The Divine Comedy

I don’t know why things happened the way they did. They just did. What more can I say? Really need I say more? I mean, your life has to be pretty fucked up if, when recalling it, you begin like I did. What a strange world this is indeed. I guess you could say it started at birth. I was born Timothy Conlon, into a world that was just ready for me. Aside from my grade two teacher misspelling my last name (which led to my old alias of "Thin Colon") the world has been generally accepting of my existence. My dad, divorced, is a business playmate. That is, he fucks a lot of hot pussy and gets away with it responsibility-free. Well…maybe until I showed up. I love my mother. But she’s a human. Like the rest of us. Flawed and imperfect. Need I say more? Let’s sum this up quickly. My mother married Guy number one, who, for all intensive purposes, we’re going to call 'the prick asshole five thousand'. They had two children. My eldest step brother Dave, who’s currently broke and ranked fourth in the world for downhill mountain biking. And my older step sister Laura, beautiful, sensible, gifted, blessed Laura. Sigh. The WASP dream with a little more cocaine and premarital sex. My mother then moved onto my dad. They had a fling, I guess you could say. One of those “engagements” where you have everything really planned. But post sex is always so full of hassles and they never got around to it. It was broken off, divorced, remarried. It gets better. Better better better. Enter Ricky. Oh dear Ricky. The saddest excuse for a human being I’ve ever met. Ricky was white and trash. He and his two delightful, intelligent, incestuous children were introduced to me at the stable and popular age of 14. What can I say about Ricky? Douchebag. But it gets better. In my hopeful years of timeless dream as a teenager I pursued an extremely short lived attempt at the acting world. My mother, being the saint that she is, decided almost as decisively as I did, to pack up and become an illegal immigrant in America to pursue my acting career on the base of my, as we now know, pedophile talent agent. California went down rather smoothly. Mother and son move into shitty apartment and hotels living under the table while Johnny two-shoes over here tried to stick his finger up my butt. Where was I? Oh yeah, fuckville. So nevertheless, one day we just decided to leave. And when I mean leave, I mean leave. We sold our furniture in a day (in order not to arose suspicion with our intellectually-gifted landlord) and the next day we ran like a group of Mexicans from assimilation. During this time Ricky, in his cunning genius, wasn’t back home watching the house where we thought he was, no, he was right here, in fuckville with us. He had the calls forwarded to his cult commune so it wouldn’t raise suspicion. His half excused attempts at creation were living in the farm that used to be called my home. When we got back we found the house raped, Ricky disappeared and quite cleverly all of my mother’s and my possessions systematically “relocated” to the pawn shop. I don’t think she ever recovered. This marks my separation from reality. My dad, on the other hand, went in the extreme opposite direction. From railing lines of coke off the clits of some young asian girl to whipped and socially trained in a frightfully domesticated household with the bride of Martha Stewart. That’s right. If Martha Stewart were to become a transsexual lesbian, hopped up on some form of constant hallucinogenic and sent out into the world with a fresh cup of coffee and a 8 inch hard boner – that was my new step mom, or at least…that’s what I thought. My new step brother, just another list in a long line of fake relatives outlining a life that I never truly had, was more than a brat. You know when your small and in school and that one kid in the class that just has everything slightly better than everyone else? Not only does he already have the leg up, but he enjoys informing you of his advantage almost every day, hour, breath, fart. And by god did he fart. That little fucker farted more and worse than a donkey on some sort of laxative. I mean, I swear, every time that fuckhead ripped wind through the wall I thought he shit himself. And not just “oh shit, the turtle rubbed the white lining” I mean “Captain! Report to the bridge, there’s been an explosion of some green mushy substance!” Where was I? Ah yes, my father’s new fate. Tina was her name, well Christina, but I think she went by ‘Tina’ because it was ‘new age’ and less threatening. She was ugly. Both in and out. At least I thought so. Don’t try and tell me some bullshit about you loving me like your own son, c’mon, we know the rules, and even at twelve years old, when we were first introduced, I smelt the shit on her breath. This bitch talked more bullshit than the Grand Dragon. Let’s just make this simple and easy, this person actually knew nothing but talked like someone with a doctorate - provided by CSI and House. A product of the American Dream translated via television for our enjoyment internationally.

My families were nothing short of stereotypical for their individual and unique genres. We have the first family. I guess normal, despite their handicaps, the second was its own comedy, but the third, she was the warden, I was Clint Eastwood and Smallcity, our city, was Alcatraz. Let me explain our setting. Smallcity was just that, a small fucking city. Everyone knew everyone, which made the warden’s job very easy. You see, she knew everything, in one way or another. And like a typical white person, she wanted me to indirectly know that she knew everything. A standard conversation went down like this. “Timothy” ‘yes Tina’, “I was shopping the other day talking with my friend Sally, you remember Sally don’t you?” ‘Sally…Sally…is she the one with the cellulite on her face?’ “No that’s Kathy, Sally has red hair” ‘oh, I see…continue’ “Anyways, we were just talking about the Church community and some possible fun events that could be done when she mentioned that she saw you walk into the" she paused, I knew where she was talking about, But I thought I'd let her struggle, "marriage-yu-wana store on main street” ‘Oh yea?’ “Yes. I was wondering if you could explain yourself to me?”. Let’s take a minute to reflect on what has happened here. The normal response should be as follows: “Actually, I’m 20 years old, I don’t even really live here. I don’t owe you anything. So fuck your hole with your explanation.” But…let’s not forget where we are. We are in Alcatraz, and I, I am this fat bitch’s play thing - soaped up, bent over, with a virgin asshole that she’s been dying to ass-fuck the moment I walked into the joint. What a sick, unfair and kinky world we live in. But there’s an easier way to handle this situation. Despite this woman’s clear information base on narcotics, she was definitely an intelligent person. Usually if you use more than two words that have three or more syllables, she would just kind of nod and agree with you. So my response was such: ‘Marijuana? No…I can’t say I’ve ever been in a store that specializes in illegal substances. But, I have recently visited the cannabis horticulture shop present within this fine community. I went in there for the true testament of Canadian ingenuity when faced with circumscription and interdiction in such great and just society. Perhaps she is confusing this store with one that emphasis improper and irresponsible use of the fine substance known to the public as hemp”. ‘Oh, well, I’ll let Sally know that she misunderstood the nature of your shopping experience. Thanks a bunch hun, I’m going to go out to the store, and remember…I love you’. I’m no genius. But I’d say, the actual probability of this ape truly loving me is about as realistic and plausible as me shitting out a fucking building. “ I love you to” which is laymen for: ‘get the fuck out and wax your moustache’. Where was I before all this? Ah yes. I don’t want to mislead you. I am not, by any definition a scholar. I do, however, look up a few words every night to keep her on her toes and out of my nicely done hair. Onto my actual life. It’s very simple right now. It consists of pussy and pot. My two favourite P’s. Here’s a standard day. I wake up, usually at my friend’s shit ghetto hole in the ground which my team of junkies and nerds currently reside. Before I continue I'll introduce you to my team. There's George, Henry, Mark and Pete. George was the athlete. You name it he was good at it. Not only that, but he would kick your ass. You know those people where you compete and loose, but loose in a way where there is still room for both emotional and physical development? This was not George. George liked to kick your fucking ass. 12 nothing, 100-4, it didn't matter. Your ass belonged to him if there was a net involved. Other than that? George was a very simple person. He liked being 'the Man'. And by 'the Man' I mean He-man. This guy would do things just to prove that he could. I once watched him consume his entire Liquor cabinet because I told him I could smoke my ounce faster. I knew he'd win, but I just wanted to see him do it. George was a people person, incredibly strong but more than weak emotionally. You see, George was such a barbarian that every time something bad happened, he didn't know how to deal with it. Which make him a like a time bomb. The only real difference is, that because he was George, the time bomb was more like a can of "Fuck up everything in sight beyond recognition". This made George the most dangerous out of all of us. My next team mate and I came from exact and complete opposites. His family was one of those 'happy families' on tv. An oak tree that forged all that was good in their blood into one orgasm named Henry. He was beyond intelligent. A super-nerd. Except he didn't look like it. Henry looked more like some weird gay male pop star from Portugal. I mean, what the fuck was his problem? He had the intelligence and appearance to do almost anything...at least I figured if I had what he had I could do anything. But there was something off about Henry - Like those people who are on the street humping the walls and running into parked cars. He over analyzed and was paranoid. Which made him as unpredictable as the true relationship of Burt and Ernie. Pete was different from all the others. We shared similar hobbies, mostly working on our automotive

property, but Pete was never close with the rest of the boys. He lived a more isolated and controlled life. One not fully ruled by substance and abuse like the rest of us. Pete was his own person. And for that I respected him. Finally, my good and misunderstood friend Mark. Aside from being labelled as 'the gay one', Mark probably had the best ideas out of all of us. Mark was an art person. Which means he was lazy. He didn't like doing anything except "expressing himself". I shared this philosophy. Except my way of expressing myself was shooting several million organisms down the throat of some poor, unsuspecting female. Where was I? Ah yes, Mark. Mark was my psychiatrist. He was an excellent listener and a great bringer of foreign perspective, despite his racial handicap. And that was us. 'The Core' as we called it. A superhero name given to mediocrity at its best. But let's return to my daily routine. My day begins like this: I smoke a bowl. Not any bowl. I bowl from the dragon, our three foot bong nothing wakes me up like blueberry in my cup. I walked to school with George. We discussed the blueprints and design for a new inhalation device that we had been working on. A smoke later I would enter class, probably stupendously retarded by this point, and sit and soak up all of the knowledge around me. Which, if you had ever been to college, was about as dense as a barren tree withstanding the cold winds screaming the "forceful entrance of the corporate penis into my naive eye socket". I'd leave my class and find Becky, my fuck buddy, or "occasional girlfriend" as she called it. We would very casually walk into my suite, which was also known as the second floor staff washroom, where I would encourage dear Becky to administer fellatio until her eyes went red. That was my routine, throw in the odd party, coke head friends and several drugs. This was definitely the life my dear friends. That is, until my scarring happened.