chairlift on the first ride up, and spent the rest of the trip laid up in the hotel. The first time he ever threw a boomerang, it worked.
Is it any wonder, then, that I’ve forbidden Adam to participate in any of the following activities:
• Skateboarding
• Snowboarding
• Paintballing
• Riding motorcycles
• Riding horses
• Contact sports
• Any activity that ends in “-gliding” or involves a racquet (Except badminton. Badminton is allowed. I’m not a monster.)
Adam’s propensity for damage is so powerful that it can infect those in his orbit as well. For example, when Adam was nine, his parents brought home a new kitten from the SPCA. Little Suki was having a delightful little kittenhood, until she decided that her favorite pastime was to climb up Adam’s body and perch on his shoulder like a parrot. One day, Suki took a tumble from her special spot. You would not expect this to be a problem: cats always land on their feet, right? But, don’t forget, this is ADAM’s cat, falling from ADAM’s shoulder. Poor Suki landed on her side, breaking one little kitty leg.
Because Suki was still a kitten, the vet made her a tiny cast with a little extra space to allow her leg room to grow. For the next six weeks, all anyone heard around the house was pat pat pat THUNK … pat pat pat THUNK. Her relationship with Adam was never quite the same.
Fortunately, unlike STM, who consistently presents himself as God’s perfect gift to the world, Adam has always had a knack for being able to laugh at himself. This ability has allowed him to translate a lifetime of mishaps into an endless supply of amusing anecdotes. It’s certainly been a skill he’s gotten lots of use out of.
Letter to Sleep Talkin’ Man
Late one night, I awoke to find my computer-geek husband palpating my abdomen as though he was carrying on some sort of medical exam. This is the conversation that ensued:
Him: (with authority) Mmmm, yes, I see, uh-huh, this is not good.
Me: What’s going on?
Him: (continuing his physical exam) Well, it’s really clear, Sweetie. This thing has to come out.
Me: (a bit alarmed) I don’t think so.
Him: Well, there’s no doubt, it’s gotta go or you won’t make it up this hill. You need to make it to the top.
Me: Well, I think I’d like a second opinion.
Him: No need for a second opinion. I can do this, it’s easy, just let me find my Leatherman.
In case you don’t know, a Leatherman is a utility knife that some men wear on their belts.
Lucky for me, he fell back to sleep.
Sarah B.
Homer, AK
My badger’s gonna unleash hell on your ass. Badgertastic!
“At the rate I’m going, I’m gonna need another dozen turkey bags. Oi, back in the bag. Back in the bag, damn you!”
ADAM: What’s a turkey bag? What, is it an American thing?:
ME: Some people do cook their Thanksgiving turkey in a special kind of bag in the oven, ‘cause it keeps the juices in.:
ADAM: No, we don’t have that here.:
ME: This sounds like you’re talking about live turkeys.:
ADAM: Maybe I’m putting children into turkey bags.:
ME: It seems a good idea, quieting them down that way when you’re tired of them.:
ADAM: Yeah. Instead of the naughty chair, get in the turkey bag! This is Parenting 101.:
Frozen yogurt is ice cream for pussies.
Ground Control, this is Weasel. I’m all ready to go. Just waiting now … itchy fur, itchy fur … Ground control, this is Weasel.
I think I’ve got fleas … begin countdown
… Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep … Ground Control to Weasel, I hope you’re house trained.
You’re a happy little soul, humming away.
If you like humming so fucking much I’ll staple your bitching lips together. Shut up!
Smell my hands. They smell of bacon.
Go on, smell. It’s okay, it’s kosher.
Mmmm, bacon hands.
You’re right, elephants in thongs are not something you see every day.
Enjoy it.
You cannot go to college unless I teach you shit. So you can take that ‘those who can’t do teach’ crap, and shove it up your flabby ass.
You’re pretty.
Pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty….
Now fuck off and be pretty somewhere else.
I’m bored.
I’m a fucking goose, dickhead!
Duck, indeed.
Jellyfish are attacking.
Everybody grab your ice cream guns.
Let’s get those little things!
Reach for the stars!
You’re gonna have to, no one on this planet wants anything to do with you.
Bad germs, bad germs.
Whatcha gonna do?
Whatcha gonna do when I throw bleach on you …
You’ve got a nice face.
But your personality is one huge cock block.
The cake! It must be psychic.
It’s using Jedi mind tricks to make itself irresistible to me. This is the cake I want.
Run along, run along. Next!
I love being a judge on Nobody’s Got Talent But Me.
Thank you for dinner.
Now if I ever say that something tastes like the anal evacuation of the recently deceased, I’ll have a frame of reference.
Here I am: Captain Yeast Infection!
Making you uncomfortable no matter what you wear.
I bet you wish you could wear a onesie and look this good.
Next time I lend out my chest hair, it won’t be to a dick face like you. You’ve got it covered in lots of stuff.
It’ll take ages to clean up.
One hair at a time.
It’ll be less painful to put my tongue through a cheese grater and lap up vinegar with the remnants that are left in my mouth, than to accept a dinner date with you.
I think you can take that as a ‘no.’ Bye-bye.
So, you want a super massivo decaf low-fat stupido motherfuck cappu-fucking-ccino?
OK. Coming right up, cunt.
I swear, if I ever have to listen to you, I’ll claw my ears off, and fill the bloody gaping holes with decaying afterbirth.
Do I love you a little or a lot? Hmmm?
No, it’s a lot. It’s your shithead inner self that only loves you a little.
Back off Robin.
Batman is my bitch now.
You’re just a bitch’s bitch, bitch.
You know what I’m gonna do?
I’m gonna make turd biscuits.
It’s like a shit sandwich, but for kids.
It’s not so much a wave of indifference that washes over me when I look at you.
It’s a fucking tsunami. Fuck off.
Nature pooing gives a whole new dimension to life. Mmmm. Now that’s freedom!
Stop hitting me! You’re always hitting me!
Hmm, maybe I shouldn’t be a boxer.
Postman, I’ll be a postman, yes.
No one hits a postman … except if you’re a boxer. Yeah, maybe I won’t be a postman.
I’ll just be a god. Much easier.
I love you. No, sorry, I missed some words out. I love it when the world shits on you. Yeah.
That’s the full sentence.
Jesus needs me.
If I don’t believe, he don’t exist.
I’d like to apologize on behalf of my mother.
She didn’t mean to call you an asshole … she meant to call you a cunt.
I want to see the piglets.
Let me see the piglets.
Why can’t I see the piglets?
Ohhhh, piglets!
… Fuck they stink!
I want to go home now.
Stinky fucking piglets.
Yeah, you lay down,
I’ll get the tennis racket.
Sleep Talkin' Man Page 7
