Vasectomy Performed on a Roller Coaster

Kent Coleman owned a collection of fiberglass toy-factory legs. He stole every single one. Smuggled them beyond the factory grounds under his voluminous brown sarape. Kent Coleman bore a striking likeness to actor Judd Hirsch. It was this uncanny resemblance that allowed him to get away with his pathological larceny. No one would suspect a celebrity of his stature of thievery.  

Kent Coleman dreamed of blasting bleach into the nighttime sky. Oxidize and brighten all the dark matter he heard was hanging up there. It was merely a matter of molecules. Kent Coleman hated molecules. Their existence ate away at him like a lion on a defeated zebra. Like mud flaps knitted with cilia shaved from the open throats of science fiction enthusiasts. Kent Coleman hated enthusiasts of any kind. He once learned about a big convention for fans of the first “Darrin” from the 60’s sitcom Bewitched and Coleman wanted to bomb the convention center. Blow all those ridiculous “Dick Yorkies” to smithereens.  

Kent Coleman and his wife Meg Coleman met at a GG Allin show in 1988 and now they had grandchildren. At that fateful, romantic show they both caught fecal spatter sprayed from the stage and bolted from the venue, meeting on the street and finding out they had a lot in common. It was like love at first sight. Kent Coleman found a newspaper in a public trash receptacle and he ripped it in half and handed her the other piece. They spent the next ten minutes wiping spatters of shit from their clothes.

Once done grooming, Meg folded the shit-stained paper and slipped it into her purse.

Kent Coleman said, “You’re keeping it?”

“Sure. It’s a souvenir. A memento of tonight. Maybe it’ll be worth money when GG finally dies.”

Kent Coleman nodded. “Yeah. Which should be any day now.” 

GG Allin died of a drug overdose on June 28, 1993. Kent wasn’t even close.

Neither was GG.

Nowadays Meg Coleman raised American dog ticks and wore them like jewelry. She’d attach a living tick to the outside of her nostril, above her eyebrow or under her bottom lip and let it gorge on her blood until—bloated, sated and purple—it dropped off. The ticks made Meg Coleman weak and feverish which was her favorite way to feel. She loved it when people noticed the engorged parasites on her face. She’d always hated it when people smiled at her or seemed glad to see her. She preferred it when they looked aghast at her. It brought her a calming satisfaction. It gave a modicum of equilibrium to the tilted world.   

Meg Coleman was an unruly peach. Kent Coleman loved her anyway. She saw something in him too.

Just what she saw in him, he had no idea. Kent Coleman was born in Omaha, Nebraska. It was his only attribute that mattered. Omaha was famous for steak. And so was he. 

When he was 18, Kent Coleman had played bass in a thrash band called Tetanus Shot Fuck. They disbanded after three months. He never got a chance to use his status as a musician to get laid.

Now Kent Coleman worked the grill at a steakhouse called Hyde’s Big Grille. He cooked, on average, around two-hundred steaks per night. He was an old man lately and the stress of his position was hard on his heart. His doctor explained that his heart was like a mollusk dipped in drawn butter. He was told to avoid caffeine and strenuous activity. “Let your chest pains be your guide,” his doctor said. But Kent Coleman couldn’t just up and quit his job. He had a mouth to feed (his own).

Meg Coleman was in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on a papier-mâché bust of her husband. She’d made dozens of them. She made all the busts smile and wink, two things Kent Coleman rarely did. “They give me the friendly acknowledgement that you don’t,” she told him when asked to explain the busts.

“I withhold nothing from you. Except affection and support,” he said.

“Cheez Whiz, thanks a lot.”

“Speaking of Romanian politics, the other day I was reading this article about—.“

“Grr! You’re insufferable,” she said and stormed out of the kitchen. 

He folded his arms, gazing at the smiling, winking replicas of his head.

“Well, pucker my butt,” he muttered to them.

Meanwhile, six years ago, Meg Coleman was asked to leave an Italian restaurant called Reggio Mantleo. The management was concerned that the four engorged ticks clinging to her face were a health-code violation. 

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to leave the premises, ma’am,” said the manager. He had the sort of mustache he could twirl but he did not. He probably knew how it would look.

“But I didn’t do nothing!” she cried. “Alls I wanted was a veal parmesan!”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m afraid for safety reasons that the parasitic vermin on your face cannot remain in this restaurant. And frankly, some of the customers have complained that your appearance is disturbing and it’s causing them to lose their appetites.” 

“Well la-dee-da, Mr. Funnybones.”

“Ma’am? Please…”

“Yeah yeah, I’m leaving,” Meg said and she stood up, grew woozy, and then collapsed on the soft, quiet carpet. An ambulance was summoned and she was diagnosed with lyme disease, anaplasmosis, ehrlichiosis, and Rocky Mountain spotted fever. 

Kent Coleman didn’t visit her in the hospital but he sent her a dozen chocolate-covered gladiolas. 

It was the last romantic gesture he ever made but Meg never divorced him, even after all these years.