Sleep Talkin' Man (12 page)

You know I love it when I hear those three little words. Come on. You know you want to say them to me…. Yeah. I AM amazing.

You've got to respect people's beliefs.
I believe you're a miserable wank stain. Piss off.

My computer needs more power.
Feed it chips. Lots of chips. With ketchup.
Not mayonnaise.

Oi! God! Shut the fuck up and listen to me.

I'm the pilot. It's my turn to fly the plane.
Give me a peaked cap and a stewardess.
Yeah, a stewardess. Whooossshhhhhhhhh.

Assholes of the world unite!
And fuck off together.

You're about as welcome as anal leakage.
Now fuck off and infect somebody else's life.

I know it's a shame that when I walk out of a room it gets just a little bit darker and gray. It's a burden I carry.

You speak your mind, I punch your face.
I think it's a fair exchange.
We'll both be hurting.

I can
'
t wear these pants anymore.
They
'
re just too tight.
They
'
re giving me cock cramp … FREEDOOOOOOOOOOM!
Yeah, wiggle itMmm, feel that swaying? That swaying is freedom!

You don't make any sense. You must be part of the alien menace. Stop with the retarded hand gestures already. Stop!

I
'
m in the mood for kicking faces and punching crotches.
Woo hoo!

That's the difference between you and me. Your heart is filled with hate, and mine is filled with kittens.
Mmmm, kittens. Meow.

I would gargle contents of the assholes of the recently dead than go out with you.
It's not a hard choice really.

Yeah. It's a long journey to find your soulmate. So here's a one-way ticket to somewhere far away, now FUCK OFF!

I don't listen to the crap you say.
Why should I give a fuck about the shit you tweet?

Graphic novels: They're just comics that grew up, flipped you the bird, and waved a hairy nut-sac in your face.

“Unique” and “special” are the two words I'd use to describe you. That is, if I'm not allowed to use “cunt” and “bag.”

You
'
re undiluted brilliance, awesome to a point of purity.
You
'
re— oh, sorry, I was projecting. You
'
re an ass.

Those ladybugs are racist cunts.
Don
'
t you dare invite them to the garden party.

I've just bought fifteen bags of this shit, and now you tell me you don't like gummies anymore? Bloody hell!
What am I gonna do with this gelatin?
I was gonna make the biggest fucking gummy bear in gummy bear history.
It was gonna be gigummygantic!

Ooh! My balls are itchy.
Have you got the cheese grater?

Where do you think YOU'RE going, hmmm? I knew it. The cupboard.
You and your cupboard.

Your family, or a zombie horde.
Choose carefully.

I've shared my theory that STM's raging ego is Adam's way of compensating for low self-esteem in his earlier life. I've also divulged his accident-prone nature, which has left him with a lot of old humiliations for STM to churn through. If ever there was an experience in Adam's life that explains why STM determinedly and unapologetically punctures the veil of politeness, demands his needs be acknowledged, and lets his freak flag fly, it has to be this:

When Adam was in his early twenties, he managed to land himself a job in PR, at one of the biggest firms in England with ultra-posh digs in the famous Russell Square.

Adam was nervous and excited as his first day of work dawned. Decked out in his brand new suit, he boarded the crowded Tube and headed toward Central London. He arrived at his destination
and, jostled in the rush hour crush of bodies, Adam slipped on the platform as he stepped off the train. With a gymnastic feat of contortion, he recovered without falling, sacrificing his back in the process; with a disconcerting wrench, his muscles lodged their spastic complaint.

“I'm not going to let a little spasm beat me,” thought Adam. “This is the first day of a fantastic new career!” With that optimistic sentiment he shuffled out of the station and around the corner to his new office.

By the time he got there, Adam was in too much pain to appreciate the beautiful oak doors, or the tastefully luxurious reception area. Gripping the grand banister of the massive winding staircase, soaked with sweat from his agony, Adam dragged himself up two floors.

He lurched into the lounge and hung against the door frame to catch his breath. This was not the grand entrance he had imagined for himself. Spying the solid-looking wooden table across the room laden with a lovely coffee
/
tea spread, Adam staggered across, planted both hands flat on the surface, and remained as such—bent double,
dripping sweat, seeing stars—desperately hoping for the pain to subside so he could start the day with a bang, rather than a pathetic whimper.

By this time, Adam's new colleagues began to turn up. Spotting an unfamiliar figure, a number of them came over, and, with all the hail-fellow-well-met one would expect at a swanky London PR firm, slapped him on the back with various versions of, “Oh, the new boy! Welcome!” After the third slap, Adam keeled over backwards with a loud groan, hit the floor, and there he remained, prone, like a tortoise that had been rolled onto its shell.

The crowd was getting thicker around Adam's prostrate figure as more and more of his new colleagues arrived. You would think that people would gather around to offer aid to the poor young man paralyzed with pain on the floor. However, this was neither of the two sorts of responses that Adam observed: there were those who came over to him, squatted down, and introduced themselves heartily, taking care to avoid any acknowledgment that there was anything amiss about the way in which this meeting
was taking place; and there were those who simply stepped right over Adam to get their morning cup of coffee without giving him a moment's notice. The latter group included women in skirts, who preferred to walk directly over Adam's face rather than acknowledge the situation. Putting aside the great views he must have had—which I doubt he was in a mindset to appreciate—I can't help but feel so sorry for my poor future husband, too young and insecure to demand the attention appropriate to his mortifying circumstances. I only wish that he could have found a little spark of STM in himself then, to command the treatment that he deserved.

Instead, Adam continued to hope against hope that he would at some point find himself pain-free enough to bound to his feet, laugh the whole thing off, and begin his new career. That somehow this would all simply become one of those things that everyone jokes about years later during a round of golf or over drinks on the yacht.

Meanwhile, over half an hour had passed since Adam hit the floor. By now, word had spread around the entire company that the new boy
has started, and if you want to say hello, you'll find him lying on the floor of the lounge. The ever-increasing agony in his back was rapidly expanding his definition of pain and, on top of everything, he now seriously needed to pee. It was at about this time that some kind, proactive soul finally hit upon the novel idea of calling for an ambulance.

After what seemed an age, two paramedics suddenly appeared in Adam's field of vision, and with them they had brought a seven-foot board to carry Adam out. They successfully swivelled the board under him with minimal movement of his back, strapped him down, and carefully made their way out of the lounge. When they reached the stairs, they appeared surprised to discover that they were on the third floor, and the only way down was a long winding staircase. “We're gonna need another crew,” Adam heard, and he was hauled back into the lounge and unceremoniously dumped against the wall. The next thing he knew, the paramedics were being offered a lovely continental breakfast, while Adam had become part of the furniture.

Finally, the second ambulance crew arrived. At last, rescue! They burst into the lounge and rushed over to the breakfast table, where they began discussing with the first set of paramedics the finer points of their respective days thus far, occasionally looking over at Adam with an absent-minded smile and a slight wave of a croissant. After a bladder-busting amount of time, they categorically declared that there was no way he would be getting down by the usual route. After some deliberation, one of Adam's new colleagues thought to mention the service elevator. So Adam, strapped to a board, neck in a brace, was paraded through the entire office.

As you have perhaps gathered by now, these particular paramedics may have not been the sharpest tools in the shed. It took them five tries to realize that they would not be able to load Adam on his seven-foot board horizontally through the door into the five-by-five elevator. One of them suggested that perhaps they should stand him up. Ah, a solution! Except that they fed him in feet-first. Thankfully, he did not fit that way either, which saved him from riding
down upside-down. It was decided that what was needed was a fire crew to hoist Adam out the window and down two floors, to the ambulance waiting below.

Remember, these offices were in Russell Square, a prestigious and bustling area of London. In order to get a fire engine into the square, it was necessary for the police to completely shut it down to all other traffic.

So, there's Adam, prone, strapped to a backboard with neck brace, his suited body drenched in sweat, his back searing in white hot pain, his bladder fit to burst at any moment, and now the cause of a complete shutdown of Russell Square. His embarrassment was at its breaking point, and as Adam lay there begging the floor to open up and swallow him, into his frame of vision loomed the faces of the four paramedics, now joined by two police officers, and—yes ladies—SEVEN firemen. It could have been the perfect cast for a bachelorette party. But instead, this was Adam's first day at his new job and, now, one of the worst days in his life. And it wasn't over yet. He still had to endure the ignominy of the journey
down the fireman's ladder from the third-floor window into the closed-off square below.

Thus began, and ended, Adam's illustrious career in public relations.

10
“I'm gonna fucking tear you limb from limb, and use your arm like a loofa and your face to clean my crack and balls. Now just go away.”

9
“That's the green one taken care of. Bring me the blue and I'll kick seven shades of shit out of it.”

8
“You give me stress, anxiety, days filled with woe. I give you, I don't know, a kick in the fucking balls. I think that kind of makes it fair. Asshole.”

7
“You take one of those knitting needles and put 'em in my neck once more, I'm gonna see to it that every time you blink, you're gonna be looking at your own rectum. Got it?”

6
“That's it. I'm going to have to call an intervention on your stupidness. I think it will take the form of a brick.”

5 “Pee in my bed once, shame on you. Pee in my bed twice, I'm gonna rip out your bladder and use it as a football, you geriatric incontinent cock slap.”

4
“I think it's time you stepped into my office. The office of my fist.”

3
“You try feeding me any processed soya, you're going to find it very hard to wipe your ass without any fucking arms.”

2
“If you don't shut your cake hole, I'm gonna put you into a food coma.”

1
“This is a friendly rock. Let me rub it on your face lightly. Yeah. Now it's got your scent, it'll like you. Let me show you: Stand there, and I'm gonna throw the rock at you. Watch how it wants to connect with you, time and again.”

Believe it or not, Adam was not my first experience with wacky sleep behaviors. My brother Jason is and always has been a sleepwalker and talker! One night, when he was about eleven, my mother heard a commotion coming from downstairs in the middle of the night. When she crept down the stairs, she discovered my brother kicking and yelling at the vacuum cleaner, which he'd dragged out of the closet. He nearly broke his toe! But think of the bravery, risking that precious digit to protect our family.

On another occasion, my mother heard yelling coming from my brother's room. She ran across the hall and threw the door open, only to find him using his left hand to bend his right hand back with such force that he was near to breaking his wrist. It turns out that he had rolled over on his right arm, and that hand had fallen asleep. Meanwhile, his left hand was feeling around, and came across a foreign hand (the right, numb one). Believing the dead hand to be a monster, he attacked!

About a year ago, Jason started having a recurring sleepwalking episode in which he believes
there is someone outside the door of his house. He gets out of bed and creeps through his apartment, with the intention of sneaking up and throwing open the front door to surprise the uninvited guest. He's gotten further and further each time, most recently finding himself with his hand on the knob of the front door. He's very concerned that the most likely next step is his actually flinging the door open and leaping onto his front porch clad only in his boxer shorts.

There was one fateful night that Jason's roommate Jacob stumbled home at two a.m. from a night out drinking. He let himself in the front door, and made his weaving way down the hall toward his own room. Unfortunately, he was passing by my brother's room at the very moment that Jason, mid-sleepwalk, yanked his door open. Jason, for the first time actually finding the suspected stranger looming at the door, screamed at the top of his lungs, causing poor drunk Jacob to pitch in with with his own scream of terror. Jason slammed the door in Jacob's face, and screamed again. With this scream, Jason actually woke himself up, and gradually
made sense of what had happened. Doubled over with his hands on his knees, heart pounding, he opened his door again to find Jacob, near to hyperventilating, propping himself up on the other side. Both gasped and wheezed for a while, trying to calm down, until Jason said, “Don't … ever … do … that … again.”

I just don't like those German shepherds and their achtung sheep.

I'm the epitome of seeing is believing.
Once you see me, you'll believe there is a god.

Duh. They
'
re deaf.
They can
'
t hear me.
YOU
'
RE ALL CUNTS!

Life is precious.
I'm not going to just sit here listening to your pathetic fucking dribble.

I've got a badger, a dog, a cat, and a sack.
Now that I've got ‘em you can fuck off.
All mine.

Hey! This is MY playground. These are MY swings. That's MY climbing pyramid.
And that's MY springy elephant!
THAT'S MY SPRINGY ELEPHANT!
You crusty knob-end. Bog off! Leave this playground to the king of playtime! … Mmmm, they're all mine …. I need a push.
I can't swing without a push. PUSH ME!
Where is everyone? … Bastards.
This is MY playground.

I've never seen a baby pigeon.
It doesn't make sense.

Buffalo wings? Are you insane?
Those cows can
'
t fly. It
'
s a lie, I tell you. A fucking lie.

I think you should sit down.
Surely your ankles can't take the weight.

I understand, but things have changed now.
Ever since the Chocolate Bonanza.

Shhhhh! Why can't you midgets talk more fucking quietly?! I hate small talk.

Just the thought of kissing you makes me want to take a vegetable peeler to my lips.

I'm bored.
Let's go and trip some old people.

I'm sorry, I tried. But liking you is just too far outside my comfort zone.

Why aren't you making me warm, hmm?
Hmm? Why aren't you making me warm?
That's your one fucking job, to make me warm, why the fuck are you not doing your job? … Being dead is no fucking excuse, you make me fucking warm!

Between die-you-cancer-upon-my-life and I-couldn
'
t-really-give-a-crap-about-you lies your life story.

Beer is from Mars.
Chocolate
'
s from Venus.

I'm giving out tickets.
Five minute slots to stand next to me.
One at a time. Enjoy yourself.

Why don't you stop looking for answers when your questions have as much weight as a turd floating out to sea.

I'm talkin' about motherfucking cookies and apple juice.

I need you to take this stapler and ram it into your forehead. No, it won't solve the problem, but it will make me happier.
It's funny! Now go bleed somewhere else.

Sure you can sit next to me.
But you're going to have to be prepared to be eaten if we crash.

There
'
s a reason you
'
re such an asshole.
You just don
'
t have to keep telling everybody about it. People will work it out for themselves pretty quickly.

Oh, it's time I got a tail. Yeah, a real strong one. No, not for climbing, so I can wrap it around your neck and squeeze the living shit out of you. Maybe then I'll go climbing.

No pens. There are no pens here.
I can
'
t do any work anymore.
I
'
m in crayon heaven.

It's science.
It's meant to confuse stupid people.

Scales. Must have scales. And razor claws.
I want some feathers. And a goggly thing on its head. Yeahhh. Dinochicken.
Awesome! I feel like a god. All right, what's next? Guineapigasaurus. Bring it on!

I wanna put a dog in charge.
They don't start wars. They just want love.
And to sniff bums. Yeah, sniff bums.
Sniff.

Squid wrestling:
all tentacles and no substance.

Over the past couple of years, we've received a number of fretful e-mails and comments from readers suggesting that perhaps Adam has a serious psychological disturbance, and that his sleep talking is the foreshadowing of an inevitable future display of shock and awe. These communications invariably conclude with a plea for us to get him to a doctor. For those that share this view, I hope I can put your minds at ease: we've been put in front of a number of sleep specialists (an unintended consequence of the media attention the blog received), and we've learned that what Adam does is not so uncommon, nor is Adam a particularly extreme example of sleep behavior. Though he does seem to be especially prolific and clever, there are loads of others out there.

But for those of you who are still sceptical of Adam's mental stability, or those who, like me, are simply curious about the science here, I've invited psychiatrist and sleep specialist Hugh Selsick to tell us what this sleep talking thing is all about. Hugh, take it away!