TheSadist
04-16-2009, 12:54 PM
Death and a Grin.
Well, many would have thought it was a good way to pass on. Yes, die, in other words which at the time was not a very appealing word to Ned "Pickle" Teasley. Nobody really knew why he was called pickle. As far as he was concerned, he particularly hated pickles to say the very least. The thought of it made him sick. Of pickles that is. He refused to even taste anything that he, in his peculiar state of mind, thought had pickles. This of course was not true. If the food items had the ability to speak the human tongue, (Nobody knew if food had a tongue of their own. There had been reports of course but in this world where nothing is true unless there was proof and sometimes when there was proof, nobody in the right mind would believe it.) He or she, depending on how a certain food’s gender was determined in its lifetime, must have said: Hoi, mate, there ain't any of them pickles on me you moron!
Anyway, Ned prefers to be called, well, Ned. Back to the death part now. As the crowd gathered around Ned's freshly destroyed body now, still alive mind you (For a few more minutes that is.), they detected movement. The reaction of the crowd was not quite pleasing but understandable to Ned.
"He's alive!" a woman at his feet said in a theatrical voice.
"Humph," said a man in a new but battered cap.
"Amazing how his leg is twisted, innit?" a voice from the back of the crowd. Must be a teen thought Ned. They are always using those words such as 'innit' or 'word' or 'dog' at the end of their sentences. Who wants to be called 'dog'?
"Ei, look at 'em pickle hater. Ma cuzz, may da Lord rest his soul, said he didn't eat him coz he thought there were pickles on ma cuzz! Serves him right! I tell ya this is God's punishment to him for throwing ma cuzz in da bin man!" Ned then knew that foodstuff do speak the human tongue.
The 'movement' was only Ned's hand moving slowly, almost painfully, towards his trousers pocket. His hand could not have been painful. There were simply no feelings present. How did he know that his hand is moving then? Good question. He just did. It's just like changing channels on the television with the remote control. Once you get the hang of it, that is if you watch the television for more than twenty hours a day when there is nothing but boring soaps on every channel, you don't exactly have to be conscious about pressing the buttons. Now, back to Ned and his incredible moving-his-hand-that-has-no-feeling-towards-his-pocket adventure. He rummaged for quite sometime in his pocket. When you don't have any feelings in your hand, you will know why. Then, he pulled out a palm sized box and just stared at it. A cigarette box. A red cigarette box. He grinned.
There are many ways to interpret a grin. Not an easy task but some jobless people had taken up this challenge and perfected the art of interpreting a grin. A big 'hooray' for them. Anyway, a grin can be roughly divided into seven categories:
The happy grin: The grin that is produced when on is, umm, happy.
Example: The child who is, in fact, the spawn of Satan cannot stop himself from producing the happy grin which revealed his small teeth when he saw Ned in a dying state.
The ****-off-you-old-hag grin: Produced when one is not capable of handling the jabbering of an old person; usually an old woman. The grin that is used the most apart from the happy grin (refer to number 1). However some have speculated that the ****-off-you-old-hag grin is being more widely used. Nobody is happy these days. Unless they are on weed all the time.
Example: It had been an unshakable habit of Anila to give any old person the ****-off-you-old-hag grin when they start to ramble on and on about the non-existent moral values in teens today.
The I-don't-understand-but-I'm-going-to-act-like-I-do-anyway grin:
This grin is always wider than usual and only lasts a few seconds. One can always identify it by observing the 'grinner's' eyes. A nod every ten seconds had been indicated as a sign that the grinner really doesn't understand.
Example: John just gave the drunken scientist the I-don't-understand-but-I'm-going-to-act-like-I-do-anyway grin when he proceeded to explain the theory of a man John had never heard before about the fourth dimension.
The I-need-to-leave grin: The grin will always be followed by the 'grinner' being unusually polite and ask if they may be excused. Once they do, good luck in finding them.
Example: “Grandma, could you please grant me the liberty to leave this marvelous palace of yours (It was an old shack.)? I really hate to do this impolite act and I hate to leave your side even more but I have an important meeting (Which is with his unmade bed.) that I just could not afford to miss." said Gerard after giving his grandmother the I-need-to-leave grin for half an hour.
The perverted grin: There is no explanation for this one. Everybody knows it when they see one.
Example: The old man was admitted into the Intensive Care Unit when two drag queens misread his grin as a perverted grin.
The God-I-would-love-to-slit-your-throat grin: The grin is accompanied by a malicious gleam of the 'grinner's' eye. Signs include sweaty palms, drooling and hyena-like laughing. There are more signs of course but the subjects that were tested sprinted away at the speed that would put any national sprinter to shame. Except for a hyena that responding by laughing.
Example: The psychopathic killer gave the God-I-would-love-to-slit-your-throat grin which turned Marie on.
The grin. The grin which consists of a few grins blended together.
Example: He grinned.
Ned's grin was of course, the grin (Refer to number 7.). One might say his was a combination of the God-I-would-love-to-slit-your-throat grin (Refer to number 6.) and the happy grin. Yet, the possibilities seem to be endless right? Everybody has an opinion of their own but for the moment, let us just agree on one combination. Then Ned spoke.
“Damn bastard," he popped back the cover and withdrew a cigarette. Probably the twelfth one. Or the eighteenth if he had bought the packet which contained twenty poisonous sticks of perfectly rolled tobacco. "Always thought you lot were the ones to kill me."
Before I get carried away, you must have been asking yourself or an unfortunate friend over and over again. Who the hell is Ned "Pickle" Teasley? What the hell am I reading this piece of trash for? Did the egg or the chicken come first? Who really shot President Kennedy? Patience. I have all the answers but I was just waiting for the right question to be asked. And no, I do not have any relations with any Jedis. Again, no, I was lying. I don't know who shot Kennedy. As for Ned, you just have to read on to know more about him. Patience really does suck at a time like this, doesn't it? As for why you are reading this, well I'd love to say it’s because you are a brainless monkey with money to spare but I can't do that can I? Finally, about the chicken and the egg, my opinion is that they have to come together. If the egg was to come first, what would incubate it? It has to have a hen to do the job. If the chicken came first, hell, God must have planned it to be one lonely chicken. And now, back to Ned. Consider what you have read to be one ****ing long commercial break. A ****ing good long commercial break.
Ned's Birth.
The thunder roared as if God had accidentally pressed the big red button labelled Armageddon. The earth rumbled and brought down skyscrapers (not that there were any in the place we are in now, but just so you know, it was quite the scene.), lightning flashed across the sky every second. A house in a rural village was filled with naked men and women alike, all covered in seven different kinds of animal blood, all chanting and dancing around a woman deep in labour. Every few hours, a medium will step up and force her to drink a suspicious lookiing yellowish-brown concoction. She screamed as if what she was going to give birth to was the world in it's whole context itself. Then, with one final sip of the suspicious yellowish-brown concoction, a final massive heave and a final I-am-giving-birth-to-the world scream, she, well, finally gave birth.
The child, who had an amazing future ahead of him, will one day be the owner of the world, more hated than loved, more prophecy related stuff, was a miracle to some and a curse to others. However, unlike most stories where the hero or main character opens their eyes in some magical or Oh-My-God-This-Child-Must-Be-Special-Quick-Inform-The-King-So-That-He-Can-Dramatically-Plot-To-Kill-Him way. He had no flaming sword in his small hands, nor did he kill the chanting naked people in front of him just by staring at them. He did not even have horns. Talk about being special. Still, looks could deceive; a harmless looking baby could, by defying all odds and destroying the imagination of avid readers, in fact be the chosen one.
Three figures in black robes suddenly swept forth and they exchanged happy grins. They did not speak, yet everybody else heard them in their minds.
"He who thhall bring forth the apocalypthe hath (they didn’t speak old English, its just that they pronounce ‘s’ as ‘th’. Being servants of the dark lord requires one to have a specialty, however foolish and laughable it may be.)been conceived!" and they swept out of the hut, the stinging smell of sulphur trailing behind them. Among the words or phrases that the villagers could think of were:
1) Damn.
2) Holy hell.
3) ****.
4) Those are some cool hoodies!
5) Check out that ***!
6) Umm, this is pretty awkward isn’t it?
This all led to one idea (Except for the last three. Surprisingly, they are labeled as the village’s wise men.): They were truly and thoroughly f***ed. Now, if that was how you think Ned was conceived, then sorry to disappoint you mate, but that wasn't it. That kid is just a pebble in a quarry full of stones, rocks and boulders. Ned did not even share the same birthday with the pebble, which when is demetaphorized, means that Ned did not share the same birthday with 'he who shall bring forth the apocalypse' or the one who the king is going to dramatically kill but fails as he made an escape which makes many of us go ‘What the f*** was that?!’. In fact, Ned was older. By an excess of one week. Therefore, using logical thinking skills, the kid, who is dubbed 'he who shall bring forth the apocalypse' or the one who the king is going to dramatically kill but fails as he made an escape which makes many of us go ‘What the f*** was that?!’, being methaphorized and demetaphorized into a pebble and back to being a child, has no connections with Ned at all. This reduces him, metaphorically speaking that is, into a grain of sand.
Ned was born in September 1972. On the same fateful day in September 1972, Mrs. Teasley smoked a cigar and drank heavily from various bottles containing liquor.. Yes, that was Mrs. Teasley and not Mr. Teasley. All hell would break loose if Mr. Teasley even eyed a bottle of beer for more than ten seconds (He was an expert at speed reading which meant that he could read every single 'nutritional value' on a bottle of beer in 8 seconds.). Mrs. Teasley did not do all this just because she wanted to die early or to give Ned a heads-up to what was going on in the world outside the womb. Nor did she want Ned to understand the feelings of a retarded person by making him one. Again, the world is full of possibilities.
As Mrs. Teasley downed a bottle of Jack Daniels and puffed away at her Cuban cigar, she felt Ned; well at the time he wasn’t named yet so let us name him The Baby, kick. She smiled. She was not like other mothers who would coo and whisper to their baby and expect the baby to stop kicking. She just ignored it. Before, she would hit her belly back (Just a thump on the baby’s assumed head.) but Mr. Teasley was horrified to a point where of crying, pleading for Mrs. Teasley to stop. She did after more crying by Mr. Teasley but eventually, The Baby got the message and stopped. It made a mental note: Don’t kick mom. However, this time it did not stop. Mrs. Teasley was surprised but at the same time quite pleased to see that she had produced quite the rebel. She beamed with all the pride a mother could feel until she felt water seep through her robe (No underpants in the house.) and through the sofa material. Her water broke. The pride broke too.
Mr. Teasley on the other hand was in his small office calculating the unborn child's expanses. He laid down his portable calculator (The cheapest one he could find and bought at a yard sale two blocks away from his house.) and stretched. Two more weeks, he thought. He loathed for the day to come, not because of the child and all it’s expenses but in anxiety. Looking at how his wife has been treating the unborn, images of a severely deformed humanoid baby keeps on attacking his brain. What if the child had a limb detached? Or even worse, came out with more than one? He shuddered and waved away the thoughts. Things are going to be fine. In two weeks, there will be a perfectly healthy baby coming home. He stifled a yawn and a few minutes later, he was already on his way to dreamland. Just before he did, the phone rang and he let it ring twice before picking up the receiver.
“Hello, Leismann and Green Insurance, providing you with protection when no one else cares. How may I help you?” He hated saying those words.
“Mr. Teasley?”
“Yes, speaking.”
“Mr. Teasley, this is Dr. Kavanou speaking. Could you hurry to the hospital? Your wife has just gone into labour.” Cold sweat drenched his body.
“But… Two weeks…”
In the small hospital, Mrs. Teasley was deep in labour. It didn’t look like it though. All she did was look around and kept asking the nurses for a packet of cigarettes. Mr. Teasley tried hopelessly to keep a straight face, he ran out of the building (forgetting to punch his card) and drove to the hospital, almost breaking the speed limit and now everybody is asking him to relax or offer him a cigarette. He took one, which was awkward since he never smoked. He could not understand why Mrs. Teasley, who was still asking the exasperated nurse for cigarettes, looked and acted so cool. Shouldn't she be wailing and crying out of pain? The images of ugly humanoid babies kept on haunting him. Why now? Shouldn’t it be two weeks from now? Is the baby going to be severely deformed? A few arduous hours later, Mrs. Teasley finally gave birth but the baby was taken away before he could even look at it. He started shivering and almost cried. Was the baby so ugly that it had to be taken away? Mrs. Teasley finally spoke to him. "Go get me some cigarettes will you, darling? The damned nurse left and never came back. F***ing bad service."
"Honey, uh, you think that’s alright? You just gave birth." Mr. Teasley was quite sure he had read somewhere that cigarettes and babies do not flow together. Courtesy of his brother's magazines.
“Honey, I just f***ing gave birth. The baby is not gonna f***ing get lung cancer. Now go get me my f***ing fags.” He did eventually after getting the evil eye; the glare that projects images of men being slaughtered alive, horror movies and tight spaces into the minds of the receiver.
Well, many would have thought it was a good way to pass on. Yes, die, in other words which at the time was not a very appealing word to Ned "Pickle" Teasley. Nobody really knew why he was called pickle. As far as he was concerned, he particularly hated pickles to say the very least. The thought of it made him sick. Of pickles that is. He refused to even taste anything that he, in his peculiar state of mind, thought had pickles. This of course was not true. If the food items had the ability to speak the human tongue, (Nobody knew if food had a tongue of their own. There had been reports of course but in this world where nothing is true unless there was proof and sometimes when there was proof, nobody in the right mind would believe it.) He or she, depending on how a certain food’s gender was determined in its lifetime, must have said: Hoi, mate, there ain't any of them pickles on me you moron!
Anyway, Ned prefers to be called, well, Ned. Back to the death part now. As the crowd gathered around Ned's freshly destroyed body now, still alive mind you (For a few more minutes that is.), they detected movement. The reaction of the crowd was not quite pleasing but understandable to Ned.
"He's alive!" a woman at his feet said in a theatrical voice.
"Humph," said a man in a new but battered cap.
"Amazing how his leg is twisted, innit?" a voice from the back of the crowd. Must be a teen thought Ned. They are always using those words such as 'innit' or 'word' or 'dog' at the end of their sentences. Who wants to be called 'dog'?
"Ei, look at 'em pickle hater. Ma cuzz, may da Lord rest his soul, said he didn't eat him coz he thought there were pickles on ma cuzz! Serves him right! I tell ya this is God's punishment to him for throwing ma cuzz in da bin man!" Ned then knew that foodstuff do speak the human tongue.
The 'movement' was only Ned's hand moving slowly, almost painfully, towards his trousers pocket. His hand could not have been painful. There were simply no feelings present. How did he know that his hand is moving then? Good question. He just did. It's just like changing channels on the television with the remote control. Once you get the hang of it, that is if you watch the television for more than twenty hours a day when there is nothing but boring soaps on every channel, you don't exactly have to be conscious about pressing the buttons. Now, back to Ned and his incredible moving-his-hand-that-has-no-feeling-towards-his-pocket adventure. He rummaged for quite sometime in his pocket. When you don't have any feelings in your hand, you will know why. Then, he pulled out a palm sized box and just stared at it. A cigarette box. A red cigarette box. He grinned.
There are many ways to interpret a grin. Not an easy task but some jobless people had taken up this challenge and perfected the art of interpreting a grin. A big 'hooray' for them. Anyway, a grin can be roughly divided into seven categories:
The happy grin: The grin that is produced when on is, umm, happy.
Example: The child who is, in fact, the spawn of Satan cannot stop himself from producing the happy grin which revealed his small teeth when he saw Ned in a dying state.
The ****-off-you-old-hag grin: Produced when one is not capable of handling the jabbering of an old person; usually an old woman. The grin that is used the most apart from the happy grin (refer to number 1). However some have speculated that the ****-off-you-old-hag grin is being more widely used. Nobody is happy these days. Unless they are on weed all the time.
Example: It had been an unshakable habit of Anila to give any old person the ****-off-you-old-hag grin when they start to ramble on and on about the non-existent moral values in teens today.
The I-don't-understand-but-I'm-going-to-act-like-I-do-anyway grin:
This grin is always wider than usual and only lasts a few seconds. One can always identify it by observing the 'grinner's' eyes. A nod every ten seconds had been indicated as a sign that the grinner really doesn't understand.
Example: John just gave the drunken scientist the I-don't-understand-but-I'm-going-to-act-like-I-do-anyway grin when he proceeded to explain the theory of a man John had never heard before about the fourth dimension.
The I-need-to-leave grin: The grin will always be followed by the 'grinner' being unusually polite and ask if they may be excused. Once they do, good luck in finding them.
Example: “Grandma, could you please grant me the liberty to leave this marvelous palace of yours (It was an old shack.)? I really hate to do this impolite act and I hate to leave your side even more but I have an important meeting (Which is with his unmade bed.) that I just could not afford to miss." said Gerard after giving his grandmother the I-need-to-leave grin for half an hour.
The perverted grin: There is no explanation for this one. Everybody knows it when they see one.
Example: The old man was admitted into the Intensive Care Unit when two drag queens misread his grin as a perverted grin.
The God-I-would-love-to-slit-your-throat grin: The grin is accompanied by a malicious gleam of the 'grinner's' eye. Signs include sweaty palms, drooling and hyena-like laughing. There are more signs of course but the subjects that were tested sprinted away at the speed that would put any national sprinter to shame. Except for a hyena that responding by laughing.
Example: The psychopathic killer gave the God-I-would-love-to-slit-your-throat grin which turned Marie on.
The grin. The grin which consists of a few grins blended together.
Example: He grinned.
Ned's grin was of course, the grin (Refer to number 7.). One might say his was a combination of the God-I-would-love-to-slit-your-throat grin (Refer to number 6.) and the happy grin. Yet, the possibilities seem to be endless right? Everybody has an opinion of their own but for the moment, let us just agree on one combination. Then Ned spoke.
“Damn bastard," he popped back the cover and withdrew a cigarette. Probably the twelfth one. Or the eighteenth if he had bought the packet which contained twenty poisonous sticks of perfectly rolled tobacco. "Always thought you lot were the ones to kill me."
Before I get carried away, you must have been asking yourself or an unfortunate friend over and over again. Who the hell is Ned "Pickle" Teasley? What the hell am I reading this piece of trash for? Did the egg or the chicken come first? Who really shot President Kennedy? Patience. I have all the answers but I was just waiting for the right question to be asked. And no, I do not have any relations with any Jedis. Again, no, I was lying. I don't know who shot Kennedy. As for Ned, you just have to read on to know more about him. Patience really does suck at a time like this, doesn't it? As for why you are reading this, well I'd love to say it’s because you are a brainless monkey with money to spare but I can't do that can I? Finally, about the chicken and the egg, my opinion is that they have to come together. If the egg was to come first, what would incubate it? It has to have a hen to do the job. If the chicken came first, hell, God must have planned it to be one lonely chicken. And now, back to Ned. Consider what you have read to be one ****ing long commercial break. A ****ing good long commercial break.
Ned's Birth.
The thunder roared as if God had accidentally pressed the big red button labelled Armageddon. The earth rumbled and brought down skyscrapers (not that there were any in the place we are in now, but just so you know, it was quite the scene.), lightning flashed across the sky every second. A house in a rural village was filled with naked men and women alike, all covered in seven different kinds of animal blood, all chanting and dancing around a woman deep in labour. Every few hours, a medium will step up and force her to drink a suspicious lookiing yellowish-brown concoction. She screamed as if what she was going to give birth to was the world in it's whole context itself. Then, with one final sip of the suspicious yellowish-brown concoction, a final massive heave and a final I-am-giving-birth-to-the world scream, she, well, finally gave birth.
The child, who had an amazing future ahead of him, will one day be the owner of the world, more hated than loved, more prophecy related stuff, was a miracle to some and a curse to others. However, unlike most stories where the hero or main character opens their eyes in some magical or Oh-My-God-This-Child-Must-Be-Special-Quick-Inform-The-King-So-That-He-Can-Dramatically-Plot-To-Kill-Him way. He had no flaming sword in his small hands, nor did he kill the chanting naked people in front of him just by staring at them. He did not even have horns. Talk about being special. Still, looks could deceive; a harmless looking baby could, by defying all odds and destroying the imagination of avid readers, in fact be the chosen one.
Three figures in black robes suddenly swept forth and they exchanged happy grins. They did not speak, yet everybody else heard them in their minds.
"He who thhall bring forth the apocalypthe hath (they didn’t speak old English, its just that they pronounce ‘s’ as ‘th’. Being servants of the dark lord requires one to have a specialty, however foolish and laughable it may be.)been conceived!" and they swept out of the hut, the stinging smell of sulphur trailing behind them. Among the words or phrases that the villagers could think of were:
1) Damn.
2) Holy hell.
3) ****.
4) Those are some cool hoodies!
5) Check out that ***!
6) Umm, this is pretty awkward isn’t it?
This all led to one idea (Except for the last three. Surprisingly, they are labeled as the village’s wise men.): They were truly and thoroughly f***ed. Now, if that was how you think Ned was conceived, then sorry to disappoint you mate, but that wasn't it. That kid is just a pebble in a quarry full of stones, rocks and boulders. Ned did not even share the same birthday with the pebble, which when is demetaphorized, means that Ned did not share the same birthday with 'he who shall bring forth the apocalypse' or the one who the king is going to dramatically kill but fails as he made an escape which makes many of us go ‘What the f*** was that?!’. In fact, Ned was older. By an excess of one week. Therefore, using logical thinking skills, the kid, who is dubbed 'he who shall bring forth the apocalypse' or the one who the king is going to dramatically kill but fails as he made an escape which makes many of us go ‘What the f*** was that?!’, being methaphorized and demetaphorized into a pebble and back to being a child, has no connections with Ned at all. This reduces him, metaphorically speaking that is, into a grain of sand.
Ned was born in September 1972. On the same fateful day in September 1972, Mrs. Teasley smoked a cigar and drank heavily from various bottles containing liquor.. Yes, that was Mrs. Teasley and not Mr. Teasley. All hell would break loose if Mr. Teasley even eyed a bottle of beer for more than ten seconds (He was an expert at speed reading which meant that he could read every single 'nutritional value' on a bottle of beer in 8 seconds.). Mrs. Teasley did not do all this just because she wanted to die early or to give Ned a heads-up to what was going on in the world outside the womb. Nor did she want Ned to understand the feelings of a retarded person by making him one. Again, the world is full of possibilities.
As Mrs. Teasley downed a bottle of Jack Daniels and puffed away at her Cuban cigar, she felt Ned; well at the time he wasn’t named yet so let us name him The Baby, kick. She smiled. She was not like other mothers who would coo and whisper to their baby and expect the baby to stop kicking. She just ignored it. Before, she would hit her belly back (Just a thump on the baby’s assumed head.) but Mr. Teasley was horrified to a point where of crying, pleading for Mrs. Teasley to stop. She did after more crying by Mr. Teasley but eventually, The Baby got the message and stopped. It made a mental note: Don’t kick mom. However, this time it did not stop. Mrs. Teasley was surprised but at the same time quite pleased to see that she had produced quite the rebel. She beamed with all the pride a mother could feel until she felt water seep through her robe (No underpants in the house.) and through the sofa material. Her water broke. The pride broke too.
Mr. Teasley on the other hand was in his small office calculating the unborn child's expanses. He laid down his portable calculator (The cheapest one he could find and bought at a yard sale two blocks away from his house.) and stretched. Two more weeks, he thought. He loathed for the day to come, not because of the child and all it’s expenses but in anxiety. Looking at how his wife has been treating the unborn, images of a severely deformed humanoid baby keeps on attacking his brain. What if the child had a limb detached? Or even worse, came out with more than one? He shuddered and waved away the thoughts. Things are going to be fine. In two weeks, there will be a perfectly healthy baby coming home. He stifled a yawn and a few minutes later, he was already on his way to dreamland. Just before he did, the phone rang and he let it ring twice before picking up the receiver.
“Hello, Leismann and Green Insurance, providing you with protection when no one else cares. How may I help you?” He hated saying those words.
“Mr. Teasley?”
“Yes, speaking.”
“Mr. Teasley, this is Dr. Kavanou speaking. Could you hurry to the hospital? Your wife has just gone into labour.” Cold sweat drenched his body.
“But… Two weeks…”
In the small hospital, Mrs. Teasley was deep in labour. It didn’t look like it though. All she did was look around and kept asking the nurses for a packet of cigarettes. Mr. Teasley tried hopelessly to keep a straight face, he ran out of the building (forgetting to punch his card) and drove to the hospital, almost breaking the speed limit and now everybody is asking him to relax or offer him a cigarette. He took one, which was awkward since he never smoked. He could not understand why Mrs. Teasley, who was still asking the exasperated nurse for cigarettes, looked and acted so cool. Shouldn't she be wailing and crying out of pain? The images of ugly humanoid babies kept on haunting him. Why now? Shouldn’t it be two weeks from now? Is the baby going to be severely deformed? A few arduous hours later, Mrs. Teasley finally gave birth but the baby was taken away before he could even look at it. He started shivering and almost cried. Was the baby so ugly that it had to be taken away? Mrs. Teasley finally spoke to him. "Go get me some cigarettes will you, darling? The damned nurse left and never came back. F***ing bad service."
"Honey, uh, you think that’s alright? You just gave birth." Mr. Teasley was quite sure he had read somewhere that cigarettes and babies do not flow together. Courtesy of his brother's magazines.
“Honey, I just f***ing gave birth. The baby is not gonna f***ing get lung cancer. Now go get me my f***ing fags.” He did eventually after getting the evil eye; the glare that projects images of men being slaughtered alive, horror movies and tight spaces into the minds of the receiver.