Category: artsy fartsy

Mom, pretty please don’t read this one either.  I’m sorry.

This was my entry for the second round of Bryan Cook’s amazing show, Competitive Erotic Fan Fiction at the Nerdmelt Theatre on 7/16.

 If you’re not familiar, it’s a show where the first half is talented writers and comics who have pre-written amazing prose, and the second half is crazy people who have had an audience suggestion assigned to them.  It is released in podcast form here, please go listen and attend this show!    Bryan is taking it to SF, and it’s been to Seattle, Portland, Bridgetown Comedy Festival, and just all over.  It is hilarious and deeply disturbing.  My first show was just posted, which was a filthy story about Touched by an Angel.  This time, I wrote on a random pull of topic “Laura Palmer”, in 18 minutes.

First of all, the subject-I love Twin Peaks, it’s my favorite, it was the first show I saw every episode of, and there hasn’t been a second- but it’s a pretty weird topic for Competitive Erotic Fan Fiction.  Twin Peaks was pretty much erotic fiction on its own.  All in all, it’s like saying, write a really dirty version of Deep Throat.  So, this story will be the only one that doesn’t have an orgy in it.  Don’t be confused, you’re still at CEFF.

Laura Palmer’s postmortem diary- Fire, Go Fuck Yourself

I’m Laura Palmer and yeah, I’m dead, wrapped in plastic, sooo kinky, as imitated at Halloween by girls who want to sweat off a few extra pounds in Saran wrap. That’s the opening credits and the whole goddamned show is a smear campaign against me.  A lot of claims were made about be before, during, and after the show.  Recently the internet has claimed that I took off my top at the Glastonbury festival, but that was Amanda Palmer, who married Sandman creator Neil Gaiman, so fuck her. The whole two seasons are about how I f*cked everyone in the show and was eventually murdered by a malevolent spirit who took over my Dad, Leland Palmer, who used to sing as he went nuts, like Ophelia,

Does eat oats and mares eat oats and little lambs eat ivy, a kid’ll eat ivy too, wouldn’t you?

This is a heavily whitewashed version.  What my Daddy really used to sing was:

Whores eat c*ck and mares eat c*ck and little lambs are fuzzy, my kid’ll eat p*ssy too, wouldn’t you?

Everyone thinks I fucked my Dad, and he went crazy from the guilt, but he was slowly going crazy because he spent most of his time licking mercury out of broken thermometers.  Everyone has a hobby.  Sexually, my father was ahead of his time, he was a Bronie.  He went mad drawing graphic illustrations on legal pads of Twilight the Pony being f*cked in all her pony holes, her tail held aside and grasped for purchase.

The only person in this town who I might have had sex with was the FBI agent assigned to my case, unfortunately he showed up after I died. I looked down through the Douglas Fir trees and I liked what I saw.  I’d like to just f*ck his chin, just once.  But it’s all over for me.  Dale Cooper had hair as black as shoe polish and was even hotter than he was in Dune.  He loved coffee and pie and poor little rich girl Audrey Horne, who appeared to be 17 and three quarters for their whole relationship.  I’d like to lick his licorice hairline and rummage through his files.

Audrey Horne, a busty brunette, had the sweetest cherry pie in all of Twin Peaks.  She nearly f*cked her dad one time when she was going undercover as a prostitute at One Eyed Jack’s, but that wasn’t her fault.  She was just trying to get a good review at work.

I supposedly f*cked James Hurley, the adorable boyfriend of my best friend Donna Hayward, but he wasn’t interested.  James was a furry.  He was only interested in people dressed as cum-covered wolves.

I supposedly f*cked Dr. Jacoby, my therapist, and honestly I tried, but he couldn’t maintain a hard on when he wasn’t wearing a lei and listening to the music of Don Ho, and I was simply not that kind of ho.

It’s true.  Sometimes my arms bend back.  It’s because I’m a contortionist and acrobat, which is part of my job as a cheerleader.

Supposedly I had an affair with Bobby Briggs, but honestly he was only interested in watching films of people in business suits taking a shower.  Reputedly I had an affair with his lover Shelly Johnson, the hot-ass waitress in town, who would put on a wool suit and get down in the shower for Bobby, with blonde hair cascading, and I was supposed to have slept with her murderous drug dealing brain dead new-shoes loving trucker husband Leo, but I didn’t have sex with them.  I couldn’t stand those guys.  Besides, Shelly was a fecal freak and Leo preferred to be beaten with footlong novelty gummy rat candies while being penetrated with a Tootsie Roll bank he had bought at Disneyland.

I was accused of having an affair with Diane, whom agent cooper sends microcassettes to.  She’s not even a person, she’s a figment of his goddamned imagination!  He’s a hot ass crazy person!

I supposedly had sex with Jaques Renault, the Canadian drug dealer, but he was only sexually interested in women farting onto cakes.  Also, as a Quebecer, he spoke French like a slow child and English like someone who once saw something in English.

I supposedly had sex with a backwards-talking dwarf who danced weird and was obsessed with gum, but honestly, who could?  WHO COULD?

One woman could.

But It wasn’t me.  I met my maker with a slit so tight you could whistle through it, like when you blow across a fresh green blade of grass pulled taught between your thumbs.

My c*nt looked like a goddamned paper cut on a crisp white business envelope and honestly it’s a waste.

I’m a scapegoat, when I died it was seen as a way to keep the peace and knit this broken little town torn apart by its secrets back together.

Do you know who it really was?  Who screwed all those people, who catered like a slave to their strange afflictions and affectations and who simultaneously brought this town together and tore it apart?

The log lady.  Her log saw things.  Her log did things.  Awful things.  There’s splinters from that log in every tw*t and a**hole in this town, and from skull f*cking poor Nadine Hurley’s empty eyesocket, her eyepatch abandoned on the couch.  she cradles her log and fingers the edges worn smooth from activity, sometimes smelling it and reliving memories and looking into the past and towards the future.

There’s something rotten in the state of Denmark, or in the city of Twin Peaks- It’s because, as  Pete Martell said, “There was a fish in the percolator.”