FINAL SCENE: I'll fiction your faction
(Jeff)
Ross, you there?
(Ross)
No
(Jeff)
I can hear you breathing.
(Ross)
I’m holding my breath, you liar.
(Jeff)
C’mon, seriously…our little project in fiction is over. You don’t have to pretend we’re fighting anymore.
(Ross)
Sorry, force of habit. How did you find Project Break-Up?
(Jeff)
…horrible. I now think fiction is a terrible, terrible thing. How about yourself?
(Ross)
Fuckin’ loved it. Fiction’s definitely the way to go.
(Jeff)
Really? What the hell are you thinking? Explain your flip-flopping shenanigans.
(Ross)
Well, I’m saving a lot of money on the phone bill since you stopped calling the operator for hours on end just to have ‘a chat about things,’ since the Samaritans restraining order is still in effect …
(Jeff)
What?...What the hell are you talking about?
(Ross)
Hang on, let me finish…so yeah, Jeff’s late-night crying hasn’t woken me up for some time now; all in all, I think he’s just as happy about our reconciliation as I am.
(Jeff)
Who are you talking to?!
(Ross)
Of course, it could just mean that he’s lying unconscious on his bedroom floor after forcing his dialling finger too far up his nose again, but I guess the money I’m saving in the meantime will cover the surgery costs…unless he insists the team of doctors take the rectal approach, as he did for his lazy eye operation.
(Jeff)
Oh God! You’re not going to let fiction go, are you.
(Ross)
Most people consider bending over for healthcare professionals to have their way with them an apt metaphor; to Jeff, it’s quite literally a favourite hobby.
(Jeff)
You done yet?
(Ross)
On the subject of fiction, there’s no denying that I campaigned hard for it to be banished from our metaphorical picket-fenced house, to be exiled into the symbolic mist-shrouded night and to be abandoned by the wayside on the figurative badger-infested cul-de-sac that I like to draw pictures of when I grow bored.
(Jeff)
At least you’re answering the question now…I think…
(Ross)
Now I say that we should instead throw non-fiction out on its arse into the emblematical biting chill of a moonless, starless night and embrace fiction by accepting it into our house and using it at all times; an arguably drastic change in viewpoint that dawned on me like a bright light dispelling darkness a couple of hours later on.
My revelation was twofold: (1). Badgers do not hunt in packs and thereby lose themselves 10 Fonzie cool-points in the Happy Days board game that is perpetually playing out in my mind, and (2). Fiction is, in the words of C.S.Lewis, “too much motherfucking fun, bitches!”
I imagine he would’ve said something like that at any rate and if he did, I know I’d think twice about arguing with a guy whose middle name (Staples) wouldn’t be out of place on a list of Mafioso goons, serial killers or Office Depot employees. I also imagine he’d scream it in the voice of Samuel L. Jackson while wielding a sack of doorknobs and…
(Jeff)
Whoa, whoa, WHOA! Fonzie? Badgers? Sacks of Doorknobs? Listen to yourself still blatantly throwing fiction around, all the while trying to convince yourself writing these lies are “fun.”
(Ross)
I’m having a ball over here.
(Jeff)
The only actual fact you had in those last few paragraphs was how Lewis’s parents did have a cruel sense of humour just like yourself.
(Ross)
Pffft. ‘Staples!’
(Jeff)
In all seriousness, I have to say that I disagree with your new found love for fiction and I think we should both agree never to step foot into this realm ever again. I have to tell you, I found it arduous, spiteful and well… terrifying. There were points where we got so carried away I couldn’t decipher what was truly fact or fabrication and by now you must realize that gullibility is a vice that always gets the best of me. There’s only one other time where I’ve been this frightened and that’s when I came across that tabloid at the grocery store where I read the infamous headline “Jean-Claude Van-Damme clones an army of himself and storms Brussels.” Remember how I rushed home with a year’s supply of non-perishables and Thai-Bo instructional videos because I feared that the “blitzkrieg of uppercuts and jump-kicks” would surely cross the Atlantic? We both realized it was an overreaction after I was fired for missing too many days of work because I refused to step out of the homemade bomb-shelter I constructed with the cushions from the couch.
(Ross)
Van-Damme? Employment? Bomb shelters? Ahh, still making time with fiction, are you? …so this is what hypocrisy smells like…
(Jeff)
Even though there was no threat of any Van-Damage, there were points during this whole solo project fiasco that caused me such brutal anxiety I ended up pissing not only my own pants, but yours as well! Promise me friend: If we do eventually break up the band, let’s make sure it doesn’t involve such precise aiming for the jugular, nor such academy award winning portrayals in victimization. The malevolence ran high; far higher than the stack of 8x12 nudie picks of that southern belle from the Golden Girls you have hidden in your closet.
(Ross)
Are you done yet?
(Jeff)
It’s now apparent that the danger of harming our friendship with slander, just like menopause and a 90 per cent chance of contracting pubic lice, wouldn’t hold you back from going all the way. Since I’ve differentiated myself as someone who wouldn’t resort to hurting my friend’s feelings, it should also be mentioned that I’m more of a Beatrice Arthur kind of guy. "Aww Dawathay, you and Rose grab the ointment and… "
(Ross)
…Sorry, old friend, I have to intervene at this point before you lose yourself in your sexagenarian reminiscences and lose all our readers (or both of them, rather) in your fantastical verbal diarrhoea. And thanks for stopping short of hurting my feelings by tactfully implying I have a substantial collection of granny porn instead of coming right out and saying it…oh wait, you did come right out and say it.
I can’t help but feel that your hard-fought battle to do away with fiction in its entirety is somewhat undermined by the fact that fiction itself serves as the means through which you make your argument. The only truth in that last tirade was the part about the ‘Thai-Bo’ videos, but you forgot to mention that shortly thereafter you were engaged in a heated discussion with the video-shop clerk about how the makers of the video should be sued for trademark infringement by the creators of the popular ‘Thai Boys’ series. You were miserable for the rest of the day, as I remember.
(Jeff)
Thai Boys? I can see your wit is just warming up. I’ll admit, I can see how fiction can be a satisfying writing device, but I swear that is the last time I ever use it. I hope you can eventually say the same thing.
(Ross)
And by the way, thanks for managing to take our blog to an all-time low by bringing Bea Arthur into this. Now our website will definitely be red-flagged for obscene content.
*Sigh* If only I’d reached this epiphany sooner, my dear compadre and I wouldn’t be at odds and I wouldn’t have an image of a negligee-clad, cheesecake-eating Bea Arthur doing Thai-Bo in my head.
(Jeff)
Whoa! Too far! I used to like cheesecake.
(Ross)
So exacting is the poetic tragedy that we switch our stances only to butt heads once again, it surely sounds like the work of the best fiction; something that Ol’ Staples Lewis himself would be proud of.
I remember how Big Ol’ Staples played an integral role in bringing Jeff and me closer together, as we, then innocent and virginal, periodically huddled around a roaring tea candle in the depths of winter and looked to the small screen’s showing of ‘The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe’ to bring entertainment enough that we might be able to ignore each other for a couple of hours. How we laughed the time virginal turned to me and said that rather than the wardrobe concealing a gateway to Narnia, it should be the lair of an irritated badger that leaps out at the children every time they open it. I told him to fuck off and demanded to know why he no longer had his trousers on. Wait a minute! I remember now; we didn’t laugh or come closer together, we had a knife fight and I lost two pints of blood, a packet of Graham’s crackers and a six-foot…
(Jeff)
Stop right there! Narnia? More badgers? 'The loins of that witch in my wardrobe?' I lost you after you mentioned that I had my pants off. Listen, I don’t know what kind of low-rent porn you watch in the dark, but leave me out of it before they shut this website down for sure.
You had a more coherent point when you were against fiction. Lies are in fact lies no matter how much you gloss them over. Hell, I’m now a staunch supporter of having all “fiction” sections in libraries and bookstores eliminated, unless they’re properly labeled as the “nothing but bold-faced lies” section.
(Ross)
Shh, shh…it’s alright, don’t fret yourself there, Adolf...
(Jeff)
I don’t know how to explain my own flip-flopping shenanigans of initially loving, but now hating fiction, other than that there must have been some sort of deep-seeded hatred towards fiction in my subconscious all along. I guess I can attribute this to the fact that, while growing up, my parents would compound one lie onto another for the sake of not having to expose the slightest evidence of their deceitfulness. For example, instead of breaking the news that Santa Claus was not real, my parents told me that he had been suffering from a case of untreated syphilis since the early 70’s and it had finally spread to his brain, therefore, in his current state of dementia, he was far too much of a liability to be breaking and entering our house on an annual basis. I was continually warned of the many possibilities of him “acting out of sorts” and resorting to inappropriate behaviour, one such threat involved him defecating into a box, wrapping it and giving it to me as a present. So I was glad my parents locked the doors and kept the fire raging every Christmas night because I dreaded the day of spotting that gift under tree that was labelled with poor penmanship and reeking of doo-dee. How can I embrace fiction when it’s been so damaging to my childhood. Don’t even get me started on the tooth fairy…she supposedly stopped coming to the house because I was “touching myself” during…
(Ross)
…Hey, hey, hey…Santa Claus? Syphilis? Reeking doo-dee?
Whatcha up to up there, Jeffy-boy? Is that your old nemesis fiction once again making itself an unwelcome visitor in your merry ramblings? Hmmm? Can’t kick the habit that you so fervently protest against? Hmmm? Oozing out of the cracks in the floorboards of your much-talked-about little picket-fenced house, is it? Hmm…?…wait…isn’t that my reference? When did you…?…my picket fence…I…oh…my head hurts...might be the syphilis. No wait, I remember now; Santa’s the one with syphilis, not me. No, hang on, now I’ve got it!…You claimed your parents told you that Santa had syphilis, which I know is sheer falsification on your part; that’s where I was going.
(Jeff)
Ooh, it seems that a certain someone is getting confused with all the fiction.
(Ross)
Right, I know for a fact that you had a very normal childhood because…
(Jeff)
I meant you, by the way
(Ross)
…of the time your parents sent you away to that special summer camp where the men in white coats made you drink the strong-smelling, colourful juices and poked at you with shiny metal instruments. I remember the nice cushioned walls in your new bedroom and how we laughed about how pointless they were because it would be so uncomfortable to sleep standing up while leaning against them and I remember being sad that you were allowed to wear the big white jacket with the long arms, but I wasn’t. They asked you all sorts of fun questions, like what your favourite colour is, where you think Santa lives with his reindeer and what you think about when you touch yourself, and you said nothing about doo-dee at that point…at least, not to the Santa question.
It’s true that fiction can open the door to pain and suffering, but no more than non-fiction does. Yes, there is a risk of being slapped in the face like a hooker who won’t turn enough tricks for her pimp, but should a little fear deter people from chasing their dreams? Listen, people have to put themselves out there to get anywhere in this world; they know they can’t shy away from what they want just because it might get a bit tough, so I say if you really want to get a hooker and slap her, then I think we should…no wait…I’m confused again…Look, what I think I’m trying to say is that fiction is indeed “a cunt of a good time,” as J.R.R (or “Paperclips” as he might like to be called) Tolkien might shout in the voice of Joe Pesci while brandishing a baseball bat with nails driven through it as he munches on…
(Jeff)
Paperclips? FEMALE hookers? Joe Pesci? Ha!
Getting a little mixed up in the world of fiction yourself, I see. You seem to be having a little trouble keeping track of which analogy is true to what. I can only sympathize with the reader who’s building up a mental sweat by reading your passage at this point.
(Ross)
No pain, no gain!
(Jeff)
I think a lot of the readers got just as confused as I did with fiction because many took the contempt I displayed towards you literally and I want to make the truth of the matter crystal clear; I didn’t mean a word of it. Since we were in a war of words, both of us had to shed light on personal aspects of the other for the purpose of poking fun. However, many issues of yours were off limits due to your sensitivities, such as your crying problem or, through human nature’s twist design, the fact you’re endowed with 8 nipples—Seriously, when I accidentally caught sight of this I didn’t know whether to find the closest available hat to be sick into or just come up with the 35 cents it typically costs to attend such a freak show. I really don’t know how you can stand looking at yourself in the…
(Ross)
Nipples? A sick-filled hat? Carnies? I thought you were done with fiction altogether.
(Jeff)
Oh shit, you’re right. It looks like fiction poked out its ugly head in my writing once again. Sorry, last time, starting….now.
You should know that there was a double standard in this whole exercise. While I walked on eggshells for you it seemed that every aspect about me seemed to be free rein for ridicule and you even had the gall to reveal some of my darkest secrets that should never have been resurfaced, especially in the public’s eye. I felt particularly betrayed when you told everyone that I had once admitted that I would, in fact, “make sweet love to Miss Piggy if she was wearing her ‘Pigs in Space’ uniform.” I TOLD YOU THAT IN CONFIDENCE MAN! I HAD BEEN DRINKING! CAN’T YOU TELL WHEN I’M JOKING?! GODDAMN IT! MUPPETS ARE SO HUMAN-LIKE IT’S UNCANNY! IT’S NOT LIKE…
(Ross)
What the fuck…?
(Jeff)
Didn't you... uh? hold on. Give me a minute…………… Ok, I just took the time to read over all of our old postings and it appears that you hadn’t mentioned that little nugget of information. Since the backspace key on this computer doesn’t seem to work I guess I’ll have to learn to let sleeping dogs lie.
(Ross)
Dogs AND pigs? Throw in a badger or two and you’ll have a whole farmyard in your little boudoir. Just keep your nuggets the fuck away from my cat.
(Jeff)
Anyways, I want people to know that I chose Ross’s writing style to mock when in fact I happen to think it is utterly brilliant, and this is no word of a lie.
(Ross)
…Like the caged and exhausted animals in your heavy petting zoo, you lie.
(Jeff)
No seriously. It's a fact that Ross's words read out loud are like well-orchestrated music to my ears.
(Ross)
…really? Now I feel kind of bad for stealing your thesaurus.
(Jeff)
Hang on, let me finish…I can only equate it to the joy he gets from the sound of small children screaming as he jumps out of their closets late at night wearing his clown outfit. And while there is one particular God-fearing young man next door who now instantly falls to the floor sucking his thumb at the first sight of a balloon animal, he’s not the one who’s in dire need of therapy—Ross, you sick fuck.
(Ross)
And now I don’t again, but the pages are getting all wet from my tears…
(Jeff)
Sorry; that last part wasn’t me, it was the fiction talking.
(Ross)
That just proves the fact that though fiction and balloon animals can be fun, they can also be the cause of great hurt. As the astute Lewis “Pencil Sharpener” Carroll may yell in his own voice (because he’s not good at impersonations) while swinging a pogo stick with sharp bits of glass glued to it: “Who the fuck is the bigger fool: the fool, or the fool that follows the fool that ain’t goin’ in no plane, fool?!”
Clearly, the facts of the matter, as have been spelled out by some of the tourette-suffering literary geniuses of slightly before our time, are that that use of fiction can sometimes be foolish and that Murdock isn’t so much ‘howling mad’ as he is an absolute twat.
(Jeff)
Did you just reference The A-Team? You’ve got to realise that’s way too obscure for our reader and that we’re the only two who will remember that B.A. Baracus hated riding in planes. And that’s only because we’ve got the box-set and matching lunchboxes.
(Ross)
Yeah, that’s a fair point. Sometimes the fiction isolates me from the world and makes a fool of me. I guess the adage, “Fool me once, shame on…shame on you…fool me……you can’t get fooled again” might hold some truth after all.
(Jeff)
You’re still thinking about “pitying the fool,” aren’t you?
(Ross)
I can’t get the voice out of my head.
(Jeff)
That’s because you're watching an episode as you're typing this. But the fact remains that fiction sucked us in so far that there’s now a gulf between us and our reader...
(Ross)
…and don’t forget that fiction can confuse and hurt feelings too
(Jeff)
Yeah, I’m sorry about the Beatrice Arthur thing, the clown thing, the nipple thing and it should be mentioned that my parents are good people.
(Ross)
…especially your mum.
(Jeff)
…
(Ross)
…sorry. Anyways, I reckon that fiction, like Weapons of Mass Destruction and Jeff’s pile of soiled undergarments, should come with a warning label; something to indicate that thereafter there is a good possibility of the shit hitting the fan, or getting stuck to the sole of my shoe and being obliviously trailed down to Metrotown where young hoodlums laughed and pointed at me.
(Jeff)
I think that had more to do with you still being dressed in your clown suit. But underwear aside, I think you have an excellent point; we should use a disclaimer if we ever write fiction again.
(Ross)
Agreed.
(Jeff)
Problem solved. This issue was mediated nicely…your mother would be proud of me…
(Ross)
Huh? How so?
(Jeff)
Because… uh… I have great upper-body strength.
(Ross)
…*sigh*
Ross, you there?
(Ross)
No
(Jeff)
I can hear you breathing.
(Ross)
I’m holding my breath, you liar.
(Jeff)
C’mon, seriously…our little project in fiction is over. You don’t have to pretend we’re fighting anymore.
(Ross)
Sorry, force of habit. How did you find Project Break-Up?
(Jeff)
…horrible. I now think fiction is a terrible, terrible thing. How about yourself?
(Ross)
Fuckin’ loved it. Fiction’s definitely the way to go.
(Jeff)
Really? What the hell are you thinking? Explain your flip-flopping shenanigans.
(Ross)
Well, I’m saving a lot of money on the phone bill since you stopped calling the operator for hours on end just to have ‘a chat about things,’ since the Samaritans restraining order is still in effect …
(Jeff)
What?...What the hell are you talking about?
(Ross)
Hang on, let me finish…so yeah, Jeff’s late-night crying hasn’t woken me up for some time now; all in all, I think he’s just as happy about our reconciliation as I am.
(Jeff)
Who are you talking to?!
(Ross)
Of course, it could just mean that he’s lying unconscious on his bedroom floor after forcing his dialling finger too far up his nose again, but I guess the money I’m saving in the meantime will cover the surgery costs…unless he insists the team of doctors take the rectal approach, as he did for his lazy eye operation.
(Jeff)
Oh God! You’re not going to let fiction go, are you.
(Ross)
Most people consider bending over for healthcare professionals to have their way with them an apt metaphor; to Jeff, it’s quite literally a favourite hobby.
(Jeff)
You done yet?
(Ross)
On the subject of fiction, there’s no denying that I campaigned hard for it to be banished from our metaphorical picket-fenced house, to be exiled into the symbolic mist-shrouded night and to be abandoned by the wayside on the figurative badger-infested cul-de-sac that I like to draw pictures of when I grow bored.
(Jeff)
At least you’re answering the question now…I think…
(Ross)
Now I say that we should instead throw non-fiction out on its arse into the emblematical biting chill of a moonless, starless night and embrace fiction by accepting it into our house and using it at all times; an arguably drastic change in viewpoint that dawned on me like a bright light dispelling darkness a couple of hours later on.
My revelation was twofold: (1). Badgers do not hunt in packs and thereby lose themselves 10 Fonzie cool-points in the Happy Days board game that is perpetually playing out in my mind, and (2). Fiction is, in the words of C.S.Lewis, “too much motherfucking fun, bitches!”
I imagine he would’ve said something like that at any rate and if he did, I know I’d think twice about arguing with a guy whose middle name (Staples) wouldn’t be out of place on a list of Mafioso goons, serial killers or Office Depot employees. I also imagine he’d scream it in the voice of Samuel L. Jackson while wielding a sack of doorknobs and…
(Jeff)
Whoa, whoa, WHOA! Fonzie? Badgers? Sacks of Doorknobs? Listen to yourself still blatantly throwing fiction around, all the while trying to convince yourself writing these lies are “fun.”
(Ross)
I’m having a ball over here.
(Jeff)
The only actual fact you had in those last few paragraphs was how Lewis’s parents did have a cruel sense of humour just like yourself.
(Ross)
Pffft. ‘Staples!’
(Jeff)
In all seriousness, I have to say that I disagree with your new found love for fiction and I think we should both agree never to step foot into this realm ever again. I have to tell you, I found it arduous, spiteful and well… terrifying. There were points where we got so carried away I couldn’t decipher what was truly fact or fabrication and by now you must realize that gullibility is a vice that always gets the best of me. There’s only one other time where I’ve been this frightened and that’s when I came across that tabloid at the grocery store where I read the infamous headline “Jean-Claude Van-Damme clones an army of himself and storms Brussels.” Remember how I rushed home with a year’s supply of non-perishables and Thai-Bo instructional videos because I feared that the “blitzkrieg of uppercuts and jump-kicks” would surely cross the Atlantic? We both realized it was an overreaction after I was fired for missing too many days of work because I refused to step out of the homemade bomb-shelter I constructed with the cushions from the couch.
(Ross)
Van-Damme? Employment? Bomb shelters? Ahh, still making time with fiction, are you? …so this is what hypocrisy smells like…
(Jeff)
Even though there was no threat of any Van-Damage, there were points during this whole solo project fiasco that caused me such brutal anxiety I ended up pissing not only my own pants, but yours as well! Promise me friend: If we do eventually break up the band, let’s make sure it doesn’t involve such precise aiming for the jugular, nor such academy award winning portrayals in victimization. The malevolence ran high; far higher than the stack of 8x12 nudie picks of that southern belle from the Golden Girls you have hidden in your closet.
(Ross)
Are you done yet?
(Jeff)
It’s now apparent that the danger of harming our friendship with slander, just like menopause and a 90 per cent chance of contracting pubic lice, wouldn’t hold you back from going all the way. Since I’ve differentiated myself as someone who wouldn’t resort to hurting my friend’s feelings, it should also be mentioned that I’m more of a Beatrice Arthur kind of guy. "Aww Dawathay, you and Rose grab the ointment and… "
(Ross)
…Sorry, old friend, I have to intervene at this point before you lose yourself in your sexagenarian reminiscences and lose all our readers (or both of them, rather) in your fantastical verbal diarrhoea. And thanks for stopping short of hurting my feelings by tactfully implying I have a substantial collection of granny porn instead of coming right out and saying it…oh wait, you did come right out and say it.
I can’t help but feel that your hard-fought battle to do away with fiction in its entirety is somewhat undermined by the fact that fiction itself serves as the means through which you make your argument. The only truth in that last tirade was the part about the ‘Thai-Bo’ videos, but you forgot to mention that shortly thereafter you were engaged in a heated discussion with the video-shop clerk about how the makers of the video should be sued for trademark infringement by the creators of the popular ‘Thai Boys’ series. You were miserable for the rest of the day, as I remember.
(Jeff)
Thai Boys? I can see your wit is just warming up. I’ll admit, I can see how fiction can be a satisfying writing device, but I swear that is the last time I ever use it. I hope you can eventually say the same thing.
(Ross)
And by the way, thanks for managing to take our blog to an all-time low by bringing Bea Arthur into this. Now our website will definitely be red-flagged for obscene content.
*Sigh* If only I’d reached this epiphany sooner, my dear compadre and I wouldn’t be at odds and I wouldn’t have an image of a negligee-clad, cheesecake-eating Bea Arthur doing Thai-Bo in my head.
(Jeff)
Whoa! Too far! I used to like cheesecake.
(Ross)
So exacting is the poetic tragedy that we switch our stances only to butt heads once again, it surely sounds like the work of the best fiction; something that Ol’ Staples Lewis himself would be proud of.
I remember how Big Ol’ Staples played an integral role in bringing Jeff and me closer together, as we, then innocent and virginal, periodically huddled around a roaring tea candle in the depths of winter and looked to the small screen’s showing of ‘The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe’ to bring entertainment enough that we might be able to ignore each other for a couple of hours. How we laughed the time virginal turned to me and said that rather than the wardrobe concealing a gateway to Narnia, it should be the lair of an irritated badger that leaps out at the children every time they open it. I told him to fuck off and demanded to know why he no longer had his trousers on. Wait a minute! I remember now; we didn’t laugh or come closer together, we had a knife fight and I lost two pints of blood, a packet of Graham’s crackers and a six-foot…
(Jeff)
Stop right there! Narnia? More badgers? 'The loins of that witch in my wardrobe?' I lost you after you mentioned that I had my pants off. Listen, I don’t know what kind of low-rent porn you watch in the dark, but leave me out of it before they shut this website down for sure.
You had a more coherent point when you were against fiction. Lies are in fact lies no matter how much you gloss them over. Hell, I’m now a staunch supporter of having all “fiction” sections in libraries and bookstores eliminated, unless they’re properly labeled as the “nothing but bold-faced lies” section.
(Ross)
Shh, shh…it’s alright, don’t fret yourself there, Adolf...
(Jeff)
I don’t know how to explain my own flip-flopping shenanigans of initially loving, but now hating fiction, other than that there must have been some sort of deep-seeded hatred towards fiction in my subconscious all along. I guess I can attribute this to the fact that, while growing up, my parents would compound one lie onto another for the sake of not having to expose the slightest evidence of their deceitfulness. For example, instead of breaking the news that Santa Claus was not real, my parents told me that he had been suffering from a case of untreated syphilis since the early 70’s and it had finally spread to his brain, therefore, in his current state of dementia, he was far too much of a liability to be breaking and entering our house on an annual basis. I was continually warned of the many possibilities of him “acting out of sorts” and resorting to inappropriate behaviour, one such threat involved him defecating into a box, wrapping it and giving it to me as a present. So I was glad my parents locked the doors and kept the fire raging every Christmas night because I dreaded the day of spotting that gift under tree that was labelled with poor penmanship and reeking of doo-dee. How can I embrace fiction when it’s been so damaging to my childhood. Don’t even get me started on the tooth fairy…she supposedly stopped coming to the house because I was “touching myself” during…
(Ross)
…Hey, hey, hey…Santa Claus? Syphilis? Reeking doo-dee?
Whatcha up to up there, Jeffy-boy? Is that your old nemesis fiction once again making itself an unwelcome visitor in your merry ramblings? Hmmm? Can’t kick the habit that you so fervently protest against? Hmmm? Oozing out of the cracks in the floorboards of your much-talked-about little picket-fenced house, is it? Hmm…?…wait…isn’t that my reference? When did you…?…my picket fence…I…oh…my head hurts...might be the syphilis. No wait, I remember now; Santa’s the one with syphilis, not me. No, hang on, now I’ve got it!…You claimed your parents told you that Santa had syphilis, which I know is sheer falsification on your part; that’s where I was going.
(Jeff)
Ooh, it seems that a certain someone is getting confused with all the fiction.
(Ross)
Right, I know for a fact that you had a very normal childhood because…
(Jeff)
I meant you, by the way
(Ross)
…of the time your parents sent you away to that special summer camp where the men in white coats made you drink the strong-smelling, colourful juices and poked at you with shiny metal instruments. I remember the nice cushioned walls in your new bedroom and how we laughed about how pointless they were because it would be so uncomfortable to sleep standing up while leaning against them and I remember being sad that you were allowed to wear the big white jacket with the long arms, but I wasn’t. They asked you all sorts of fun questions, like what your favourite colour is, where you think Santa lives with his reindeer and what you think about when you touch yourself, and you said nothing about doo-dee at that point…at least, not to the Santa question.
It’s true that fiction can open the door to pain and suffering, but no more than non-fiction does. Yes, there is a risk of being slapped in the face like a hooker who won’t turn enough tricks for her pimp, but should a little fear deter people from chasing their dreams? Listen, people have to put themselves out there to get anywhere in this world; they know they can’t shy away from what they want just because it might get a bit tough, so I say if you really want to get a hooker and slap her, then I think we should…no wait…I’m confused again…Look, what I think I’m trying to say is that fiction is indeed “a cunt of a good time,” as J.R.R (or “Paperclips” as he might like to be called) Tolkien might shout in the voice of Joe Pesci while brandishing a baseball bat with nails driven through it as he munches on…
(Jeff)
Paperclips? FEMALE hookers? Joe Pesci? Ha!
Getting a little mixed up in the world of fiction yourself, I see. You seem to be having a little trouble keeping track of which analogy is true to what. I can only sympathize with the reader who’s building up a mental sweat by reading your passage at this point.
(Ross)
No pain, no gain!
(Jeff)
I think a lot of the readers got just as confused as I did with fiction because many took the contempt I displayed towards you literally and I want to make the truth of the matter crystal clear; I didn’t mean a word of it. Since we were in a war of words, both of us had to shed light on personal aspects of the other for the purpose of poking fun. However, many issues of yours were off limits due to your sensitivities, such as your crying problem or, through human nature’s twist design, the fact you’re endowed with 8 nipples—Seriously, when I accidentally caught sight of this I didn’t know whether to find the closest available hat to be sick into or just come up with the 35 cents it typically costs to attend such a freak show. I really don’t know how you can stand looking at yourself in the…
(Ross)
Nipples? A sick-filled hat? Carnies? I thought you were done with fiction altogether.
(Jeff)
Oh shit, you’re right. It looks like fiction poked out its ugly head in my writing once again. Sorry, last time, starting….now.
You should know that there was a double standard in this whole exercise. While I walked on eggshells for you it seemed that every aspect about me seemed to be free rein for ridicule and you even had the gall to reveal some of my darkest secrets that should never have been resurfaced, especially in the public’s eye. I felt particularly betrayed when you told everyone that I had once admitted that I would, in fact, “make sweet love to Miss Piggy if she was wearing her ‘Pigs in Space’ uniform.” I TOLD YOU THAT IN CONFIDENCE MAN! I HAD BEEN DRINKING! CAN’T YOU TELL WHEN I’M JOKING?! GODDAMN IT! MUPPETS ARE SO HUMAN-LIKE IT’S UNCANNY! IT’S NOT LIKE…
(Ross)
What the fuck…?
(Jeff)
Didn't you... uh? hold on. Give me a minute…………… Ok, I just took the time to read over all of our old postings and it appears that you hadn’t mentioned that little nugget of information. Since the backspace key on this computer doesn’t seem to work I guess I’ll have to learn to let sleeping dogs lie.
(Ross)
Dogs AND pigs? Throw in a badger or two and you’ll have a whole farmyard in your little boudoir. Just keep your nuggets the fuck away from my cat.
(Jeff)
Anyways, I want people to know that I chose Ross’s writing style to mock when in fact I happen to think it is utterly brilliant, and this is no word of a lie.
(Ross)
…Like the caged and exhausted animals in your heavy petting zoo, you lie.
(Jeff)
No seriously. It's a fact that Ross's words read out loud are like well-orchestrated music to my ears.
(Ross)
…really? Now I feel kind of bad for stealing your thesaurus.
(Jeff)
Hang on, let me finish…I can only equate it to the joy he gets from the sound of small children screaming as he jumps out of their closets late at night wearing his clown outfit. And while there is one particular God-fearing young man next door who now instantly falls to the floor sucking his thumb at the first sight of a balloon animal, he’s not the one who’s in dire need of therapy—Ross, you sick fuck.
(Ross)
And now I don’t again, but the pages are getting all wet from my tears…
(Jeff)
Sorry; that last part wasn’t me, it was the fiction talking.
(Ross)
That just proves the fact that though fiction and balloon animals can be fun, they can also be the cause of great hurt. As the astute Lewis “Pencil Sharpener” Carroll may yell in his own voice (because he’s not good at impersonations) while swinging a pogo stick with sharp bits of glass glued to it: “Who the fuck is the bigger fool: the fool, or the fool that follows the fool that ain’t goin’ in no plane, fool?!”
Clearly, the facts of the matter, as have been spelled out by some of the tourette-suffering literary geniuses of slightly before our time, are that that use of fiction can sometimes be foolish and that Murdock isn’t so much ‘howling mad’ as he is an absolute twat.
(Jeff)
Did you just reference The A-Team? You’ve got to realise that’s way too obscure for our reader and that we’re the only two who will remember that B.A. Baracus hated riding in planes. And that’s only because we’ve got the box-set and matching lunchboxes.
(Ross)
Yeah, that’s a fair point. Sometimes the fiction isolates me from the world and makes a fool of me. I guess the adage, “Fool me once, shame on…shame on you…fool me……you can’t get fooled again” might hold some truth after all.
(Jeff)
You’re still thinking about “pitying the fool,” aren’t you?
(Ross)
I can’t get the voice out of my head.
(Jeff)
That’s because you're watching an episode as you're typing this. But the fact remains that fiction sucked us in so far that there’s now a gulf between us and our reader...
(Ross)
…and don’t forget that fiction can confuse and hurt feelings too
(Jeff)
Yeah, I’m sorry about the Beatrice Arthur thing, the clown thing, the nipple thing and it should be mentioned that my parents are good people.
(Ross)
…especially your mum.
(Jeff)
…
(Ross)
…sorry. Anyways, I reckon that fiction, like Weapons of Mass Destruction and Jeff’s pile of soiled undergarments, should come with a warning label; something to indicate that thereafter there is a good possibility of the shit hitting the fan, or getting stuck to the sole of my shoe and being obliviously trailed down to Metrotown where young hoodlums laughed and pointed at me.
(Jeff)
I think that had more to do with you still being dressed in your clown suit. But underwear aside, I think you have an excellent point; we should use a disclaimer if we ever write fiction again.
(Ross)
Agreed.
(Jeff)
Problem solved. This issue was mediated nicely…your mother would be proud of me…
(Ross)
Huh? How so?
(Jeff)
Because… uh… I have great upper-body strength.
(Ross)
…*sigh*
posted by jeff and ross | 9:42 PM
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