11-06-2020, 06:57 AM
11-10-2020, 08:07 PM
Adam woke with a start. His arms flailed about as he sucked in the sweet oxygen of the air around with such passion leaving the expression that this was either his first breathe or his last. The clanging of empty bottles being knocked from his mattress onto the hardwood floor below resonated in his head, fusing with the migraine of the hangover punishing him for another busy night of chemical indulgences. He raised his head. With mouth agape, he drooled while he started a good minute or two at his new surroundings. He almost forgotten that he purchased a house. In addition to that surprising development, he also furnished the place, flaunting his hidden talent for interior decoration. He supposed this was the first time he adulted so hard since he was unhappily married with kids.
Yet the farmhouse in the countryside served as a gamble. The purchase jeopardized his life. He might have or might not have funneled some of the dirty Russian money set aside for the production budgets for the down payment on this new venue. If asked, he would explain the necessity of his bold decision. The landlords at the downtown apartment complex started sticking their nose into his business. Supposedly, Karens plagued the complex, and unlike cockroaches, pest control still hasn’t developed sprays to rid such infestations. Not only were noise complaints with the front office had been submitted, these cunts also went to the Rochester PD. While nothing ever amounted to these complaints; already, on three occasions, Adam had to quickly sweep up cocaine from the floor while Anastasia distracted the cops, also known as a lot of money, tossed into the garbage tin.
And no, sadly, the cocaine wasn’t for him, but for the girls. He had to watch out for his heart after all. Adam now approached his middling years, prime time for a middle age crisis and a heart attack. That meant taking his health a little more seriously. He sacrificed his coke addition in order to maintain his other addictions. Also, worth mentioning, don’t ever cake your blue chews with cocaine, because that an awkward trip to the emergency room that no one wanted. The downside of the endless supply of vodka Petya provided the operation was that Petya preferred to drink straight rubbing alcohol disguised as vodka. Of course, in his continuous defiance in order to prove his manhood, Adam often ended his nights going shot for shot with the Russian meatball twice his side. He never won.
The result of these failed endeavors was the migraine that assaulted his head.
“But there’s always a cure,” always the optimist in Adam grumbled as he avoided any real self-reflection on the sad state of affairs. Certainly, he found no purpose in considering how bad his habits. Live, and let live. There was never a need to bog oneself down with self-criticism because the entire world was always out to get you and will always remind you of your faults.
“Here we go, baby,” Adam wrestled a mushroom from the ziplocked bag in his nightstand. He popped Mario’s Italian Cosine into his mouth and chewed. Moments later, Adam succeeded in the feat that was leaping forth from his bed and onto his feet. In one shift movement, he kicked up his underwear to catch, then pulled them for a snug fit around his thousand-dollar balls. Adam searched for a relatively fresh shirt, sniffing to assure they were kind of clean. He had a hard day of work ahead of him. His head sent a pang, almost slamming him back into the bed that he crept froth from.
“Here we go, BABY!” Adam wrestled a mushroom free from its plastic prison and popped it into his mouth. He deliberately grounded the mushroom with his dentures. Clothed enough, he stumbled from his bedroom. Wait? Had he double dosed? He swore he couldn’t remember whether or not he had eaten one or two of his patented hangover cure. He shrugged. He’ll survive either way. No harm, no foul. Today was going to be a great day! A day of progress! That all started with what he planned for the now abandoned corn field in his newly acquired backyard.
Wearing only an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and whitytighties, Adam emerged onto his back porch. Nothing but corn for all the eye can see. His corn. The corn he didn’t care one bit about. He hadn’t been sure what to do with it. He was in the porn business, not looking to diversify his portfolio with agriculture. But in the waning hours of the previous night’s memory, a genius idea dawned on him. But he couldn’t do it alone. Too much work. He considered about venturing through the corner field, pass the thicket nestled behind it, and knocked on his son’s back door. Instead of asking Alistaire for sugar, he would kindly ask if he wanted to make a dick and balls crop circle for a publicity stunt to promote his dad’s side hustle. He imagined, with great glee, Alistaire would vehemently decline the offer, stumbling over his words while combating the deep blushing at the mention of male genitalia.
Genius idea? Yes, Adam knew but had to scuttle the idea. He wanted something more dramatic, bigger to reveal to Alistair that they were now neighbors! He wasn’t sure what insanity that would manifest as, but if resulting shock didn’t cause Alistaire to have a heart attack at the young age of twenty-four, then Adam didn’t care. Cock and balls crop circles weren’t enough to meet that demanding criteria.
“Pants,” Bison announced. In his hands, a pair of Adam’s denim pants. For some reason, Adam started to think that despite easily besting Adam in size, girth, and probably endurance, Bison experienced from insecurities. This became ever evident when he started to bellyache while holding the camera for Adam’s scenes. Despite countless offers, Bison refuse to partake in the actual drilling operations, citing that ‘his mother raised a good Christian’. Adam eyed the budge in his pants. Morning wood, please don’t ever leave me. It served as a reminder that God loved him enough to bestow such a gift.
Once the tight jeans concealed his carry, Adam offered a mandatory fist bump to his African American partner. Bison growled before returning inside. Adam shrugged and followed through the patio door. Damn, did the baby blue color popped with the sizzling white trim. Grateful for the fact his headache already retreated, he went about his morning routine. He was going to make his hallmark scrambled eggs for the whole unit.
“Iron Chef Adam, your basket today is eggs and butter. You will prepare the best eggs ever made by men. Good luck,” the refrigerator spoke with a Hiro Tanaka accent. Adam translated the Engrish into the English and bowed before the mighty cooling god. Adam cracked the eggs on the frying pan’s edge, perfectly obtaining the inner without any of that pesky skull. Food channel move the fuck over.
This was the start of a beautiful, wonderful day.
-------------------------------
[REC]
“For years, I’ve been dying for a follow up to the Wonder Years. Now the television network gods have answered my prayers. And I’m not surprised that that I turned out much better than Winnie and Kevin, look at them now. She aged well but still has that deer in a headlights sorta look… he, he looked like he got caught in a rebellion stage and never escaped with all that hair and tattoos,” Adam began his monologue, staring a the camera in a dusty old basement. His nostrils flared as he was far too close to the camera, Blair Witch runny nose and all that unnecessary cinematic nuance. Just over wifebeater-wearing Adam Allocco’s exposed shoulder, you could tell this was some grungy sex dungeon with some wood horses and leather swings.
“Ain’t no body gonna know that old ass reference,” Bison interjected him from off the camera. Adam’s Shakespearian soliloquy had no been ruined. Now, he was never gonna win a daytime Emmy. Then again those contests, just like Presidential elections were rigged.
“They’d get it.”
“No, we’re old. These are some younglings.”
“They’re hipster. Hipster get 1980s pop culture. It’s their part of their language. I bet somewhere in that mess of tats, the big guy has an Alf, if not… at least Regan riding on a raptor or if he really closeted, maybe even an E.T,” Adam fired off a response. Sniffling he turned towards Bison for only a moment, to get a glimpse at the big man’s shaking head. He didn’t appreciate Adam’s godly sense of humor.
“Enough.”
“Alright, alright. Jokes aside. Joking is all fine and dandy, but professional wrestling isn’t all fun and games. Yes, Frozen Hell did steal that match, undermining the entire concept of fair athletic competition, but no one blinks an eye. Jay Gold, on the other hand, offered up his daughter to the devil. I had considered making a matching offer, I mean I do have at least four children and maybe I could do 24andMe to scrounge up some bastards, but I never was one for witchcraft. I’m a proud Catholic, simply look at all my divorces,” Adam shrugged his shoulders. Bison smacked him loud on his back, snapping Adam back to the point. “Either way, bravo Jay. We know Holly Adams did all the heavy lifting and you took all the credit. And after all, Holly is a real goddess, no the one played on TV by Katie.”
“We middling. We’re the NFC Least right now, and I know I’ve made so bold proclamations, very strongly worded declarations. Something along the lines that we’re… THE BEST! And that still rings just a true. No one stays undefeated for every, everyone hits slumps, we have our own recessions and booms, it’s all part of a cyclic nature BUT I refuse, I refuse to let our slide continue against this type of enemy. We’re going up against this god damn Hippie collective, free love and probably a little bit of L-S-D to go along with the orgies, the long hair, and the all-natural soap,” Adam’s face started to turn beat red, sweat glistened in the cracks of his winkled forward. “Tell me, Cain. Tell me, Alice. What type of socialist agenda has Gio fed to you. Have it turned dark yet? Of course, it has. I’ve seen his Manson, helter-skelter jibba-jabba, how you three are glorified stalkers. He acts like he’s enlightened, but we all know the stark truth. There’s only room for one Enlightenment in Wrestling, and that’s me. Adam Allocco. The The Renaissance Man.”
Bison cleared his voice.
“And with me, my wonderful assistant, Big Bad Bison Jones. And for our final act, I’m going to make the Wonderland disappear. That’s right, I’m gonna steal the show and remind people that we were just one scratch and sniff away at being the World Tag Team Champions, and the Golden Boys is on a collision course for those very same belts. We are the division, this league’s a sham to keep us away from those belts, but we’re gonna turn the tables and boom, Golden Boys will rule supreme. And that’s just magic, my friends!”
[/REC]
Yet the farmhouse in the countryside served as a gamble. The purchase jeopardized his life. He might have or might not have funneled some of the dirty Russian money set aside for the production budgets for the down payment on this new venue. If asked, he would explain the necessity of his bold decision. The landlords at the downtown apartment complex started sticking their nose into his business. Supposedly, Karens plagued the complex, and unlike cockroaches, pest control still hasn’t developed sprays to rid such infestations. Not only were noise complaints with the front office had been submitted, these cunts also went to the Rochester PD. While nothing ever amounted to these complaints; already, on three occasions, Adam had to quickly sweep up cocaine from the floor while Anastasia distracted the cops, also known as a lot of money, tossed into the garbage tin.
And no, sadly, the cocaine wasn’t for him, but for the girls. He had to watch out for his heart after all. Adam now approached his middling years, prime time for a middle age crisis and a heart attack. That meant taking his health a little more seriously. He sacrificed his coke addition in order to maintain his other addictions. Also, worth mentioning, don’t ever cake your blue chews with cocaine, because that an awkward trip to the emergency room that no one wanted. The downside of the endless supply of vodka Petya provided the operation was that Petya preferred to drink straight rubbing alcohol disguised as vodka. Of course, in his continuous defiance in order to prove his manhood, Adam often ended his nights going shot for shot with the Russian meatball twice his side. He never won.
The result of these failed endeavors was the migraine that assaulted his head.
“But there’s always a cure,” always the optimist in Adam grumbled as he avoided any real self-reflection on the sad state of affairs. Certainly, he found no purpose in considering how bad his habits. Live, and let live. There was never a need to bog oneself down with self-criticism because the entire world was always out to get you and will always remind you of your faults.
“Here we go, baby,” Adam wrestled a mushroom from the ziplocked bag in his nightstand. He popped Mario’s Italian Cosine into his mouth and chewed. Moments later, Adam succeeded in the feat that was leaping forth from his bed and onto his feet. In one shift movement, he kicked up his underwear to catch, then pulled them for a snug fit around his thousand-dollar balls. Adam searched for a relatively fresh shirt, sniffing to assure they were kind of clean. He had a hard day of work ahead of him. His head sent a pang, almost slamming him back into the bed that he crept froth from.
“Here we go, BABY!” Adam wrestled a mushroom free from its plastic prison and popped it into his mouth. He deliberately grounded the mushroom with his dentures. Clothed enough, he stumbled from his bedroom. Wait? Had he double dosed? He swore he couldn’t remember whether or not he had eaten one or two of his patented hangover cure. He shrugged. He’ll survive either way. No harm, no foul. Today was going to be a great day! A day of progress! That all started with what he planned for the now abandoned corn field in his newly acquired backyard.
Wearing only an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and whitytighties, Adam emerged onto his back porch. Nothing but corn for all the eye can see. His corn. The corn he didn’t care one bit about. He hadn’t been sure what to do with it. He was in the porn business, not looking to diversify his portfolio with agriculture. But in the waning hours of the previous night’s memory, a genius idea dawned on him. But he couldn’t do it alone. Too much work. He considered about venturing through the corner field, pass the thicket nestled behind it, and knocked on his son’s back door. Instead of asking Alistaire for sugar, he would kindly ask if he wanted to make a dick and balls crop circle for a publicity stunt to promote his dad’s side hustle. He imagined, with great glee, Alistaire would vehemently decline the offer, stumbling over his words while combating the deep blushing at the mention of male genitalia.
Genius idea? Yes, Adam knew but had to scuttle the idea. He wanted something more dramatic, bigger to reveal to Alistair that they were now neighbors! He wasn’t sure what insanity that would manifest as, but if resulting shock didn’t cause Alistaire to have a heart attack at the young age of twenty-four, then Adam didn’t care. Cock and balls crop circles weren’t enough to meet that demanding criteria.
“Pants,” Bison announced. In his hands, a pair of Adam’s denim pants. For some reason, Adam started to think that despite easily besting Adam in size, girth, and probably endurance, Bison experienced from insecurities. This became ever evident when he started to bellyache while holding the camera for Adam’s scenes. Despite countless offers, Bison refuse to partake in the actual drilling operations, citing that ‘his mother raised a good Christian’. Adam eyed the budge in his pants. Morning wood, please don’t ever leave me. It served as a reminder that God loved him enough to bestow such a gift.
Once the tight jeans concealed his carry, Adam offered a mandatory fist bump to his African American partner. Bison growled before returning inside. Adam shrugged and followed through the patio door. Damn, did the baby blue color popped with the sizzling white trim. Grateful for the fact his headache already retreated, he went about his morning routine. He was going to make his hallmark scrambled eggs for the whole unit.
“Iron Chef Adam, your basket today is eggs and butter. You will prepare the best eggs ever made by men. Good luck,” the refrigerator spoke with a Hiro Tanaka accent. Adam translated the Engrish into the English and bowed before the mighty cooling god. Adam cracked the eggs on the frying pan’s edge, perfectly obtaining the inner without any of that pesky skull. Food channel move the fuck over.
This was the start of a beautiful, wonderful day.
-------------------------------
[REC]
“For years, I’ve been dying for a follow up to the Wonder Years. Now the television network gods have answered my prayers. And I’m not surprised that that I turned out much better than Winnie and Kevin, look at them now. She aged well but still has that deer in a headlights sorta look… he, he looked like he got caught in a rebellion stage and never escaped with all that hair and tattoos,” Adam began his monologue, staring a the camera in a dusty old basement. His nostrils flared as he was far too close to the camera, Blair Witch runny nose and all that unnecessary cinematic nuance. Just over wifebeater-wearing Adam Allocco’s exposed shoulder, you could tell this was some grungy sex dungeon with some wood horses and leather swings.
“Ain’t no body gonna know that old ass reference,” Bison interjected him from off the camera. Adam’s Shakespearian soliloquy had no been ruined. Now, he was never gonna win a daytime Emmy. Then again those contests, just like Presidential elections were rigged.
“They’d get it.”
“No, we’re old. These are some younglings.”
“They’re hipster. Hipster get 1980s pop culture. It’s their part of their language. I bet somewhere in that mess of tats, the big guy has an Alf, if not… at least Regan riding on a raptor or if he really closeted, maybe even an E.T,” Adam fired off a response. Sniffling he turned towards Bison for only a moment, to get a glimpse at the big man’s shaking head. He didn’t appreciate Adam’s godly sense of humor.
“Enough.”
“Alright, alright. Jokes aside. Joking is all fine and dandy, but professional wrestling isn’t all fun and games. Yes, Frozen Hell did steal that match, undermining the entire concept of fair athletic competition, but no one blinks an eye. Jay Gold, on the other hand, offered up his daughter to the devil. I had considered making a matching offer, I mean I do have at least four children and maybe I could do 24andMe to scrounge up some bastards, but I never was one for witchcraft. I’m a proud Catholic, simply look at all my divorces,” Adam shrugged his shoulders. Bison smacked him loud on his back, snapping Adam back to the point. “Either way, bravo Jay. We know Holly Adams did all the heavy lifting and you took all the credit. And after all, Holly is a real goddess, no the one played on TV by Katie.”
“We middling. We’re the NFC Least right now, and I know I’ve made so bold proclamations, very strongly worded declarations. Something along the lines that we’re… THE BEST! And that still rings just a true. No one stays undefeated for every, everyone hits slumps, we have our own recessions and booms, it’s all part of a cyclic nature BUT I refuse, I refuse to let our slide continue against this type of enemy. We’re going up against this god damn Hippie collective, free love and probably a little bit of L-S-D to go along with the orgies, the long hair, and the all-natural soap,” Adam’s face started to turn beat red, sweat glistened in the cracks of his winkled forward. “Tell me, Cain. Tell me, Alice. What type of socialist agenda has Gio fed to you. Have it turned dark yet? Of course, it has. I’ve seen his Manson, helter-skelter jibba-jabba, how you three are glorified stalkers. He acts like he’s enlightened, but we all know the stark truth. There’s only room for one Enlightenment in Wrestling, and that’s me. Adam Allocco. The The Renaissance Man.”
Bison cleared his voice.
“And with me, my wonderful assistant, Big Bad Bison Jones. And for our final act, I’m going to make the Wonderland disappear. That’s right, I’m gonna steal the show and remind people that we were just one scratch and sniff away at being the World Tag Team Champions, and the Golden Boys is on a collision course for those very same belts. We are the division, this league’s a sham to keep us away from those belts, but we’re gonna turn the tables and boom, Golden Boys will rule supreme. And that’s just magic, my friends!”
[/REC]