Meet Bradshaw Rogers.

I made a character some time ago, named him Bradshaw Rogers. He’s 17 years old, spends a lot of time sitting in his room drinking Cherry Cokes, playing Warcraft, looking at 29 second long porno “trailers” via dial-up, while his mother works second shift at the hospital, trying her damnedest to make him a functioning, fatherless man. Here’s a sampling of what he might type up on his Dell Dimension 4600 in a Word document he has been adding to every few days, getting things down on “paper,” following the advice of Cassandra, his mom-appointed therapist:

I found Lucy belly-up this morning. I dropped her in the toilet and just before I flushed it she started swimming around the bowl. It was too late by that point and I just stood there as all the water emptied from the john. I guess I should have thought twice before teaching Ernie to play dead right in front of the fish tank. You never know who’s learning from the things you think you’re teaching someone else. Shit, even I learned something: even though your old dog is too dumb for new tricks doesn’t mean your fish are. Lucy learned that pretending you’re something you’re not can land you in a bigger tank than the one you’re already in. And you have to put up with more shit. Carnival goldfish pet. What a joke. I should have used her as bass bait down the crick.

Oh yeah, so I had a dream I was having sex with my mom. It felt good to be back inside after seventeen years. It was closer to nine seconds than nine months, but what the hey, it was a real spiritual experience. I thank my hormones for the opportunity to schtoop the woman who gave me life. I was real bummed when I woke up though. For one thing I’d been wearing my last clean pair of underwear. What really had me bumming was when I realized it was just a dream. I’m sick, right? Hey, Oedipus bangs his mom and gets a complex named after him. Goes down in the history books. Even gets a play written after him. All I got was a complex hard-on when I had to explain the dream in detail to my female head doctor. No, she doesn’t give me head. She fucks with it. Don’t get me wrong, Cass is real nice, great body and everything, despite all the butts she burns between sessions. I wish I could get her to smoke my pole on those cigarette breaks she has, but she seems to hold ethics up on a higher plane than she does oral sex with seventeen year old nut cases. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. Hey, I’m setting goals for myself – this one just happens to benefit me ten times more than an A on my next chemistry exam will. Considering all the wire-thin bitches she tries to talk into eating a few more burgers between then and the next time they meet, you know, “your mind morphs your body image out of whack, eat something and keep your fingers out of your throat” sort of thing. My fat ass is on the other side of that whole spectrum, but at least when I look in the mirror, I see the reality of the fat blob pouring over husky-style jeans. Seriously though, a shrink who specializes in the malice of food? The internet can get anyone a job nowadays. Too many middle-aged mothers with socially inept teenagers, looking for a fast diagnosis so Mary and Timmy can grow up, earn some bread, and take care of them while they sit at their kitchen tables with their wrinkly backs and saggy tits – sweating out the days till they’re sent to the nursing home.

Yet the finger is still pointed at me. You know why? Because I speak my mind and my mind speaks the truth. For most people, the truth is the last thing they want to enter their ears. Why is the blame dumped on my blubbery lap? Because the world is so conditioned to believe the fabricated bullshit they see on Dawson’s Creek and 7th Heaven that once a down to earth human being such as myself tells them that they would rather wax their dog’s back yearly instead of brushing it twice a week, they flip. We all have messed up thoughts. If they were read before a panel of ten psychiatrists, at least eight would diagnose a cocktail of heavy meds and the other two would suggest solitary confinement in a maximum security federal prison. My gift, my curse, is that I see things and speak things. Who’s gotta cure me? Hey, all fat people are cynics.

Here ends today’s sketchy character sample. Bradshaw shall return.



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