Free Articles, Free Web Content, Reprint Articles
Monday, November 20, 2017
 
Free Articles, Free Web Content, Reprint ArticlesRegisterAll CategoriesTop AuthorsSubmit Article (Article Submission)ContactSubscribe Free Articles, Free Web Content, Reprint Articles
 

Camping Trip To and From Hell

For some families, it's enough to take a camping trip into the middle of the wilderness, so that we can return with a newfound appreciation for modern technology such as toasters, and a new-found hate for the mannerisms for each other. But, no, that was not enough for us, the Smith family. We had decided to take a five hour road trip north to the town known as Little Helskini, or what most folks there just call Hell, which I found to be more appropriate. Believe it or not, everyone there spoke Finnish, being that it seemed it was a town for Finnish immigrants. It wasn't really a town, per se, but a rather disgusting mix and meld of suburbia and camping grounds. The language barrier wasn't all that great. As a child, I learned bits and pieces of the beautiful and enoramic Finnish language when my mother was accusing my father of sleeping with the neighbor's wife.

Unlike a real normal family, my father -- wait, scratch that. I have absolutely no idea what a real normal family is. Those television and radio programs that have a perfect mother and absolutely obedient children, except in those cases where mischevious behavior can be followed by "boys will be boys" and lusting will be justified by "every girl wants to be liked," these families are figments of the imaginations of the people who control all media. Back to the story... My father was completely convinced that he could live entirely off of the scraps served at the one fast food restaurant of the town Little Helsinki. It was not a McDonald's. It was not a Burger King. It was a Lord Valdon's, complete with a Finnish motief, though I personally though they adopted more from the Norse culture. Don't try to find a Lord Valdon's anywhere else either. The manager there seemed very hell bent, no pun intended, on convincing his "customery" that Lord Valdon's was an international food chain, with thousands of locations in the old country, but that this was the only one on American soil. Being that I have not even endeavored to investigate the matter, I've already concluded that he was a liar.

"What do you mean you don't believe me?"

"I don't think a Valdon's Vlesh and Veal Vombination doesn't have the adequate marketing tactic to make well with populations across the sea," I explained.

"You see that?" he said, his demeanor immediately changing. He made this look at me like I had committed a crime. I would have to swear to you that his mustache whiskers were actual flesh they were so thick and animated, and that --

"You see that!?"

"Yeah, it's a sign."

"Can you read it?"

"Though I do appreciate the fact that you took no effort to have an English sign," I began, "In fact, I bet you went through extra effort to have it written in Finnish, didn't you?"

"Can you read the sign, sir?"

"Yeah, it says twenty minute eating period," I replied.

"Yeah, and you've just about spent twice that, telling me that this was not a real place! Now leave!"

"Oh, contrare, my friend," I said with a thick Finnish accent, all the more to insult his depraved intelligence, "That's eating period. I never came here with the intention of eating anything, let alone buying anything. According to your own rules, as beautifully as they are written, I have found a loop hole. I am going to stand in line all day and bother your customers."

"Get out now, before the cops," he said.

"Okay, I'm leaving," I surrendered, "But, I really doubt I could hinder someone's efforts to get a Viking Salad."

Yes, it was that sort of restaurant that our noble father had depended to live on with our camping trip to Little Helsinki. Needless to say, my mother and I complained. So, as a devoted father, he made a quick stop to a local shopping center. He had actually set his watch to see how fast he could maket he run. It was a sporting event to him. And the race results were: 12 boxes of eggo waffles, 2 bricks of Vegan cheese, one half pound of corn, bread, cake, and 40 packages of cool aid (in Little Helsinki, it is marketed as "cool aid," and not "kool aid," on account of someone complaining that it violated Finnish pride). Adequately unsatisfied with the food condition as I was the condition of my family, and life in general,, we drove on.

There is something about the housing of Little Helsinki that needs to be understood. For a long time, I have intensely and deeply held the belief that no human being could be content to live in a building that was literally one room. Little Helsinki had a population of 20,000 inhabitants that violated this rule. These are not "one room apartments," these are quite literally "one room buildings." There is something else I should really tell you about this miserable place and its Finnish creatures. Some of the walls of these buildings are completely glass, and people aren't shy about nudity. Oh, one other thing: I am confident when I say that half of all lawn ornaments produced in third world countries end up here. Mailmen trip on pink flamingos while cars put their pedal to the mettle in crushing gnomes.

Our father, who had boasted so well of his $59,000 "and increasing" yearly salary as a department store manager, had rented us a sort of cottage. It was perhap what I'll call Hell Housing, Grade Two. It was a bit longer and bigger than the average house of Hell. That's not to say it was a rather disturbing sight that people might come here to vacation. And, the term cottage is used quite loosely. It was conveniently placed, in the quietness of the suburbs.

Right when I stepped out of the car, I looked across the street to one of those shitty one-room buildings with a screen door and a glass window wall, and an older man was watering his lawn with a hose. There was no attachment to actually make the water flow out of the hose properly, no, no, no, my friend. This is not a sanely constructed place. The lanky motherfucker winked at me and said, "Hey, you rascal! I'm Ungeldorf." I greeted him with as much fake enthusiasm as I could muster.

We quickly unloaded everything into the house. The yard seemed to be quite spacious. That is to say, it was the actual yardage that the house was, with a camping table that had five thousand plus to-be splinters. I looked across to the adjacent property. A short, fat man, holding a fly swat in one hand, armed with a clear, see-through, yellow visor, with thinking white hair only one one half centimeter high, with what seemed to be a yellow mesh shirt, sat in a lawn chair, examining us from behind his dark sunglasses that took up the size of a state. I opened my mouth, as though, at this point in my life, I was destined by god, to say something, to act on some pre-meditated thought of fate and justice, but then I realized that anything I say, it will be words, and this person will probably reply. I said nothing, and went back into the house. The other property was protected by a wall of high-grade trees (TM).

At this moment, a girl -- who would be come to be known as Ogden -- came by to the house. "Hi, fellow Finlanders!" she said with a Finnish accent to an English language, as she then proceeded to speak in Finnish. I'm not sure how I take to that, whether it an act of stupidity based on pride, or pride based on stupidity. She was attractive, though. A blonde at that. I think it has been accepted by popular opinion up to this time, that it is just for a man to find any woman attractive, so long as the color of her hair is blonde. Normally I dissent from popular opinion simply for the sake of pissing off some miserable councilman. But, at this very moment, there are no objections.

"Could you not speak in Finnish?" was my first questioned.

"Why not?" she asked, in Finnish.

"It's a scary language and I don't like it," I replied, in English.

"You need to remember your heritage!" she replied, still in Finnish.

"My problem is that I'm having extreme difficulty forgetting it," I said, with a malaise in my eye that could be equalled to a southerner with foot worm.

She opened her mouth and bobbed her head, and said, "I'll be on your case, mister!" Hey, at least she said it in English. No, no, wait... I would come to realize that she did not advertantly say that in English. No, she seems to skip from language to language without much conscious thought about it. My attraction to her increased tenfold, whereas my opinion of her self worth lost fifty points.

"I'm hungry," my father said, rubbing his belly. This was actually a pre-meditated action of his. He would declare that he was hungry, and before he declared this, he had the foresight to recommend Lord Valdon's. My mother and I declined.

"Well, it's your alls loss!" he said, holding the door and sticking his head in before slamming it.

"I just can't eat any meat," my mother said, "I'm on that new dieting program, where if you only eat cake and frog legs. Damn the Finnish for their culture. I wish we could buy frog legs here." As she was talking, she was knitting a scarf, or a shirt, or perhaps a bundled mess that was to be an art piece described as "our hectic life." She kept talking, so I migrated to the outside, where I was greeted by our overly large neighbor. We exchanged glances. For a moment, I was quite sure that he hated me as much as I didn't want to talk to him. After three seconds of thought... I was pleased with this.

I build a fire out of a pile of fire wood my father had purchased. And, around the fire, I lined six boxes of Ego Waffles. I imagine that this will be my only form of sustenance for the next one to two weeks. I then went to the front lawn, where I was greeted with Ungeldorf. "Hi, I'll be with you in just a second, I just need to mow my lawn," he said to me, with his finger in the air, commanding my attention. I'm not sure what he meant by that. I mean, when you say "I'll be with you in just a second," it usually communicates a sense that you had requested one's presence. Clearly, I did not. He pushed his mower across the eight by two foot lawn that he had, pulled it back, and went over it again. "Okay, let's chat."

"I'm Ungeldorf!" he proclaimed, a bit too loud. I squinted and looked away, thinking, "Wait... didn't he already tell me his name?"

"How are you doing, my friend?" he said, with a thick Finnish accent on an English language.

"I'm doing good, doing good," I replied, "And yourself, fair matey?"

"I'm doing spectarific!" he said, as he did a squat and flexed both of his arms. I think he suffers from atrophy, either of ego or body. "Say, would you like a cool nice... Finland Flavor?" Believe it or not, yes, there is an actual beer called a Finland Flavor. It was the most low-grade, disgusting, foul, alcohol with water mixing that I've --

"Yeah, pass me up a Finland Flavor," I said. He gave it to me, I opened it, and proceeded to drink it.

"Whoa whoa whoa, stop there," he said. I held mid-pose, about to drink. "You can't just drink it! Don't you know that you have to give three shouts and a kahoot before you drink each one? See?" He pointed to the side of a can that had a label reading: "So Scandinavian, it will taste bad unless you give three shouts and a kahoot before drinking!" In smaller printing beneath that, there was a surgeon general's warning about birth defects. I'm not sure I read that in the right order.

I eyeballed him, and then walked across the street. "I'm going to drink my beer at my house," I said to him.

"Okay," he said, with a cheery smile, as though I wasn't blowing him off in the most oblivious manner, "I better hear that three shouts and a kahoot, though!" Ungeldorf was one of those fellows who, no matter the fact that his mood did not change, he had to change his facial expression with every new sentence. Flex a face muscle, mimic a new pose, I'm not quite sure. I could quite literally feel him watching me as I walked back to my parent's rented "cottage." I sat in a plastic chair, with one wall made of glass, the other of a bland blue or green, I can't remember (or don't need to), and I see that the fire in my back yard actually sucks really bad. I drank my beer, without three shouts and a kahoot. To fucking hell with Ungeldorf.

"Hey, Ungeldorf, what's up?" I said.

"Not much, my Finnish Brotha'!" he said, with.... half ghetto, half Finnish accent? Yeah, from now on, I decided to try and not decipher the environment I'm in, while I'm in hell.

"Say, you have another Finland Flavor?" I asked.

"Sure do, bud!" he said, passing me another out of the kooler. At that moment, he was my best friend, and my only friend in hell. I was willing to make a peace treaty with him. His obligation is to supply me with cheap and effective alcohol. My obligation was to let him talk.

"You know, it's kind of cool, how two buds can just hang out and enjoy their Finnish heritage, on the front lawns of their houses," he said to me, ending in a pose that was defiant and almost proud. I was mistaken. He was preparing to belch. Which he did do quite finely.

"Yeah, Ungeldorf," I said, "I'm down with that. Heritage thing and houses, beer, yeah." I figured that you can really just tune someone out entirely, pretend to be somewhere else, and then put together a jumbled sentence of some words they use, and they'll be satisfied with your presence. This has always worked. At least, it has always worked in following places: Little Helsinki, [end list]. I have inadvertantly claimed that I was a Vietnam veteran through this method.

"You like metal music?" he said, as his eyebrow curved an entire mile.

"Yeah, metal music is good," I replied.

"I love metal music!" he said, putting his arm around me. He was a living contradiction. He had a new facial expression or phsyical pose with every new thought, and yet he was the least complicated living creature alive. I liked this in him.

I have a confession to make. I have engaged in Friend Fantasy. Yes yes, we all know what this is and have done it at one time or another. It's when we imagine what great friends we will have, when we come to realize that the friends we do have are jerkoffs -- or we just don't want to appreciate the fact that everyone is different. I have always pictured my best friends as being readers of Rousseau and Marx. I have pictured my friends as people who have a vocabulary where you look up journal and do not see "synonym for diary." I have pictured my friends as intellectuals with a heightened sense of apathy: we like to complain about deteriorating civilization and decomposing social conditions, but only over inexpensive beer. Instead, my best friend is...

My best friend is holding his chest with one hand, and a Finland Flavor with another, all teary eyed, saying to me, "I have a confession, my fellow Scandinavian.... I am onlyhalf Finnish." After he said this, he turned to me and hugged me, while I continued to drink his beer. Emphasis on his and beer.

He let go of me and turned to the side of the street. A neighbor down a few houses was rearranging his lawn ornaments. He had made an addition: "Elect Goobengorf For Mayor! Republican Party!" "Yeah, Goobengorf is a real good guy," Ungeldorf said, taking a sip of his beer and making an express of approval.

"Oh, really?" since it seemed the topic changed to something I was actually interested in: politics, the sociology of human civilization. "What policies does Goobengorf want to enact?"

"Well, dig this," Ungledorf began, "He wants to change the name of Little Helineski to New Helineski. He says we're big enough to be recognized not as a subordinate, but as an equal, of the old country." I immediately started to drink his beer faster.

"Hey, how about that girl Ogden?"Ungledorf began, "Yeah, she's some hot ass. Oh, look! Here she comes!" With my Finland Flavor in my hand, I turned to look down the street. I felt like I was hunched over, grimacing through life.

"Hi, boys!" she said in Finnish, "How are you doing today?"

"We're pretty bitchin' right now, aren't we?" he nudged at me, "Huh? Huh?" His words went off into chuckle as I tried to do my best to look like an idiot that didn't get a joke. She giggled and went off on her way.

"Yeah, I'd right like to get every part from my waist to my knees between her thighs," Ungeldorf said, as his eyes rolled all over her body as she walked away.

"Do you have a beer bong?" I asked.

"Yeah, actually, I do --" he started.

"No, no, wait, let me rephrase that question," I said, "Do you have a beer bong that doesn't celebrate the nationality of Finland?"

"No."

"Oh, okay," I said, "Hhhhmmm.... I think I'm gonna head back to my place. Is it okay if I take a six pack of Finland Flavors? I mean, because... of..... they're good for my, uh...... I have no reason."

"Sure, anything for a fellow Finlander," Ungeldorf said, "And by the way, that little thing about how I'm only half Finnish.... that's between you and me." Already half way across the street, I nodded carrying the six pack. Once inside the house, I saw that both parties of my family had dispersed. My father was probably cursing himself for ordering fourths at Lord Valon's. My mother... you know, I try as hard as possible not to think about what my mother might be doing. Ignorance is bliss. Or, at least, ignorance is not being grossed out to the point of puking. I looked through the one wall that was an entire glass window. Our neighbor was, for some unknown reason, wearing swimming goggles. Before the amount of time had passed for an obligatory wave could pass, I quickly turned and went outside, turning my back to the large man, or woman, I don't know, I haven't figured it out yet. I had guzzled down four beers while at Ungeldorf's, so these six should just compliment the buzz.

I opened the first can and took a few sips. I must admit. It is a very low quality alcoholic substance. But, it does get the job done. At this point, I noticed that as I was being watched by our fattest neighbor, that I was getting the munches. So, I poured some gasoline into the fire pit with some wood, and threw in a match. Motherfucker went up six feet high. Using a prod instrument, I held out four eggo waffles. I didn't even have anything to put on them. No margarine, no jelly, nothing. I was just going to eat them plain. They were done in about five minutes, by which time I had finished half of the six pack and pissed twice. Even though they had nothing on them, they tasted like they were thoroughly buttered. It's always like that when you're drunk, though. I finished off another can of Finland Flavor. Two cans left, and I was pretty heavily wasted.

"Hey, kid," someone says from behind me in Finnish. I turn around. It's our best friend, the large neighbor.

"My name's Targobin, how ya' doin'?" he asked.

"I'm fine," I replied.

"Say, do you have any dough that I could borrow to use to make waffles?" he asked.

I was drunk. Let this be understood first. I was clearly and absolutely drunk. The fire was still going, and surrounding me was one empty box of waffles, and eleven unopened boxes of waffles, strewn about the lawn -- how they got that way, I can't remember.

"No, I don't have any .... dough.... For...... waffles...." I said.

"Aw," he said, with what seemed to be a genuinely disheartened look.

"But, you can take one of these boxes of waffles, if you'd like?" I suggested. His eyes lit up and he smiled. Just now I realized that he was wearing a cap that protects your hair from getting wet in the shower. He grabbed the box of waffles and waddled away. I regretted the decision immediately.

What happened next is blurry. I don't remember it. I only remember being woken up, moaning, "Aaargghh.... leave me alone....." I immediately realized that I had passed out drunk in a sand box in the back yard. I was being shaken by Ogden.

"Wake up! Wake up!" she said, in a Finnish language, and then quickly turning to English with Finnish accent, "Are you alive?"

"Yes, I'm fuckin' alive!" I yell out, as I get up. The Finland Flavors really did me in. It was dark out. I had no idea what time I fell asleep, or even what time I started drinking or made the waffles. At this moment, I had to piss really bad, and I was really thirsty. My immediate goal was to cure these needs. Until then, I was going to regard Ogden as an inanimate object to whom I held no obligation -- even those common obligations of which we owe to fellow humanity. I filled up a cup from the sink with water and drank without stopping. I then noticed to my distaste, that the side of the cup says, "Finland! Where else?" Yeah, where else? I could name a lot of other places that I'd rather be at. Shit, their only natural resource is metal bands. I took a piss after.

I looked around the house. Nobody was there. No lights were on. Where the fuck are my parents? How come there is no clock in this building? How come there is no clock in the whole fuckin' city? I walked back outside, slightly hungover, belly full of water, bladder completely empty. It wasn't night. The sky was grayish. I didn't know where my parents were and I had no idea what time it was. The idea that I didn't know where anyone was or where they went, or even what time or day it was, reminded me of what it was like to be in a drug haze. A drug haze, where for days on end, you drink, pop pills, and smoke shit. But I was the most sober and most bitter motherfucker in Little Helsinki.

"Hey, Ogden, how are you doing?" I say.

"I am doing good," she said in English.

At this point, I hear screaming coming from across the street. I go out the front door, and Ungeldorf is screaming at a neighbor down the other side of the street.

"Yeah, fuck you! Goobengorf should be the mayor!" he screamed, "We need to change this city to New Helsinki!"

"You fuckin' son of a bitch!" the other yelled back, "I want Kabroog for mayor! We need to keep to our roots as part of Finland! And you and everyone can't fucking forget that!"

There is a definite observation that needs to be taken into consideration here. As I look lazy eyed and bored at these two fools, trading insults over political convictions that don't matter today, never mattered, and will never amount to anything, there is something I know for sure. Alcohol prohibition could never work. Just what were those people thinking? Look at these people. Look at everyone. If you think you're improving society by taking away their drugs and booze, you're part of the common enemy of mankind. Sure, they're insulting each other right now, but in a half hour, they'll be drinking together and talk about how much they either love or hate each other. For people like that, you can't exist any other way. It's a very scary thing when you're surrounded by these people and their sick fetish about the country of Finland. Who really thinks we should stop people from helping themselves to pass the fuck out? Fuck prohibition.

I didn't say a fuckin' thing. I closed the door, and sat down. Ogden sat next to me.

"How are you liking Little Helsinki so far?" she asks in Finnish.

"Eh, it's a terrible place," I replied.

"Why so?"

"Why do you think?"

"I hate this place, as well," she said.

"Oh, really?" my interest peaking, "Why?"

"These people do nothing but talk about Finland and stupid things," she said, "There is no real meaning or purpose. I sometimes am afraid that as a species, we have actually progressed to a point where existence is so easy to maintain and overcome, that there is no point to life."

"Wow, that's an incredibly deep thought," I said. As she was speaking it, her eyes were looking on the floor, and her leg was tapping. She looked up with a smile as I complimented her.

"Honestly, I thought you were just some dumb blonde Finnish girl," I said, "I mean, just in all honesty."

"I like honesty, I appreciate it," she said, "The men around here who just give me dick won't even give me honesty."

"Haha, there are too many things I want to comment on in that sentence that I don't even know where to begin," I laughed.

"Mmmmmm, but nothing that offends you, right?" she said, switching language again.

"Nothing that I am bothered with," I said, "Hell, that fucker across the street is an idiot."

"You mean Ungeldorf?" she asked.

"Yeah, that guy manages to accomplish the highly complex task of annoying me, boring me, and creeping me the fuck out all at the same time," I said, "There's got to be a sort of hindu god who does that."

"Yeah, he is a weird man with weird tastes," she replied.

"Not so much weird as it is overly simple and otherwise sterile... well, I wish he was sterile, anyway," I said, "Hey, do you know the time?"

"No, I don't have a watch," she replied.

"Well, I got to take a shower," I said, "I'll talk with you after." I closed the door to the bathroom and undressed. Now, let me get something clear. I understand how people can appreciate a good hot shower, maybe even borderline scathing hot. Or just the steam of a scathing hot shower. I really do understand that. But, I don't see how people can be opposed to cold showers. I understand the social dogma that a cold shower is good to eliminate sexual arrousal in people, and yeah, it's true, but so what. The greatest thing in life is not an orgasm. Well, it could be. But when you're not fucking, a cold shower can be good. It excites all of the physical senses. I stepped into the shower and put on warm. And slowly, millimeter by millimeter, I pushed the dial closer towards cold. Again, and again, waiting fifteen seconds between each adjustment, as the water travels through the pipes and the heater, getting colder and colder. It felt good. It felt real good. And those assholes who have totally condemned the cold shower as a method of eliminating an erection, I give you a big fuck you and "come visit Little Helsinki."

At this point, in my cold shower, someone opened the door to the bathroom. (You must understand, this is Hell. The bathrooms have no locks.) "Dad, get the fuck out of the bathroom, right now," I yell out.

"It's me," I hear Ogden's voice in a Finnish voice.

"Oh, well, then..." I said, thinking with a socially progressive ideal and an opportunistic enterpeneurial spirit, "Come on in."

"I thought that you might be lonely in here... is that cold water?" she asked, changing languages between the statement and the question.

"Yeah, I think it's great," I said, "I mean, not if you're gonna have a makeout in the shower or anything, but if you're going to like... excite and.... thrill.... senses." I stopped talking as though I could only do myself more harm by keeping talking... I wish more people felt exactly like that all the time.

She put the back of her fingers up against the shower curtain, and I could see her silhouette with her head facing downward. "Do you have any opinions about the culture of the nation?"

"Which nation?"

"America."

"Yeah, I have plenty of opinions," I said, "I think that culturally, we are sterile. Music, movies, paintings, all of it, at least the popularized and marketed ones, are disgusting. They do nothing but keep an ignorant population more ignorant, they only keep us more sedate."

"Mmmmmmm," she said, as I saw her silhouette turn away from the shower curtain, "Can I come in?"

"Yes, you can," I said, pulling back the shower curtain. She undressed before me, and entered the shower.

"Ick!" she said, "Turn it up hotter!" I did, of course. We started to make out. Now, I understand the natural reader's response: how can you possibly decide to have sex, or even just make out, with someone you've shared less than one hundred words with? Well, maybe half of my readers are asking this. The other half have penises and know the answer. It's really going to be the eternal question, at least, so long as we are not all adrogynous in the future, which is certainly a possibility. So long as men continue to exist, there is going to be one fact that women will have to cope with: our urges will be to fuck every animate object around us. Being a natural urge, it can be beautiful. Being an urge at all, it can be ugly. A man's moral value can hardly be judged by his promiscuity. Fuck that. It's an old morality. Anyway, by now, Ogden and I were making out on the couch, just as I finish this speech about ethics and sex.

"I have a really hot idea," she said, looking up at the ceiling as I kissed her chest.

"Yeah?" I asked, "Wow, and I thought shower sex would have been amazing... well, not really, but still..."

"Let me give you a lapdance," she said, meeting my eyes.

"I love that idea," I said. I sat up and leaned back on the couch. She started dancing on my lap, for about five minutes, and then moved away and started dancing on the other side of the room, about five feet away from me.

"Not to sound rude, but my lap is over here," I said, "That's the rule of a lapdance. It's on the lap."

"Masturbate to me," she said, without even meeting me eye to eye.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said masturbate to me."

"Are you sure --"

"Yes!" she howled, as she stopped dancing for a split second, "I want you to jerk off to me dancing."

"This idea sounded a lot more hot when you were actually giving me a lapdance," I said, but I obliged. I did start masturbating. Fifteen minutes would pass, but no orgasm.

"What's the problem?" she asked, "Am I not sexy enough?" With that, she did a double spin and threw herself across the room.

"No, no, it's not that," I said, "I'm a rather timid person, sometimes. I mean... I can't pee in front of other guys. How am I supposed to masturbate in front of someone who has a reversed anatomy of me?"

"Come on," she said, "This gets me wicked hot."

"You know what gets me wicked hot?" I said, in a way that I was no longer trying to appease her interests but was actually standing for my own interests, "What gets me hot is my penis thoroughly and rapibly penetrating a vagina. I mean, if you ask me what gets me hot, that's it."

"It's this, or nothing," she said, holding up one knee, "Now, what will it be?"

"Okay, okay," I said, as I started to masturbate again, in front of her. I mean, it wasn't sex, but it was good nude dancing. Besides, she seemed like a very cool chick, from the five or six words we've shared. At least, the ones we shared that didn't have to do with sex. It was enticing, to tell you the truth. And after five minutes, I did reach an orgasm.

"Well, that was a new experience for me," I said, "Masturbating to a dancing girl at her own command."

"We've just started!" she said, "Keep going!"

"But, but, I can't," I said, "It's against the rules of male anatomy."

"Can you please, please, please keep trying?" she said, struggling to eliminate the Finnish accent as she spoke in English.

"Well, I never turned down a woman who wanted me to masturbate to her dancing naked body before," I said, "Let's go." Of course, there is no doubt that I did not orgasm again that night. The main problem is male anatomy. For the most part, a second orgasm cannot come except until an hour later. Plus, doing the work by yourself isn't at all helpful. I kept at it, though. An hour and a half later, still nothing.

"What's a matter?" she said, "Cum for me!"

"It's been two hours..." I moaned, "Can't we just have regular sex?"

"I'm a goddess of sex!" she said, "Worship me!"

"For a goddess of sex, you don't seem to actually have sex," I said, "Please just fuck me?"

"No!" she replied, "We cannot! I know a way to help you..." She turned on the television set, one that was 54 inches diagonally, and turned on channel 931.

"The fuck is that?" I asked. The channel's reception was not good at all. It seemed to be scrambled. I.E. it was a cable program that you needed to pay for. On one side of the screen, in poor quality, was a porn flick. On the other side, also in poor quality, was a cooking show.

"You like?" she asked.

"I ask again, the fuck is that?"

She started dancing again, "Come on! Keep going!"

"Aren't you tired already? I mean, I am," I said. At that moment, a pair of headlights drives into the driveway of the house next door.

"Oh, no! They saw me!" At this moment, I took note of the potential evils that could arise from living in a house that has an entire wall that is made of glass. "I have to go! Now!"

"It's the fat guy from next door," I said, "I bet he knows what time it is."

"You don't understand!" she said, "This is serious! I am not an American citizen! I come from Finland! They could revoke my Visa if they found out that I dance naked for boys! I have to get out of here quick!"

"There are a lot of things about that sentence that I want to comment on all at once..." I said, but before I could keep going she was out the door wearing a bra and panties, carrying her clothes. I go out the front door, and I see Undeldorf outside, holding a Finland Flavor in one hand, and a cigarette in the other.

"Undeldorf!" she says, "I know you're illustrious..." she put her head on his chest and looked to the other way, "And mysterious in some ways." She met him in the eyes. "Can I please stay with you? Please?"

"That is the answer to my dreams," he said to her. He looks up, waves to me to get my attention as though I am completely oblivious to everything that has just happened, and then gives me a thumbs up as he disappears into his own house.

"Well... fuck me...." I said to quiet silence. I was pretty disappointed in how the evening went, considering my enthusiasm at its beginning. In the backpack I had brought with me, I had a pill bottle full of Valium. It belonged to my mother. I'm not going to give you a cliche argument on my justification for this. I took it, even though I knew it belonged to her. I took 40 miligrams, drank some vodka my parents had adequately hidden in the vegetable drawer, and passed out after three hours of a mixed batch of success and failure at shitty, poor quality porn.

Several hours later, fuck, it could have been days. By this time, I had lost all track of time. I woke up with a piece of paper glued to my cheek in the lawn again. Fortunately, it was not the sandbox. The shower's initial purpose was to cure the ailments of sleeping in sand. I pull off the piece of paper and read the cursive writing, in Finnish: "Dear Son -- I'm sorry that we have been preoccupied with business here in Little Helsinki. We leave in five days. I hope you're having fun! Signed, Parents."

Preoccupied with business like hell. I'm pretty sure that my parents came here with the pre-planned intent of having me overdose on drugs. Dad's out on spree of Lord Valon's buffet while Mom's... yeah, like I said, I don't want to know, or care to know, what my mother is doing now, has done, or will ever do. It certainly seems, though, that I have five days to kill. I mimicked my last routine: empty bladder, drink glass of water. The sun was blazing, so I know that it was some sort of day time. I was on my way out of the house when I realized: "If you go out that door, you're going to have to look at an Ungeldorf who just had one hot night of sex with a girl that you spent two hours warming up with." But, then I realized that her specialty isn't fucking, but dancing, and walk out anyway. He wasn't there.... Big fuckin' loss. Seeing that this was a very nukable, otherwise useless, one-horse town, I went back inside and went to the back yard. I was kind of hungry for some waffles.

But! Lo and behold! No boxes of waffles were on the ground! This intrigued me, and I squinted my eyes at the situation, as though I might be missing a piece of the puzzle. I certainly know that I did not miscount the amount that I had. I do know that I was extremely wasted two times and I could have done anything in that period of time without remembering it. I rubbed my chin and thought, and thought... My waffles must have been taken, but by who? Who could be so devious as to --

"Hey!" I yell as I go into the other yard, "Did you take my waffles?" I ask my overlarged neighbor.

"No!" he said, "I only took that one box you said I could have! I didn't touch no waffles!"

"Then why are there four empty cardboard boxes of waffles right in the corner of your yard?" I asked.

"You had no right to enter my property!" he said, "Therefore, you must disclude that evidence."

"This is not a fucking court of law, asshole," I said, "This is the fuckin' waffle inquisition!"

"I told you!" Targobin said, "I don't like the prepackaged waffles. They are bad for my colon. I like to make my own waffles out of dough. I told you that. I don't like normal waffles. Don't you remember me saying that?"

"That's your fucking allibi?" I asked, "Your allibi, is that when you asked me if you could my waffles, that you said you normally don't like to eat waffles unless you make them out of dough yourself? Is that your allibi?"

"Well... yes," he said, "It is. Now get off my property before I call the cops!"

"Fuck you," I said, "Not before I call the cops for your obvious theft of my property. Don't even fuckin' talk to me for as long as I am here."

"Fine! And you have no right to ask me for advice on hotrods!" he said, defiantly.

Sometimes, my reader, you shouldn't even respond, and that was one of those times, for I kept walking on, back to the lawn of the house my parents had rented. Now I was hungry and without food. I went inside, opened the cupboards, and there were twenty cakes there. Apparently, for my mother's "diet." But I swear to fucking god, if I smell frog legs being cooked over an open flame, I will fucking force asphyxiate myself right on the spot.... I might drink a Finland Flavor or two before, but asphyxiation becomes a definite.

I also found that the bread my father had purchased was gone. In its place a note: "To son, from mom: I fed all the bread to the ducks. We have tacos, though. All with love." Honestly, I'd like to yell out: "Where the fuck are these invisible people coming from?" I needed to make some food, something edible, something to cure this insatiable desire that has been implanted in me as an instinct. Plus, I'd prefer it doesn't taste like shit. Now, the thoughts that come to my mind, I admit, they may seem strange, they may seem uninhibited, but at least I'm honest about them.

So, my thoughts now drift to my most natural instincts: How to cure this hunger? I think for a moment, and then I review that thought. I turn on the television to the presumed porn channel of the region, channel 931. On one side, I had to watch a man going down on a woman, wearing a thong. On the other side of the television set, though... There seemed to be a British cook, preparing a rather tasteful meal. I sat down in the catch, one which seemed rather worn through with lapdances. I looked on. "Ingredients: turkey, corn, cheddar jack cheese, bread." Mmmmm, I'll improvise. "This is a basic sandwich taken to the advanced level," the cook said, as she prepared her utensils. At that exact second, I said to myself, "I need to be on valium." I took two pills, or 20mg, to hold me over. I listened to the instructions of this British cook. "You chop the cheddar jack cheese, put corn on top of it, top it off with turkey, and then have it in a sandwich!" Okay, okay, so honestly, she did say much more than that. Yes, she used many more words, but when I reviewed her instructions, I decided to cut it down.

Okay, so the turkey is out. I'm a Vegetarian. Fuck. I'm Vegan. I don't eat meat or dairy products. Apparently, one of my bricks of vegan cheese was ingested by my father or.... the neighbor. The other one is still available and untouched, though! I grabbed it, cut it up, and had it read for the sandwich. Then the corn. I pulled it out, threw it in a pan, and start boiling. No turkey, and no improvisation for the turkey. Just corn and vegan cheese. But, then... we don't have bread. But, as my mother duly and most nobly noted, we have tacos. Well, let's try that. After the corn was cooked up enough, I meshed it with the Vegan cheese and put it between two tacos, and then took a huge bite.

My friend... Oh, my friend... Let me say this. That British cook has completely oversold this item. No, it was not the greatest thing. It was interesting. But, yes, I did have like, 12 mini-sandwiches. At least it's Vegan and none of the products used in it are created through abuse. So, I'm walking around this pad, rented by my parents, eating Vegan sandwiches, waiting for the valium to kick in, wondering where I can score some booze, and thinking about how much more I've hated Finland since I've visited Hell. I walked outside to the back yard while holding two mini-Vegan sandwiches. As I walk out, I notice that my neighbor, Targobin, is holding a waffle on a fork, and quickly tries to move it up, down, left, and right, trying to hide, but only realizing that physically, he can't do anything to trick anyone.

"You motherfucker," I said, "But, doesn't matter. I have the best sandwich in the world right here."

"Is that the one that was just on channel 931 except with tacos?!" he asked.

"Yes, Targobin," I said, "Yes, it was." I ate one in front of him, and then walked back inside.

I walk out to the front of the lawn of the rented cottage of my parents, and stand there, examining the environment. I had heard by rumor, and also by the fact that this author is omniscient as per rules of writing literature, I have heard by rumor, that this is what happened with Ungeldorf and Ogden. He asked to fuck her. She said it was okay, so long as it was in a car. Ungeldorf is more than willing to oblige this request. They drive out somewhere, park on the side of the road, and fuck like rabbits. This might be considered a relatively normal activity of human beings. However, there is something that I should let the reader know, before I conclude the story.

First, there is the question of the car. Cars in Hell ("Little Helineski," whatever, fuck you), Cars in Hell, are very different than your average American car. They are literally car frames, but with windows. Well, almost, anyway. It's similar to the housing of Hell. One wall might very well just be an entire window. In a car, the window is almost the entire size of the car. So... We have this rather particularly interesting view. Ungeldorf is fucking Ogden in his car, to the unobstructed view of every person who passes by, for several hours. When I heard this, I was obviously extremely pissed off as well as disappointed. She teased me, for two hours, only to fuck the guy next door. Fuckin' great. But, it also seems, that nobody called the cops, when they fucked for hours on end, and nobody cared enough. I don't know. Perhaps it's just the culture of Finlanders. And, also, it should be noted that Ungeldorf shouted out various obnoxious phrases during this phase of sexual selection among mammals. Such things as "Oh, fuck yo' daddy!" and "Who knows Finland best!?" and "I'll fuck you more than Finland" and "What's my name, bitch!?" Etc., etc.. Perhaps he had adaptated to the "gangsta" motief, I'm not quite sure. All I can say is this: when I heard the story, I didn't feel very well, at least... At least.... I didn't feel very well until I heard the second fact.

Second, there is the question of the relation of these two. Now, after I saw Ogden run off from my apartment, and when I saw that she had sex with me so easily (har har), I considered that she might very well be promiscuous. I was well aware of what she would do with Ugeldorf when she asked to stay at his place, aftering being warmed up at my place (gggrrrrr). Okay, so, they're one-night-standers, individuals who have placed a great deal of value on their sexual libido and are willing to satisfy it with the use of a stranger. Politically, culturally, socially, fuck, even economically, I have never ever had a problem with this type of person. If you are born with a desire, then there's a reason for it existing, and if you satisfy it with these freaks of nature, then do it, it's none of my problem. But, anyway... There seems to be a problem with this whole scenario....

They had sex for a very long time, and went through the use of many a condom. In that van, they fucked from that night to afternoon of the next day. And, as it so goes with human interaction, the time came when they were both ready to stop, and end it, and..... to end it, have a nice, gentle conversation. The good part is here. They start talking. She says something like, "Wow, I've never been fucked like that ever. I've only heard rumors from my family and friends about people who can do that." He says something like, "Yeah, same here... where did you learn that twist trick?" She says something like, "Yeah, my step father, he told me that I would never find someone so potent as you." He says something like, "Yeah, right... So, who is your step father?"

"WHAAAAAT!?!?!?!?" he screams, "YOUR STEP FATHER IS KINGGODDEN!"

"Yeah!"she says, taken aback from him, "What's your problem?"

"That's my step father!" he says.

"So?" she says, still sitting in the van, and apparently not leaving.

"We have the same step father!" he yells, "That's wrong!"

And, to my understanding, to my deep investigation of this matter to the most bitter end of the subject, this is exactly what she said, "Oh, Ungeldorf... Don't get so urban." That's precisely what she said. Now, initially, when I heard that she had said this to him, I was fuckin' blank faced. I didn't know what to think. "Ummmm, maybe she's... nuts?" or something to that extent. True, true, it would be easy to think that. Of course, it is always to think that someone is insane than it is to understand them. But then, in my looking about the rented pad for food search, a thought came to me. Urban? As opposed to rural? Perhaps the matter of incest is a largely rural happening. Perhaps what they did was considered by her to be "opposed urbanly" and "supported rurally." But, in my opinion, fuck it. It's worse to steal five cents off of a five year old who won't know it's gone than it is to fuck someone who shares the same blood as you.

This brings me to my third and final topic: Bwahahahahahahahaha! Ungeldorf fucked his stepfather's daughter! Ahahahahahahahaahahahahahaha!!!!!!!!! Ah, yes, tears running down my cheeks... At first, I thought that I would sleep better, knowing that he would not be able to get an erection or a sexual thought for two weeks, but then I sympathized with him. He just fucked someone he was always convinced during his life he wouldn't fuck: someone he considers his "family." That's like going to bed with some wicked hot brunnete who talked about social revolution and waking up with some 400 pound girl whose only words are "feed me or eat me." Yeah, that's a pretty scary thought, and now that I consider it, I'm sorry that I brought it up, because now it gives me the jibblies. But, still, after what Ogden put me through, I have a right to laugh my ass off until I die at what Ungeldorf did. And laugh I shall. Fuck, politicians will wage some shitty war over the mandatory color of shirts in 2035 and I'll get drafted, have my leg blown off, and say, "Yeah, it sucks that we let those bastards have power over us..... but bwahahahahaha! Ungeldorf had sex with the daughter of his step-father! Bwahahahahahaha!" Mmmmmm... As much as I hate it, the society of our civilization has a certain character that is undeniable, beautiful, and utmostly stupid. You hate it, but then you love to hate it.

As far as I was concerned, I was done with caring about what happened to Ungeldorf or Ogden. I mean, I never cared about Ungelfdorf for a fleeting fucking heart beat, but Ogden seemed cool for a moment. Which, is what I suppose is the evil-ness of women: no matter what, you always want to fuck them, but then... they develop social opinions that get you hot, you turn your back for a second, and they're either a nazi or fucking the nearest hillbilly or relative. Fuck those two, fuck Little Helsinki, man, fuck Hell. I took a walk downtown, something I should have done, met up with some kids, and spent the rest of that week tripping on acid and popping pills. Xanax, valium, klonopin, codeine, fucking oxycontin. They only required that I paid half the time, because I decided to trip with them from day to fucking day, because I knew I had to be back like..... five days later? Man, those few days I spent with those kids was a blur. The drug haze effect came back, and welcomingly. If it's your fifth day of popping klonopinz and laying on the floor with the constant aroma of marijuana in the air and not knowing what's going on -- well, it's fine by me, so long as you have a family and life like mine, drug dens will be a constant part of your life. And by that, I mean constant part. If you can't find a drug den, you'll make your own drug den, you'll go to the point of learning chemistry to make methamphetamine, just so you can have a psuedo-drug den (normal drug dens prohibit meth-heads, because they're fucking nuts half of the time). But, yeah, you get my drift.

At the end of my drug binge, I came back. "Hey, dad, what's up?"

"Hey!" he yelled, "I thought we were gonna leave without you again?" Yeah, there are other stories about how shitty my life is.

"Son, where were you?" mother responds.

"Oh, business," I said, "Before we leave, I'll have a conversation with the neighbors." I walked out of the rented pad, and I had that "leaving here" feeling. I don't think it's an easily describable feeling. It is very distinct to every kid who is a travelleng, who at will or desire must constantly leave one place or arrive at another. In one way, it's sort of like, "You can do anything. There is nothing stopping you back. You blow up the police department, and you'll be 2,000 miles away by the time the investigation starts. Etc., etc.." But, in another way, it's sort of like, "This will be the last few moments that I will be able to create a memory of the events that happened at this place, to learn to create a place in my life for those individuals I met." I combined these two emotions of the one "leaving here" feeling, and walked across the street.

"Hey, my Finland brother," I said to Ungeldorf is Finnish, "How are you doing?"

"That bitch," he said, "That girl... Ogden.... We have the same step father! That like, makes us cousins..."

"Actually, it makes you nothing," I said.

"Really?" he said, "Well, it doesn't matter. That shit is wrong."

"Your opinion, man."

"Hey, you know the guy who owns Lord Valon's?"

"No," I said.

"He's an okay guy," Ungeldorf said, "Like, he drives his yacht to work everyday, just to show people how rich he is."

"Uuummmmm, you mean that rotting piece of shit boat in the parking lot?" I asked.

"No, man, the yacht!"

"Dude, no disrespect intended," I began, "My father has driven me into that parking lot a billion times. Every time, I see this delapidated, collapsing, infected, fucking government unverified boat, that is always changing its place. One time, it takes up three parking spaces, another time, it takes up four parking spaces."

"Fin man, whatever!" he said, "It's just that the manager can throw around so much wealth like it's nothing. Like, you know, I bet he could hire everyone here in this town, and then give them a $1 raise, and then like, still be able to make a profit."

It seems quite clear to me at this point that absolutely nothing has changed since our last conversation. I have read in some ancient, ancient books somewhere that there is a prejudice among common men to speak of great men so as to borrow the respect and glory off of them. That's what I felt off of Ungeldorf right then and there. I wasn't going to argue with him. The manager of Lord Valon's, whom I had argued with incalculable times, was perhaps god. I left him, giving him a good Finnish farewell. Once I arrived at the rented "cottage" of my parents, my mother says...

"You know," she says, "That Mr. Kingodden is very disappointed. He talked to your father about how much he was disappointed in his offspring after what happened --"

"You know, mom," I started, "I really don't care. I am going to sleep in the car."

"Oh, no, you're not!" my father said, "We're stopping at Lord Valon's! So, you better have a stomach ready for the grinding!"

"I think your face is redaing for the grinding, dad," I said, as I went to the car without acknowledging either of them. I fell asleep quick, but awoke quickly to the hustle and bustle of northern rednecks piling into and out of this shitty restaurant. Lord Valon's. Really? What the fuck? Well, I've expressed my disappointment with this establishment and its managers elsewhere, so... I get out of the car and walk into the joint to harass the manager.

"You know where I've had a better burger?" I said, the hypothetical fact that I wasn't a vegetarian considered, "When I decided to eat dirt."

"You kids get outta' here!" the manager yelled. I was on my way out, when something caught my eye. I looked closer at his name tag... "Mr. Kingodden." I looked at his facial features, and ..... instantly......

"You're the stepfather of Ungeldorf and Ogden!!!!!" I scream.

"SHUTUP!!!!" he screams at me.

For at least thirty minutes, as I'm pulled out of the restaurant by my parents to the cars, to the milesand miles of highway, I cannot stop laughing. "Bwahahahahahahaha......" I can't even repeat the various facts.

I did find out the meaning of life, my viewers. The meaning of life is this... The guy you hate, the one who makes life out to be meaningless and who you tease endless, yeah... that guy... That guy, is the father, of some dumbass douchebag who tried to be your friend, but instead, he fucks the girl who teased you for two hours, and it ends up that he is scarred emotionally for life by it, because they share stepdads, and that stepdad, it happens to me, is the man whom you hate, whose life you hurl an endless ammunition of insults at. Yes, my viewers. I must say, with that, and the four or five days spent on acid and pills and marijuana, I have discovered the meaning of life. That and the fact that I'd rather have sex than jerk off to some dancing girl.

And can you believe, I was planning to start this story with, "My name's Richard, I'm 17 years old, and my favorite hobby is making waffles,"?

www.punkerslut.com

For Life,

Punkerslut

Article Tags: Camping Trip, Little Helsinki, Lord Valdon's, Finnish Accent, Vegan Cheese, Frog Legs, Quite Sure, Doing Good, Finland Flavor, Three Shouts, Walked Back, Rented Cottage, Back Yard, Best Friend, Metal Music, Have Done, Ungeldorf Said, Lord Valon's, About Five, Five Minutes, Don't Have, Didn't Know, Know Where, Drug Haze, Other Side, These People, Cold Shower, Shower Curtain, Started Dancing, Keep Going, Poor Quality, Next Door, Could Have, Five Days, British Cook, Very Well, Says Something, Step Father

Source: Free Articles from ArticlesFactory.com

ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Punkerslut (or Andy Carloff) has been writing essays and poetry on social issues which have caught his attention for several years. His website www.punkerslut.com provides a complete list of all of these writings. His life experience includes homelessness, squating in New Orleans and LA, dropping out of high school, getting expelled from college for "subversive activities," and a myriad of other revolutionary actions.



Health
Business
Finance
Travel
Technology
Home Repair
Computers
Marketing
Autos
Family
Entertainment
Education
Law
Communication
Other
Sports
ECommerce
Home Business
Self Help
Internet
Partners


Page loaded in 0.086 seconds