King of the Perverts Read Free

late.
    I got fired.
    This was a bad time for me.
    I didn’t see or talk to Carrie for a week. I went to stay at my brother’s house in Muncie, about two hours north of home. Changed my cell phone number. Hid from the world in a cocoon of self-pity. One day, my divorce papers showed up in my brother’s mailbox. I thought about burning them and then pissing on the ashes and sending them back to her, but I didn’t do that.
    I signed them. I let them sit for almost a month, but eventually I did sign them. Once I had initialed the final spot and scribbled my autograph on the last line, I immediately wished I wouldn’t have waited so long. Putting pen to those papers and signing off on the failure of my marriage turned out to be the most liberating experience of my life. I instantly felt free. I felt like I could smile again. I didn’t smile, but at least I felt like I could, and that was big for me.
    I also realized how childish and silly I was refusing to accept the reality of the situation and just get it over with, because it really was what both of us needed. I even felt better about her, thinking she was in the same bad situation as me, that she had been having the same feelings of depression and anxiety, feeling like an animal stuck in a cage. As soon as those papers were signed, I felt like I was on my way to becoming a new man, maybe the man I thought I would grow up to be. I had the opportunity to restart my life.
    Then Carrie informed me that, oh by the way, in five months, she’d be giving birth to my baby.
     

 
     
     
    The Alligator Fuckhouse Part 1
     
    I’m dozing, the boredom of sitting in a motel in Muncie, Indiana, in the middle of a weekday with nothing but soap operas and talk shows to occupy my time finally winning the battle for my soul.
    Then I’m suddenly not dozing. Mongo punches me in the shoulder. It’s a light pop to him, I’m sure, but the guy doesn’t seem to know his canned ham of a fist weighs roughly the equivalent of a cinder block when hurled through the air into my tender arm.
    “Shit, dude, what the fuck?”
    He shoves a laptop into my hands. “Message time.”
    “OK, but maybe just gently tap me, or even just simply tell me. You don’t have to break my arm in the process.”
    Mongo smiles his creepy Mongo smile. “Pussy.”
    “Whatever.” I turn my attention to the laptop and click the Play button on the video player window open and waiting for me. It takes a minute to load and I rub my shoulder in time with the spinning circle on the video player showing me  it’s chugging away. When it’s ready, Peter Oh’Tool’s large, chiseled face fills up the screen.
    “Congratulations, contestant, you’ve done it! You’ve achieved your first goal, the golden shower ! Now you’re ready to move on and tackle your next challenge.”
    Peter Oh’Tool makes stupid air quotes with his fingers when he says, ‘tackle’. I wonder why he does that but figure he’ll go on to explain, which he does.
    “Your next challenge is…”
    A pause, for dramatic effect, I suppose, then large block letters flash on the screen at the same time Peter Oh’Tool yells, “The alligator fuckhouse !”
    The canned sound of studio audience applause crackles, overwhelming the laptop’s shitty little speakers. Once it finally dies down, Mr. Oh’Tool continues.
    “This is one of my favorites. The alligator fuckhouse goes like this: while fucking your woman from behind, you bite her neck, flip onto your back in an alligator ‘death roll’ and continue to pleasure her while she flails and struggles to break free. Sounds simple enough, right? Maybe so, but in reality, this maneuver is much more complicated if you plan on doing it correctly. Let’s refer to this clip from my 2001 classic, Creature from Slut Lagoon , for a proper demonstration.”
    The screen fades out and is replaced by a poor quality shot of Peter Oh’Tool, looking much younger and covered in weird, green body paint, perched