Full Credits

Stats & Data

May 13, 2015

We follow Don Quinto as he returns home to find his wife cheating on him with another man.

Previous entry 10/20/20013:

[Finally, I arrive home.

The door is already open.

I can hear the moans of my wife, Mona.

I can smell the musk of another man and I see an unlaced boot laying in the hallway, left as if not needed. ]


I stumble through the open doorway, immediately heated, incensed. “Mona!”, I shout. In my heat, I forget to remove my moonboots, and I trip over the unlaced boot in the hallway. I get mixed up about which boots to remove from my feet and walk into the living room wearing an unlaced boot, the moonboots left in my dust. “Mona!”, I screech, painful even for my own ears. The moaning is louder now. I can hear it clearly, in the A tonal C chord progression scale, ranging between the low G and the flat F in timbre. Sensual in quality. I look around at the couch, the television set playing re-runs of Jerry Springer, the ash tray full to the brim with butts and band aids. The lingering scent of musk has morphed into a tingle in the nostrils like petrol on a Christmas morning. I feel nauseous at the thought of another man penetrating Mona’s secret hideout. “Mona!!!”, I cry so loud that I can hear the thumps of dead birds falling on my roof, crushed by the sonic pressure. The napping china cabinet next to our television set startles and shouts, “I’ve had enough of this shit!”, gathers her dishes and cups and shuffles out the front door, most likely to buy a week’s stay at the Motel 6 while she cools down. This happens every two months or so, when the tensions between Mona and I are high and the volume levels are high. The china cabinet protests that the loud vibrations have caused hairline cracks in some of her best saucers, threatening their enrollment in private school. Just then, Dickworm, our lovable St. Bernoodle, waltzes into the living room, proud at apparently licking his genitals clean enough to eat off of, an offer which Mona and I have been declining since we adopted him 5 years ago from the SPCA. The strange animal, a hybrid outcast, the only breed of his kind, with zero market value due his horrid facial features, looks at me like a duck might look at picnic table, and walks down the hall towards Mona’s room. I have only one choice but to take a deep breath, under my shirt that is, my own body odor being a relieving stench compared to the dead alligator asphalt fumes of who in the hell would wear a cologne like that? Much less Mona swimming naked in these acetone pheromones?

The flame in the back of my skull ignites once again and my rage swells like a snake bite deep inside a butthole. I try to kick the unlaced boot off my foot, angry that it is my enemy’s and how did it get on my foot in the first place, but the laces have tied, apparently making decisions without it’s wearers say, which is probably why it laid unlaced in a hallway. Neglected. Bitter. It’s clench on my right ankle is so tight that I begin remember my first experience as a virgin. I squirm and kick and fall on the carpet and shout and tussle. I take scissors and cut the strings, pulling them away, beating the boot mercilessly. “Get off!”, I scream maniacally. Dickworm has stopped in the hallway and is half turned, staring at me. I speak to the boot nicely and make sure to let it know I will no longer hurt it. It has a place in my own home, should it’s owner abandon it again. The boot lets out a sigh, which is more like a rubber fart, coming from the sole area, which, mixed with the wretched cologne, awakens my nausea again. But luckily, the boot slips off and slinks off to a quiet corner, where it reads passages from Psalms, in an effort to “let things go”.

Finally shoeless, I stand and slinker towards the ugliest dog I have ever owned, or seen, Dickworm, our saliva dripping, yip yipping St. Bernoodle. He happily returns to scurrying down the hallway towards Mona’s room. We get near the door. He stands in front of it, wagging is ugly tail, his atrocious tongue hanging in anticipation of seeing his mommy. I dread the trauma that is soon to consume both of us. I reach out for the doorknob, my hate seething. I am holding my keys in my free hand to use as a cutting, clawing, maiming device for when I see whatever creature wears the stink of an alcoholic meat processing plant. I turn the knob and open the door, slowly but with purpose. Once halfway open, I flick the lights on in the dark room and scream, “Ha!”. I roundhouse kick, upper gut sucker-punch, tracheal swipe, eye gouge and spinal crack my way through the room. Finally, I am breathless. I bend to my knees for a second to regain my breath. What I see is the most precious moment of my life. I see Mona, sitting on her bed, fully clothed, smiling at me with a beam of joy. Next to her, on the dresser with a limp, sits a small stereo that is playing a cassette. A cassette that moans. She moves her hand to stop the cassette from playing as I regain my standing and authoritative position. I notice I’ve lost my keys. She waves her finger, “No.” at the stereo and it stops. Apparently a cassette was not playing. She had been to a flea market earlier that day and slapped a merchant so hard that his fillings came out, and he was convinced to give her any of his merchandise for free. She took a liking to a radio that you could use to record voice commands, touch free. In an effort to reinvigorate our sex life, she recorded moans to play and see what my reaction would be, in hopes that I would be furious and therefore show her how much I loved her. What a bitch. “What about the boot? And the cologne?!”, I demand. She says the boot is my boot. It’s the boot I wore when we first met. How could I have forgotten that familiar clench around my ankle? The cologne is actually a bug bomb. Dickworm has been experiencing fleas, and so she decided to take action. I calmly inform her that the chemicals are poisonous to humans too and that we should vacate the premises. She runs into my arms and we lovingly blow into one another’s eyes while trying to keep them open. We made love on top of our roof that night, the sense of danger irrigating her dustbowl to the point of our intercourse turning into an incline slip and slide. We fell asleep to the sound of crickets and the distant crying of our china cabinet. “My babies!”, she whimpered, all night.

We awoke in the morning to rainfall.

It was a heavy rain, which soon turned into a downpour.

The rain drops screamed in terror as they plummeted towards the earth.

I caught one and helped it land to safety.

It still thanks me to this day with post cards.