Testiculosis, Parts One Through Five

So I had the idea of doing writing exercises where I write the story as I think of it, nothing pre-planned, submitted as first draft with no edits. Scratch that, I fixed some typos. I ended up with a character that I can use to be as vulgar and offensive as I wanted with, and still play the "it's not me, it's the character doing those things!" card. So here's what I've come up with so far. The first part is kinda sketchy as I hadn't realized where I was going with it yet, but after that it hits its stride. I busted out laughing hysterically many times writing this story, so I hope the reader gets half the enjoyment from reading it as I did writing it.

I don't know how long I'll continue this story, but for a while longer certainly.

Also, remember that this story has only had the advantage of spell checking, I've done no further editing than that and have already found most of the errors, and have no intention of correcting them, so leave stuff like that out of your reviews please.

Part One: My Wife Is A Baby Fountain

"There's no easy way to say this, Mr. Hotchkins. You have testiculosis."

The gravity of it almost caused my chest to inhale itself thinly.

"Testiculosis? Are you sure??" I cried.

"All the tests came back positive. Your sperm count, your hip gyration cumalnucation, even your Pissman's Mustard levels. they're all through the roof. I'm sorry."

My head swam with emotional turmoil and pain, also I think I had a cold so that too. I thought about my dear wife and all the unwanted children we were going to have. We had both agreed to never have them, because we fucking HATE little kids, and now it seemed we were doomed to have them all.

"Is there any way to reverse it, doctor?"

"I'm afraid not. The only way to avoid having children now is to... stop plugging your wife."

"Lol. You know that's not possible."

"Yes, I'm aware you're married to Beyoncé, the sweetest piece of ebony booty ever to walk the earth, but listen - can you hear it? The crying? The whining? 'Oh, daddy, can I have some milk?'"

The doctor said this last part in a high pitched, irritating tone that parodied a real child's stupid voice.

"You know testiculosis bypasses all known forms of birth control. You'd be father to one hundred babies by next year!"

I stood. "If that's the cost of continuing to bang my black goddess on a nightly basis, then it's the price I'll pay!"

"You're a madman!"

"Maybe. But at least I have a face."

I pulled a shotgun out of my asshole and blasted the doctor's skull across the room.

"I'll be back," I said in my best Terminator impression, though that was a lie. I never returned to that dank pit of death, except for two minutes later when I realized I forgot my wax Tiki idol in there. Man, I'd have been screwed without that.

Part Two: I Am The Best Father Ever

A year has passed since that dark incident with the doctor. He kind of over-estimated how many kids I'd have, I don't think he realized that once you're pregnant, you can't get pregnant again. I don't know where he got his degree in psychology, but it doesn't matter now, he's a faceless corpse and I'm the father of a three-month old son.

I live in a mansion with my gorgeous wife, a garage filled with exotic cars and Faygo soda dispensers, an indoor pool and did I mention the Faygo? God I love Faygo. Juggalo 4 Lyf.

I awoke this morning to see my son crawling about out in the hallway. I shook my wife, Beyoncé, that really hot hip hop artist, awake, and after she awoke, I kept shaking her. She broke free of my grasp when she heard the baby doing that really fucking annoying thing babies do - cray? Cree? Something like that. She rushed out of bed and out the door, singing our child's name in a voice that was somehow autotuned. Oh, my son's name is Obliterator by the way. When I was twelve my dad took me to this fucking awesome monster truck show and the biggest, fastest one there was called Obliterator, and I thought to myself, Self, if you ever have a son, you're going to name him Obliterator Jackson. And I did. Beyoncé didn't like it at first, but then I shook her some and she came around.

I raced out of bed and after the two, but then I was distracted by this kick ass Katana that my hot fucking wife bought for me. It was really sharp, so I took it out of its sheathe and started swinging it around aimlessly. I walked out into the hallway like this, completely engrossed in the art of pretending to be a ninja, and walked right into my bent over wife.

"While you're down there," I said with a smirk, still swinging the katana.

"Put that thing away, Roger! You're going to slice our precious baby in half!"

"Pfft, yeah, right, like I'd be that stupid," I said, swinging the blade towards the baby. I stopped about three inches away from it's dumb face, then continued swinging the blade all around it.

"See? I'm not even close."

"Yeah... I guess I over-rea - OW."

"Oh, shit, did I getcha? Ha ha, darn thing has a mind of its own," I said, laughing kind-heartedly.

"Oh, Roger, how could I stay mad at you?" she said, and planted a kiss on my cheek. I dropped the katana and started shaking her again, for no reason.

Part Three: Learning 2 Read

I face-planted into the eggs, bacon and pancakes that my super-fine wife cooked up while my stupid son looked on, seemingly amused in his high chair. I looked at him angrily.

"OH, YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY!?" I screamed through a mouth full of food, spraying sticky particles all over the table. My face was smeared with maple syrup.

The rotten little fuck was enjoying this! I put on my shaking apron and lunged for him, but then logic won out over fury. I realized that in these formative years, I could mold my son into anything I desired. Preferably something that made me a lot of money, like an astronaut or a librarian. Librarians make a lot of money, right?

I sat back down, keeping the apron on just in case, and resumed eating.

My hot, rich wife that I bang every night sat down at the table.

"Honey," she said. I could already tell where this was going. She was going to ask if she could use some of the billions of dollars that she grossed annually to buy some groceries. Good thing I left my shaking apron on.

- "One of us needs to start teaching our son how to read."

I looked at her like she was the stupidest fucking dumbass in the world, which she was. "One of us? You have five seconds to rephrase that before I get shaky."

"Well, someone has to earn the literally insane amount of money that I earn, which is me. You're the one with all the free time."

She had a point. And besides all that, I could use this opportunity to mold him in my image.

"Alright, I'll do it. Under one condition."

"And what's that?"

"I want Roger Rabbit at my next birthday party. And not some alcoholic in a bunny suit, the REAL Roger Rabbit. I'll know if he's a fake and then it's shaking time."

"Okay, honey. I love you."

"Roger Rabbit..." I said, thinking about how fuckin cool my next birthday party was gonna be.

Part Four: Lesson One, Being A Warlord

After breakfast I ransacked the library for my copy of Sun Tsu's The Art Of War. My son had a lot of studying to do if he was going to be the brutal overlord of Earth who was secretly puppeteered by his megalomaniacal father. Did I say astronaut before? Fuck that shit, Gravity sucked.

I found the book and power walked into the living room, where my son sat on the floor, playing with some stupid toy. I kicked it out of his hands and sat down in front of him. He started doing that thing again, really loud this time.

"WOMAN!" I yelled. "SHUT UP THE BABY!"

Beyoncé, whom I was married to and fucked every night, came rushing into the room with a bottle of chocolate milk. She held it in front of Obliterator Jackson and he immediately shut the fuck up and started drinking.

"Okay, now go away for a long time."

"Okay, honey. I'm going to the store for some groceries."

My hands started shaking involuntarily, but I controlled the urge. I had bigger priorities right now.

"I want Go-Gurt," I said. "The pink kind."

"Okay, honey. I'll see you in a bit. I love y -"

"Leave. Now."

She walked out without another word. I watched that fine booty wobble to and fro until she was out the door, then splayed the book out in front of Obliterator and I.

"Okay, 'son'", I said, making the quotation marks with my fingers, "Today you're going to learn about diverting the enemy's attention from his rear formation with a reverse fish-hook maneuver. Pay attention."

Obliterator looked down at the book, sucking on his bottle. God, how was I ever going to teach this retard about the art of war? He was so stupid he didn't even know how to use a toilet, he just went in his pants! Granted I do that too, but only when I have a 12-kill streak on Call of Duty: Black Ops 2, THE BEST GAME EVER, and can't hold it any longer.

"Okay, Obliterator, now, see this auxiliary platoon here? This squad swings towards the frontal axis and..."

Obliterator was looking off in another direction. I snapped my fingers in front of his face.

"Hey, dummy! You wanna rule the world with a savage fist one day? Then pay attention."

He seemed to get the picture and refocused his attention.

"Okay, so, when the enemy's rear lance sees your - HEY YOU LITTLE SHIT LOOK AT ME!"

He was staring at something again. I followed his gaze and saw what had transfixed him. It was my XBox 360 Super Elite Pro Prestige Edition. I looked at my son with renewed hope.

"So you wanna learn the fast way, huh? Okay, but you're player two."

I powered it up and sat a controller in front of him. "You know how to play, right?"

He looked at me smugly.

"Alright, just checking."

And thus began the most humiliating defeat of my Call of Duty career.

Part Five: Way Of The Sword

"YOU FUCKING HACKER! MY WIFE PAYS FOR XBOX LIVE ULTRA PRO GOLD WHICH MEANS I'M THE BEST AND YOU MUST BE HACKING!" I screamed at full capacity, directly into my son's face. Veins stood out on my forehead and my face was beat red.

Just then, Beyoncé, this really hot, ultra-rich singer that I'm married to came through the door with an arm load of groceries. I look at her through a haze of red and shoved an accusing finger into my son's face.

"HE'S HACKING, BEYONCÉ! REPORT HIM!"

"He's three months old. He doesn't even understand the concept of walking. What makes you think he'd know how to hack," she said, setting bags on the table.

My anger overflowed. I needed to shake something, now, or risk internal meltdown. But at this level of pure rage, I would risk shaking my billionaire wife to death, and my son into pieces. So I grabbed the next best thing - my XBox. I raised it over my head and shook it as violently as I could manage, loosing my most intimidating war cry. Obliterator clapped and giggled, Beyoncé just looked on blandly, then started putting groceries away.

Eventually the red cleared from my vision and I could think clearly. I dropped the ruined husk of my gaming system onto the carpet and looked at my son, who was having a great time watching me rage quit.

"So... the student has surpassed the master," I said disgustedly. "Well, you know what they say - there can be only one!"

I ran girlishly to the weapon racks and pulled two Scottish claymores off of it. I tossed one to Obliterator. It landed with a dull thud on the carpet in front of the couch.

"Back yard at dusk. Be there, or forfeit your title as champion."

I displayed my great sword skills, swinging the claymore awkwardly around and smashing several chairs and tables. Then I locked eyes with Obliterator.

"We shall see... who is... the strongest!" I proclaimed, then dramatically exited the room.

I waited in the next room over for several minutes, then sneakily peeked around the corner. Obliterator was sleeping peacefully, the claymore untouched.

I ran gleefully over to him, getting right up in his face.

"COWARD!!" I screamed, "YOU ARE UNWORTHY!"

He woke up and started making loud, annoying sounds. I grabbed the bottle beside him and shoved it in his mouth, the wrong way. He choked a couple times, then I realized that milk can't travel through hard plastic, it has to have some sort of... hole to get through. I reversed the bottle and the baby calmed down and seemed to nod off again.

"Now... I am the learner."

author's note: i do not endorse, condone or recommend any of the protagonist's actions, dialogue or thoughts. don't shake women, it's bad.