Fuck Eugene Levy in the Ass, Reverse Breakers and A Still for Sharon

Well, I don't know, but that seemed to be what Eugene wanted, anyway. I wasn't too keen on the idea, but somehow I got roped into it. He had a son named Paul, who was participating in some way, rounding out a very unpleasant three-way. The part of Paul was played by Paul Fallen, a deceased acquaintance from my high school era. A junkie with a long criminal record, Paul was overweight and mostly unwashed, among his other less than desirable traits. 

The entire Fallen clan and dwelling looked as if they had been plucked up Dorothy-style from a rundown shantytown in Bumfuck, Alabama and plopped down into their tidily manicured suburban neighborhood in Garden Grove, California. Beer cans and old motorcycle parts festooned the dead lawn, and the family station wagon was always parked at some crazy angle in the driveway, as Dorsey, the patriarch, narrowly avoided colliding with the house upon returning home from the bar every night.

I don't know why I am bothering with any backstory or character development; it was the kind of sex dream I'd really rather not have, much less write about. 

We were doing the deed in the back of a pickup truck. Although it had a camper shell, the damn thing had no curtains on the windows, and the tailgate was down. To make matters worse, we were parked on a public road where there were tons of people milling around, and some began to take notice. I just wanted to be done with it, but due to lack of arousal, it kept on interminably.

"Paul needs finish first, then you, Andrew," Eugene Levy said, in his uniquely pedantic and parental tone.

We had to keep moving the vehicle, which was quite a feat for Eugene, as he was being fucked in the ass by me the whole time. Paul was somewhere underneath, near the floorboards. We moved from spot to spot, but we never did find a suitable venue. Perhaps because there is no suitable venue for doing something of that nature in a pickup truck in broad daylight. 

I felt nothing but annoyance and embarrassment at the whole thing and just wanted it to be over. It eventually concluded without anyone "finishing."

Before the Eugene fuck sandwich, I'd been out wading in the surf with my friend, Bongo. There was a rare tidal phenomenon known as "the reverse breaker" that I was told to watch out for. The reverse breaker is the result of an extremely high tidal surge, where the receding waters form a huge wave as they rush back out to sea. The resulting collision of the reverse breaker with the incoming breakers would cause a crushingly devastating impact on anyone unlucky enough to be caught in the middle.

"Reverse breaker!" Bongo called out from the safety of the shore.

It was too late. I was in the intermediary "crush zone" and about to be pummeled by the backwards tidal wave as it crashed into the monstrous incoming waves. I watched, paralyzed, as an ocean bound tsunami mounted higher and higher and began cresting. I was sure to be obliterated in a matter of seconds. Rather than that happening, however, I was transported into an even less desirable situation, the Eugene Levy family fuckfest, which I've already reluctantly related.

Sometime after both of these events, I was with Sharon in her parent's home in Paradise. Sharon wasn't very disabled, but I was still responsible for fulfilling many of her daily requests. 

Her mom, Hannelore, was throwing out a 20 inch Toshiba tube type TV set, and Sharon wanted me to save it for some reason. I offered to put it into a room that we called "her bedroom," which was actually an office. It would make a good monitor for playing the older style Xbox video games, I told her, and she agreed.

Then a busload of Christian youth showed up and asked what kind of still we wanted. Apparently, Sharon had ordered a still but hadn't been specific about the type or application. I assumed it was for making moonshine, so I came right out and asked:

"Are you going to be using it to make alcohol, sweetie?"

She hedged and hemmed and hawed, so I assumed that was a yes. I began to order the necessary parts, although I had no clue what parts actually go into making a still.

"I guess we'll take sixteen feet of copper tubing. Is that about right? And we'll need a boiler, too, you know, the kettle. So, we'll take one of those," I rattled off all the parts I could think of. 

Some time before the still ordering and the after the other, you know...well, "you know," I was talking to Mike Cardenas, ex-coworker and friend from YC Honda. He was telling me about his latest dilemma: He had MS. He needed to get some injections, but he didn't know what kind to get. I told him about the steroids that Sharon had received during her stay at UC Davis. He thanked me and told me he'd look into it.

That's about it for my fucked up potpourri of scrambled synapses. Make of that you will. If I hit the publish button, like, ever, that is.