The Amazing and Somewhat Sarcastic Tad

The Amazing and Somewhat Sarcastic Tad

by Tim Toterhi

Smashwords Edition

Names, characters, places, and incidents are either used fictitiously or the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental. There is no implied endorsements, any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used for reference.

In loving memory of my dear friend, Bob. Not that I know anybody named Bob mind you, but if I did, and he died, I'd probably write a silly book and dedicate it to his loving memory.

PROLOGUE – May 1988

Okay, here’s the deal. My name is Tad, but you can call me The Amazing and Somewhat Sarcastic Tad. I initially planned to abuse the power of authorship by spouting a mindless string of controversial obscenities like: religion is a social evil. Politicians suck the sweat off a dead gorilla’s balls. And, some of the more stringent mandatory qualifications of a lunchroom monitor are that they be hairy, homely, and highly hefty.

Such statements would indubitably piss off the part of the population that likes to be soundly sleeping by 9:30. Now I love controversy as much as the next guy on the talk show stage. Unfortunately, controversy leads to hate mail. And though I enjoy receiving creative literature from the straight and narrow folk, I can’t stand the guilt arising from leaving such correspondence unanswered. So, in the spirit of the Do Nothing Generation, I’ll play nice and spare myself some poetic obscenities from the mostly miserable masses.

Just so you know, this book is so incredibly cool that once you finish you’re gonna want to buy me lunch and ask me over to meet your mother. I realize this is a bold thing to say considering this is only the two hundred and tenth word. But hey, it’s a fact-wrapped truth with an accurate, nougat-like center of verifiable authenticity.

Anyway, because this book is so monumentally cool, I don’t want just any Rent-a-Nerd reading it. Therefore, I have prepared the following, Yo, you can’t read this because you are a loser and I don’t like you list.

If you’re a Yuppie, you can’t read this book. If you wear a suit every day or don’t own a pair of sneakers, you can’t read this book. If you sell anything door to door or pass out religious literature, you can’t read this book. If you’re mentally over thirty, go grab a copy of War and Peace. If you’re illiterate, you can’t read this book.

Wait a minute. That was cold. I take it back. Let’s continue.

If you’re one of those girls who pretends to be the easiest lay since the Material Girl and then makes a guy wait four months before he gets any, you can’t read this book. If you’re the kind of guy who waited for that girl, then ah...beat it. If you’re into politics, religion, Save-the-Whales nonsense, or any other system-oriented affair, scram. If you constantly bitch about racism, sexism, ageism, or any other ism, calm down and go have a cream soda. If you’re one of those immoral individuals on late-night TV who tell the moronic masses they can buy the world for no money down, you’re a dildo with wings. If you’re a sex-craved preacher, a crooked cop, or a crime figure of any sort, you should have your Charmin toilet tissue secretly replaced with a nice box of Brillo pads and no, you can’t read this book. Finally, if you’re a stupid person, you know, the kind who drives forty-five miles per hour in the left lane of a highway with his right turn signal on, you should merge slowly into the abyss of despair and no, you cannot read my amazing book.

Ah! I feel better. Don’t you? I realize it’s going to be an intimate audience now that I’ve asked all the posers to go shit in their hats. But I could do with a little intimacy in this cold, calculating, corporate-obsessed existence. So I invite you remaining idealistically inclined individuals to join me as we embark on this wonderful, mostly true, somewhat sarcastic, slightly sad, but all in all fantastic story.

Our destination will allow you to once again view the world through the optimistic eyes of a child. It’s the place you loved, laughed, played, pondered, and slept through the night without waking up in a cold sweat wondering if your parents lied when they said everything was going to be all right. This is the place I want to show you. This is the place I hope we find as we travel through this mental monstrosity I’ve created. I say hope because I’m directionally impaired and will likely get lost.

Our guides will be six recent high school graduates. We’ll track them through a week’s worth of happiness, hardships, and wonder. We’ll help them overcome conflicts with themselves, each other, a few spirit-like substances, and a bunch of double-crossing mobsters.

You’re probably asking yourself what mobsters have to do with a story about growing up and the development of your personal philosophy? Well, the truth is, nothing at all. But damn it, this is my book and I happen to dig mobsters. So if I want to bullshit about a guy named Vito Devito for a while, I’m gonna do it. As long as I reach my point I don’t see the big deal so just relax and get ready for the world’s greatest, almost-true story.

Oh, by the way, the reason I know so much about the whole thing is because I am one of the six teenagers. It’s just lucky for you that with drugs out of style and sex hard to come by, I’ve got nothing better to do than sit here, munch on some pathetically processed fast-food beef, and type. So buckle up, folks. It’s time to get rolling.

CHAPTER 1

As the cool water chased the humidity from my bones, I casually reflected on my complete and unyielding hatred of warmer climates. Yes, summer sucks. I was never too fond of winter either, but summer definitely slobbers the one-eyed sea serpent.

What could God(?) be thinking? Does He like watching people with Jerri-Curls burst into flames while walking down the street? Or is it the joy of seeing me take my sunglasses off the dash of my wickedly cool 1980 Monte Carlo and have them shear to the top of my skull while I scream a variety of imaginative obscenities? I don’t get it. And how can a stream of wonderfully tanned Floridians whiz by happily on their radical skateboards while this displaced New Yorker cringes at the thought of leaving his air-conditioned bedroom?

I know, you probably think I’m being a wimp and that I’ll eventually get used to the weather. Well sorry, buddy, you’re way off. I’ve been living here for two years and I still believe that Tampa summers are one of Mother Nature’s more elaborate bad jokes.

So before we go on, let’s get something straight. I’m the one telling the story and I don’t need you second guessing everything I say, rating my jokes, or analyzing the deep statements I’m going to make in upcoming chapters. If you desperately need to do so, please close the book so I don’t hear you because it really pisses me off. Oh, and another thing, don’t read the last page because it has an exceptionally cool ending and I don’t want you to spoil it. Got me? Cool beans, baby.

Life should be air-conditioned. The environment is going to hell anyway, so why not throw a dome around the planet and live out our lasting years in comfort? Okay, I’ll admit it’s not the greatest idea, but heat makes me crazy. Just be thankful I’m not analyzing Earth’s mysteries. Like why do they pronounce Rolodex roll-a-desk if it doesn’t roll? If you think about it, when you’re looking for a number in a Rolodex you spin it, so shouldn’t they say spin-a-desk?

I turned off the shower and questioned my sanity. I always knew I was weird, but lately I was talking to myself for no apparent reason and I had begun to question everything that was once an apparent truth.

Is there a God(?)? Will I become a productive member of society? And why do croutons have an expiration date? Let’s face it; we are talking about stale bread. And if that’s not bad enough, they come in a stay-fresh pouch. I mean seriously.

I think I need professional help. People say that an eighteenth birthday is a stressful time, but they never say when the stress will end. Suddenly I find myself finished with over twelve years of totally worthless education and faced with the monstrous dilemma of which totally worthlesser college to spend all my beloved cash on.

(I am completely aware of course that worthlesser is not a word. However, I, The Amazing and Somewhat Sarcastic Tad, believe that it should be. Therefore, as a direct insult to every English teacher who ever ripped on, snapped upon, dissed in the highest, or otherwise cast a royal aspersion at my handwriting; I declare, in a rather arrogant tone of voice, that from this moment forward the word worthlesser, as well as any other grammatically incorrect, but otherwise incredibly useful adjective I choose to grace with my presence, will be perfectly acceptable in this book, any of your high school term papers, or those incredibly boring What I Did on My Summer Vacation essays.

Please note the last sentence ran on like a man with his balls aflame solely to add insult to injury. And what the hell, as long as you’re noting things, all non-homeboys please be advised that the above-mentioned snapped, dissed, jousted, etc. are congruent in denotative form to the phrase, a few slang words for severely screwing up someone’s personal schemata via various derogatory comments.)

Anyway, if you think my educational predicament is pathetic, realize that most of America’s graduates haven’t got the slightest idea as to what is going on in the world, and are probably no more prepared to deal with life than when they left grammar school. Come to think of it, I didn’t want to leave. I liked it there. I didn’t have to worry about being cool, impressing girls, or the latest income tax laws. Life was simple and dreams were possible. I could become famous and little Tyrone could become President. Yup, the world was roses and it would remain so as long as I kept watching Bugs Bunny instead of the six o’clock news.

I grabbed a towel, dotted the water from my eyes, and stepped to the bathmat. I tried in earnest to turn off my brain, but failed. It was morning and I always get verbally and mentally irregular in the morning. And so I rambled on, words dropping from my mouth like candy from a piñata.

Sometimes I think I’m a psychomaniac. Then I think I’d like to be a psychomaniac so I’d have an excuse to go to a psychiatrist. It’s not that I’m for real crazy or anything. It’s just that I’d like to be able to lay on one of those comfy couches and bullshit like a madman about anything I want without having to worry about what the listener thinks of me. I’m sure the shrink wouldn’t know much more about the cause of my concerns than anyone else, but at least he’d be okay with listening. There has to be tons of people nuttier than me out there.

Actually, I secretly hope that if I ever got the courage to go to a psychiatrist he’d think my life was kind of boring and fall asleep while I was yakking away. That would be great. You know you’re sane if your shrink starts snoring in the middle of your bitch session. It’s when the guy’s on the edge of his seat that you’re really screwed. It’s like when you get in a car wreck and the ER doctor barfs after looking at your mangled body. Call me crazy, but I’d welcome the reassurance. Maybe one of my friends could get me a gift certificate for a free counseling session. Kinda like a back rub for the subconscious. Only now that I think about it, I bet the doctor would make up tons of weird shit just to keep me coming back. Money-grubbing bastards, they’re worse than lawyers.

Sufficiently dry, I tossed the towel to the hamper and heard an imaginary swish as if I made the winning three-pointer in an NBA final. The sound lingered and brought a moment of clarity. I suddenly understood the cause of my confusion. I was growing up fast, faster than I wanted to, and I was scared. I wouldn’t mind becoming an adult as long as I could hold on to myself in the process. Something told me the answers weren’t far off, but I wasn’t prepared to deal with the questions at the moment. In life there’s always a to do list, always an excuse. Today’s was a trip. We’d planned it for months and I had to be at my friend Pete’s house in an hour.

He rented the place a couple of months ago after going a few rounds with his old man. Pete was kinda prudish with the details, but the gist is, he told his pop he’d prefer a rusty rectal probe to a career as an army officer. The move settled things for the short term, but the two would have to have a serious sit-down or the old guy would try to run his life forever. I felt sorry for the Luke Skywalker-type hardship he would eventually encounter, but couldn’t afford to dwell on it, so I cleared my head and began my bathroom ritual.

I combed my hair and brushed my teeth with this nasty brand of toothpaste that tasted more like battery acid than winter-fresh gel. I’m all for good oral hygiene, but do they have to make mouthwash that brings tears to your eyes?

In any event, I spat the stuff out and.… Wait a minute, there’s no way I’m going to have the word spat in my book. I mean that has to be the wimpiest word in the universe. Can’t you just picture some bearded old Jewish lady saying, Murray, Murray, you just spat all over the whitefish. In light of this, I’ll say, I spit or rather, I had, hocked an incredibly green and somewhat slimy loogie into the sink.

Anyway, I wiped the foam off the corner of my mouth, did a few muscle man posses in front of the mirror, and decided that I looked more like Pee-Wee Herman on steroids than Conan the Barbarian. I knew I could stand to gain a few pounds, but it was harder than it seemed.

You see, fat people don’t understand. They think losing weight is harder than gaining it, which is completely false and utterly moronic. Look at it this way: Did you ever lose your keys? Now what was harder, losing them or finding them? Why, finding them of course, and this proves my philosophy that in general it is much easier to lose something than to gain it. What? You’re not convinced. Then look at it in the context of money. What is more difficult, working to gain a five spot, or spending that same fin at the nearest fast food joint? I rest my case!

But wait, you say, I’ve found a hole in that theory, Mr. Amazing One. I’m sure it’s more difficult to get rid of a cold than to catch one.

Well, you’re absolutely wrong. You see, before you contract the illness, your body is fighting incredibly hard not to get it. However, these diseases are generally more physically able than the beer-guzzling masses and thus, following a not-so-gallant struggle, the body loses and Mr. Disease enters our domain.

Unfortunately for him and increasingly more fortunate for us, once he’s inside he has to confront Mother Nature, who by the way is getting quite annoyed with her lack of press. She is often pissed off at the overabundance of corrupt blood-sucking doctors in the world and slowly (without any help from the above-mentioned beer guzzlers) heals the body before the medical community can extract the poor slob’s financial fluid. But I digress.

Where was I? Oh yes, I was talking about the abstract possibility of me one day looking like I actually went through puberty. It’s just not in the cards I guess. I mean, last year I worked out for over nine months, ate all kinds of overpriced health food, and only managed to gain two pounds, which by the way were lost after the flu season.

A friend suggested steroids, but I felt that I looked good enough at five feet nine inches tall, and one hundred and forty-five pounds. Besides, steroids are for stupid Guidolopiouses (Guido-lo-pi-ouses) that have the intellectual capacity of Cheez Whiz. I don’t understand it. They go on steroids to get huge and attract the girls, but by the time they do, Mr. Penis wants to hibernate. It kind of defeats the purpose. Don’t you think?

Oh wait a minute, how utterly rude and otherwise uncool of me. I forgot that the greater portion of the reading audience has probably never seen a Guidolopious. Let me explain. Guidolopiouses are Italian, New York-based, child-like barbarians. Typically named Vito or Tony, these gold-garnished Goliaths have huge attitudes and no hair whatsoever on the sides of their Cro-Magnon-like craniums. They generally travel by Mustang convertible or IROC Z-28 that they purchased by either working construction or beating up on guys like me and taking their lunch money. I hate these muscle-bound manifestations of some genetic experiment gone astray. However, I must admit that I am often overcome with the desire to mount their shapely, mindless Guidette girlfriends and sing old game show tunes while celebrating the moments of my life. Unfortunately, the overall humongousness of the males prevents me from acting out this fantasy.

Morning Philosophication complete, I left the bathroom and walked toward my bedroom. This was my castle, my cabin. As a shelter for my creative thoughts and dreams, it was a positive oasis in a mostly miserable world.

It was filled to the breaking point—no rather quite past the breaking point—with posters of awesome individuals. I had everyone from music stars like Billy Joel to great leaders like… like…. Okay, so I can’t think of any great leaders considering that the world has about as much sex appeal as a four hundred-pound farm girl dressed in Rollerblades and a Spandex leotard.

Anyway, it was your basic eighteen-year-old guy’s room, overflowing with dirty laundry and fast food containers. The only differences were my bookshelves were armed with self-help novels, and a poster featuring the word can’t crossed out and a caption that read, Don’t use four letter words, hung over my bed. The poster was cool, but I later discovered the books were crap. You have to admit though that self-help and 900 lines are a couple of the greatest scams ever invented. You see,