The speech, as my father explained to me, should be simple. Mention your wife, thank your mother. Mention your new in-laws, thank your mother. Mention your kids, thank your mother. The other important thing to remember is to avoid the minefields of inappropriate comments. So, in this spirit, I will try to avoid bringing up that mother-in-law is an anagram of Woman Hitler, and how excited I am at having new in-laws, especially ones that live 3,500 miles away.
Patti and Skip: Today your daughter has taken on a husband. Before you run out of the room screaming with unbridled joy at your release, I want to thank you. Not simply for today, but for your continued help, support, and advice. I only
knew you for, quite literally, five minutes when I asked your permission to marry your daughter. Little did either of you know, this would lead to her immigration to a tiny island of ex-colonial powers and strange accents. For that, we must thank the Department of Homeland Security.
Mum and Dad: How can I ever thank you enough. Ah yes, by moving out of your home. Seriously, you have been an incredible support to me. When faced with an adult child moving back with a fiancée in tow, numerous children sleeping over on a regular basis, losing the sole use of mum’s car, and feeding the five thousand, never once was I questioned, never a raised eyebrow, always an “of course” and “what more can I do.” I salute you.
Karen: It amazes me how hard this part of the speech is, to put down in words how I feel when I look into your radiant eyes. To describe how my heart races when I see you, how my arms feel unfulfilled unless they hold you, is almost impossible. Your laughter fills and thrills me. I can go on, and many of you will admit that I do go on when I talk about Karen. Seventeen years in the making, and finally we are together. For more on how I feel about Karen, please visit www.mywedding.com.
It is at this time I am reminded that no man is truly married unless he understands every word his wife is not saying, and that love is accepting that your loved one’s sound advice is just 99 percent sound, and 1 percent advice. My darling, I know you are right … MOST of the time.
(By the end of the book you’ll understand that reference to the role that U.S. Homeland Security played in my immigration to the United Kingdom.)
I can’t, however, say that Adam is ALWAYS at his sharpest when he’s been at the bottle. A few months after our wedding, we went off on our delayed honeymoon—volunteering at the aforementioned elephant sanctuary in Thailand—which provided me my first opportunity to personally meet Drunk Adam in all his glory. Having spent the better part of the day constructing a barbed wire fence to house the sanctuary’s crazy pony, he figured he was deserving of a quick drink in the local bar with his fellow builder. Thus was Adam introduced to Thai whiskey.
Two hours and some unknown number of shots later, Adam stumbled back to the sanctuary and up the steps to our hut just before dinner, giggling his head off. With a bit of cajoling, I convinced my grimy husband that he had to take a shower before dinner. I got him undressed, and sent him off for his wash. What followed was a trip into the absurd straight out of STM’s most random moments.
The sanctuary bathrooms were a row of ten-by-ten tiled rooms, each with a hip-level tap, an enormous plastic bucket (the sort you might put your bags of garbage in for collection), and a large scoop with a long handle. The idea is to fill the bucket from the tap, then dunk the scoop in and repeatedly douse yourself with water.
I was lounging in our hut when I heard a cry of, “I’m stuck in the bucket!” Over and over, “I’m stuck in the bucket!” I ran over to Adam’s shower room to help—only to find that he had, naturally, locked the door. Damn. I dashed into the adjacent shower room and clambered up onto the top of the toilet so that I could peer over the wall. It seems that Adam had a notion of taking a bath, so had stepped into the bucket and tried to sit down. Halfway there, he got himself wedged down. If there’s one thing you can say for Drunk Adam, his eloquence in expressing his innermost feelings is surpassed only by his accuracy in describing his physical state. He was, indeed, stuck in the bucket.
There wasn’t much I could do from where I was except laugh at his plight, and take a few choice photos. Once I was done with that, I climbed down from the toilet to formulate a strategy to free my husband from his plastic prison. But Adam was doing his own thinking. Soon, I heard, “thunk … thunk … thunk … CRASH … WHOOOOSSSHHhhhhh.” Hopping back up onto my commode perch, I found Adam sprawled on the floor in a pool of water, giggling maniacally. Through his drunken haze, he had surmised that rocking back and forth until he toppled the bucket offered his best chance for freedom. It was certainly effective. And hilarious. Needless to say, I took more pictures.
Early the next morning, dragging his hungover self in for his work shift, Adam was greeted by the staff with gleeful cries of “I’m stuck in the bucket!” It turns out that sound carries pretty well across an elephant sanctuary.
I wonder what happens on a pirate’s birthday. Does he get to choose who walks the plank? Hip-hip ARRGGHHH!
Hip-hip ARRGGHH! Pirates are funny.
Eyes down for a full house.
I love drag queen muppet bingo!
Hello conscience. This is my wife.
She makes the decisions around here.
Oh yeah. Don’t get any fancy ideas.
Garlic cheese! Double death to you, you lactose intolerant vamp man!
I can’t drive with the roof down, but where are we gonna put the dolphins?
They love to feel the wind in their blowhole.
Pfffffffffff, blowhoooole! Click click click squeak, click squeak squeeeeeak.
Awwww, they said ‘I love you.’ I love you too, dolphins. Just sit down in the back.
The only sharp object I carry is my wit.
And I’m gonna cut you up, bitches.
You know I love it when I hear those three little words. Come on. You know you want to say them to me…. Yeah. I AM amazing.
You’ve got to respect people’s beliefs.
I believe you’re a miserable wank stain. Piss off.
My computer needs more power.
Feed it chips. Lots of chips. With ketchup.
Not mayonnaise.
Oi! God! Shut the fuck up and listen to me.
I’m the pilot. It’s my turn to fly the plane.
Give me a peaked cap and a stewardess.
Yeah, a stewardess. Whooossshhhhhhhhh.
Assholes of the world unite!
And fuck off together.
You’re about as welcome as anal leakage.
Now fuck off and infect somebody else’s life.
I know it’s a shame that when I walk out of a room it gets just a little bit darker and gray. It’s a burden I carry.
You speak your mind, I punch your face.
I think it’s a fair exchange.
We’ll both be hurting.
I can’t wear these pants anymore.
They’re just too tight.
They’re giving me cock cramp … FREEDOOOOOOOOOOM!
Yeah, wiggle itMmm, feel that swaying? That swaying is freedom!
You don’t make any sense. You must be part of the alien menace. Stop with the retarded hand gestures already. Stop!
I’m in the mood for kicking faces and punching crotches.
Woo hoo!
That’s the difference between you and me. Your heart is filled with hate, and mine is filled with kittens.
Mmmm, kittens. Meow.
I would gargle contents of the assholes of the recently dead than go out with you.
It’s not a hard choice really.
Yeah. It’s a long journey to find your soulmate. So here’s a one-way ticket to somewhere far away, now FUCK OFF!
I don’t listen to the crap you say.
Why should I give a fuck about the shit you tweet?
Graphic novels: They’re just comics that grew up, flipped you the bird, and waved a hairy nut-sac in your face.
“Unique” and “special” are the two words I’d use
to describe you. That is, if I’m not allowed to use “cunt” and “bag.”
You’re undiluted brilliance, awesome to a point of purity.
You’re— oh, sorry, I was projecting. You’re an ass.
Those ladybugs are racist cunts.
Don’t you dare invite them to the garden party.
I’ve just bought fifteen bags of this shit, and now you tell me you don’t like gummies anymore? Bloody hell!
What am I gonna do with this gelatin?
I was gonna make the biggest fucking gummy bear in gummy bear history.
It was gonna be gigummygantic!
Ooh! My balls are itchy.
Have you got the cheese grater?
Where do you think YOU’RE going, hmmm? I knew it. The cupboard.
You and your cupboard.
Your family, or a zombie horde.
Choose carefully.
“Here’s my CV. Why don’t you just file it under ‘Awesome’?”
I’ve shared my theory that STM’s raging ego is Adam’s way of compensating for low self-esteem in his earlier life. I’ve also divulged his accident-prone nature, which has left him with a lot of old humiliations for STM to churn through. If ever there was an experience in Adam’s life that explains why STM determinedly and unapologetically punctures the veil of politeness, demands his needs be acknowledged, and lets his freak flag fly, it has to be this:
When Adam was in his early twenties, he managed to land himself a job in PR, at one of the biggest firms in England with ultra-posh digs in the famous Russell Square.
Adam was nervous and excited as his first day of work dawned. Decked out in his brand new suit, he boarded the crowded Tube and headed toward Central London. He arrived at his destination and, jostled in the rush hour crush of bodies, Adam slipped on the platform as he stepped off the train. With a gymnastic feat of contortion, he recovered without falling, sacrificing his back in the process; with a disconcerting wrench, his muscles lodged their spastic complaint.
“I’m not going to let a little spasm beat me,” thought Adam. “This is the first day of a fantastic new career!” With that optimistic sentiment he shuffled out of the station and around the corner to his new office.
By the time he got there, Adam was in too much pain to appreciate the beautiful oak doors, or the tastefully luxurious reception area. Gripping the grand banister of the massive winding staircase, soaked with sweat from his agony, Adam dragged himself up two floors.
He lurched into the lounge and hung against the door frame to catch his breath. This was not the grand entrance he had imagined for himself. Spying the solid-looking wooden table across the room laden with a lovely coffee/tea spread, Adam staggered across, planted both hands flat on the surface, and remained as such—bent double, dripping sweat, seeing stars—desperately hoping for the pain to subside so he could start the day with a bang, rather than a pathetic whimper.
By this time, Adam’s new colleagues began to turn up. Spotting an unfamiliar figure, a number of them came over, and, with all the hail-fellow-well-met one would expect at a swanky London PR firm, slapped him on the back with various versions of, “Oh, the new boy! Welcome!” After the third slap, Adam keeled over backwards with a loud groan, hit the floor, and there he remained, prone, like a tortoise that had been rolled onto its shell.
The crowd was getting thicker around Adam’s prostrate figure as more and more of his new colleagues arrived. You would think that people would gather around to offer aid to the poor young man paralyzed with pain on the floor. However, this was neither of the two sorts of responses that Adam observed: there were those who came over to him, squatted down, and introduced themselves heartily, taking care to avoid any acknowledgment that there was anything amiss about the way in which this meeting was taking place; and there were those who simply stepped right over Adam to get their morning cup of coffee without giving him a moment’s notice. The latter group included women in skirts, who preferred to walk directly over Adam’s face rather than acknowledge the situation. Putting aside the great views he must have had—which I doubt he was in a mindset to appreciate—I can’t help but feel so sorry for my poor future husband, too young and insecure to demand the attention appropriate to his mortifying circumstances. I only wish that he could have found a little spark of STM in himself then, to command the treatment that he deserved.
Instead, Adam continued to hope against hope that he would at some point find himself pain-free enough to bound to his feet, laugh the whole thing off, and begin his new career. That somehow this would all simply become one of those things that everyone jokes about years later during a round of golf or over drinks on the yacht.
Meanwhile, over half an hour had passed since Adam hit the floor. By now, word had spread around the entire company that the new boy has started, and if you want to say hello, you’ll find him lying on the floor of the lounge. The ever-increasing agony in his back was rapidly expanding his definition of pain and, on top of everything, he now seriously needed to pee. It was at about this time that some kind, proactive soul finally hit upon the novel idea of calling for an ambulance.
After what seemed an age, two paramedics suddenly appeared in Adam’s field of vision, and with them they had brought a seven-foot board to carry Adam out. They successfully swivelled the board under him with minimal movement of his back, strapped him down, and carefully made their way out of the lounge. When they reached the stairs, they appeared surprised to discover that they were on the third floor, and the only way down was a long winding staircase. “We’re gonna need another crew,” Adam heard, and he was hauled back into the lounge and unceremoniously dumped against the wall. The next thing he knew, the paramedics were being offered a lovely continental breakfast, while Adam had become part of the furniture.
Finally, the second ambulance crew arrived. At last, rescue! They burst into the lounge and rushed over to the breakfast table, where they began discussing with the first set of paramedics the finer points of their respective days thus far, occasionally looking over at Adam with an absent-minded smile and a slight wave of a croissant. After a bladder-busting amount of time, they categorically declared that there was no way he would be getting down by the usual route. After some deliberation, one of Adam’s new colleagues thought to mention the service elevator. So Adam, strapped to a board, neck in a brace, was paraded through the entire office.
As you have perhaps gathered by now, these particular paramedics may have not been the sharpest tools in the shed. It took them five tries to realize that they would not be able to load Adam on his seven-foot board horizontally through the door into the five-by-five elevator. One of them suggested that perhaps they should stand him up. Ah, a solution! Except that they fed him in feet-first. Thankfully, he did not fit that way either, which saved him from riding down upside-down. It was decided that what was needed was a fire crew to hoist Adam out the window and down two floors, to the ambulance waiting below.
Remember, these offices were in Russell Square, a prestigious and bustling area of London. In order to get a fire engine into the square, it was necessary for the police to completely shut it down to all other traffic.
So, there’s Adam, prone, strapped to a backboard with neck brace, his suited body drenched in sweat, his back searing in white hot pain, his bladder fit to burst at any moment, and now the cause of a complete shutdown of Russell Square. His embarrassment was at its breaking point, and as Adam lay there begging the floor to open up and swallow him, into his frame of vision loomed the faces of the four paramedics, now joined by two police officers, and—yes ladies—SEVEN firemen. It could have been the perfect cast for a bachelorette party. But instead, this was Adam’s first day at his new job and, now, one of the worst days in his life. And it wasn’t over yet. He still had to endure the ignominy of the journey down the fireman’s ladder from the third-floor window into the closed-off square below.
Thus began, and ended, Adam’s illustrious career in public relations.
DON’T MESS
WITH THE STM
10 “I’m gonna fucking tear you limb from limb, and use your arm like a loofa and your face to clean my crack and balls. Now just go away.”
9 “That’s the green one taken care of. Bring me the blue and I’ll kick seven shades of shit out of it.”
8 “You give me stress, anxiety, days filled with woe. I give you, I don’t know, a kick in the fucking balls. I think that kind of makes it fair. Asshole.”
7 “You take one of those knitting needles and put ’em in my neck once more, I’m gonna see to it that every time you blink, you’re gonna be looking at your own rectum. Got it?”
6 “That’s it. I’m going to have to call an intervention on your stupidness. I think it will take the form of a brick.”
5 “Pee in my bed once, shame on you. Pee in my bed twice, I’m gonna rip out your bladder and use it as a football, you geriatric incontinent cock slap.”
4 “I think it’s time you stepped into my office. The office of my fist.”
3 “You try feeding me any processed soya, you’re going to find it very hard to wipe your ass without any fucking arms.”
2 “If you don’t shut your cake hole, I’m gonna put you into a food coma.”
1 “This is a friendly rock. Let me rub it on your face lightly. Yeah. Now it’s got your scent, it’ll like you. Let me show you: Stand there, and I’m gonna throw the rock at you. Watch how it wants to connect with you, time and again.”
Believe it or not, Adam was not my first experience with wacky sleep behaviors. My brother Jason is and always has been a sleepwalker and talker! One night, when he was about eleven, my mother heard a commotion coming from downstairs in the middle of the night. When she crept down the stairs, she discovered my brother kicking and yelling at the vacuum cleaner, which he’d dragged out of the closet. He nearly broke his toe! But think of the bravery, risking that precious digit to protect our family.
Sleep Talkin' Man Page 10
