The Brain Fart

I read of the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest today and thought I'd give it a shot, only this story is true. I may have embellished it a bit. The laws of physics are still in order!

The Brain Fart

Now I know every one of you has had “one of those days” when your mouth runs faster than your brain and something slips out that shouldn't. This is the story of one of those days.

This story begins with Nina and myself going over one fine Saturday afternoon to visit with friends Bill and Delores. At this time, Nina and I had been married for five years. For refreshment, Nina is Angela Antonia Marraro, a Sicilian, born and raised in the Bronx and on her families' 120 acre “farm” in Westchester, New York. This was also where her “uncle” made a lot of civil servants, police commissioners, and other “underpaid” public employees happy in exchange for being nice to his “employees” and his “family.”

She was a bit spoiled being a only child and was rather used to being treated well. Things could turn out poorly if one did not treat her properly.

Bill, Delores, Nina, and myself sat out in some lawn chairs, talking, saving the world from those evil politicians (Bill & me), girl talk (unimportant stuff), and enjoying the beautiful day! The sky was blue, the puffy little white clouds were sporty, birds were chirping, squirrels barking, the light breeze was cool and refreshing, and Bill's fish were blowing little bubbles in his pond. All was right with the world! Every now and then the gals would have to slow us down when Bill and I got to considering the best way to hang a congress-thing or other malfeasor, just normal behavior for us barbarians.

All was going well, we had a spirited, intelligent (despite Bill & I) interlocution (see how smart I is?), and then I did it. Committed suicide. At least I wanted to. It would be much faster, much more humane, if I were to do it. The option was too horrible to ponder.

The sky turned a dull, pot-metal grey, the clouds had changed to the ominous, pre-tornado monsters, the birds and the squirrels became silent, the breeze dissappeared leaving a dank, foul stench, and Bill's fish had all turned belly-up.

I had just called Nina by my ex-wife's name.

Please, may I have the knife?

“It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents — except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.” — Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, Paul Clifford (1830)

I'm almost that bad. What? Worse?

I'm gonna go outside and eat worms.