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The Big Stupid Review

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09-01-2008
Routine by Felipe de Oliveira
Automatic Transmission by Warren Buckles
08-01-2008
The Axiom of Choice by Jim Chaffee
07-01-2008
A Pleasure Jaunt with One of the Sex Workers Who Don’t Exist in the People’s Republic of China by Tom Bradley
Making the Switch by George Sparling
06-01-2008
The War Prayer by Mark Twain
05-01-2008
About the Dog by Robert Aqunio Dollesin
04-01-2008
The Coup by Peter Schoenau
03-01-2008
Art School by Zach Plague
Consitutional Puppies by JR
02-01-2008
Selection from The Vicious Circulation of Dr. Catastrope by Kane X. Faucher
Party Pooper from Make Me by Eli Richardson
Una Noche Perfecta para Sanguijuelas por Jim Chaffee (tr. Sonia Ramos Rossi)
01-01-2008
A Night in Cameroon by Kelly Jameson
Missile by Jason Jordan
12-01-2007
Nothing by J.R.
Sacrament by Sonia Ramos Rossi
11-01-2007
Green Mountain Incumbent by D E Fredd
When Pacino's Hot, I'm Hot by Robert Levin
10-01-2007
The Book of Ancient Wisdom by Hugh Fox
09-01-2007
Dog Days by Robert Levin
Junk-Pure by Forrest Armstrong
08-01-2007
Beefsteak Mistake, Jake by Kelly Jameson
Sand by Jim Chaffee
07-01-2007
How to Make a Baby by Robert Levin
A Rude Little Monkey by Kelly Jameson
06-01-2007
Revolver by Sandra Ramos Rossi
Brian and Mona by Jim Chaffee
05-01-2007
El Castrator by Thomas Head
04-01-2007
Alone, As Always by Jennifer Gardner
03-01-2007
Polar Regions by Gayla Chaney
02-01-2007
Two Stories of Sex Beyond Erotica: Editor's Introduction by Jim Chaffee
Photo Finish by Anya Wassenberg
Mephisto and Me by Lily Edwards
01-01-2007
Management Case Study 17: Down East Chicken by D. E. Fredd
MoM by David Quinn
Full TEX Archive
Side Photo for The Big Stupid Review

Beefsteak Mistake, Jake

By Kelly Jameson

Dragon fly taken by Jerry Craven

Well, Tourette’s camp didn’t work out so well for me. So years later, when I’m a man, I find myself sitting in a bar—with a bartender who knows me and who doesn’t take it personally when I look him in the eye, twitch, cough, and scream,"You cocksucking monkey fucking music whore I want more!"

Tourette’s typically has an onset at age seven or eight but is rarely diagnosed before age eleven. When I was twelve, my parents figured I must have had some sort of neurobiological condition after I looked at my aunt, started to twitch and spit, and screamed "Fucking cuntsore motherfucker did you wipe your ass!" while my dad carved a golden brown 20-pound Thanksgiving Day turkey. After a few more shoulder shrugs and head jerks, I told her that her vagina was bigger than the state of Texas and she probably sucked cock like a drunken monkey. Then I barked like a dog. And asked for more mashed potatoes. With gravy. I was sent to my room.

Then, inexplicably, I was sent to live in foster care with Jehovah’s Witnesses.

One of the first descriptions of Tourette’s syndrome was written in the 1800s by French neurologist Jean-Marc Itard, who was caring for a girl who developed vocal tics at the age of seven.

Blue dragon fly

What I have is called coprolalia, the expression of obscene words, a form of Tourette’s that is not as common as the media makes out. Sometimes I’m also obsessive, compulsive, inattentive, hyperactive, impulsive, learning disabled and depressed and I probably eat too much Spam. I have a lot going for me. Apparently, though, this coprolalia won’t affect my IQ or lifespan, unless I happen to get into a nasty bar fight involving knives as a result of my uncontrollable obscene verbal spurts.

Let me say upfront that I have no desire to be a role model for other people. I wish I could say I’d done a bunch of shit today.

Anyway, somebody drops a couple quarters in the jukebox. Jukebox pukebox cukes socks. Yes, this bar I’m in actually has a jukebox. Someone’s chosen Billy Joel’s Piano Man. For a few moments, I cease barking. People go back to not paying me any attention. They almost seem disappointed.

Blue dragon fly

Really serious musicians make fucked up faces when they play, so I took up piano. It was a natural fit. Let’s face it, I make a lot of fucked up faces when I’m not playing an instrument. There’s been recent speculation that Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart had Tourette’s. Apparently he wrote letters to his cousin Maria Anna that contained many obscene words, mostly having to do with bodily functions. He was also hyperactive, suffered from mood swings, and had tics. I don’t know, maybe he just had gas.

Like my tics, life is sudden and chewy and itchy. My parents put me on methylphenidate but my symptoms got worse. I cursed at my teachers. I cursed at my neighbors. I cursed at my neighbors’ dogs and cats. I cursed at inanimate things like mailboxes and toilets and toilet paper. The doctor put me on clonidine. I threw dictionaries in class, followed by five-minute verbal outbursts involving piquant obscenities aimed at my whoreass teacher. Classmates said uncomplimentary things. And here I thought I was making progress. Fog egress press un-chess King me random bitch, I confess.

Well my Jehovah Witness foster family in all their divine wisdom took me off all medications, because you see, they had prayer. Prayer fair pay the fare. They told me God would fix me.

I listen to Mozart—Douche Bag Ass-Fuck Butthole I need some hair pie Sylvester Stallone Sly!—all the time. Mozart. What a beautiful man. He wrote love letters to his cousin Maria Anna. He said things like “Oui, by the love of my skin I shit on your nose, so it runs down your chin."

So, here I am, in Texas, thinking about how cool Mozart was and swearing an orchestration of obscenities out my butthole in a bar that smells like piss and Pabst Light. When I’m good and loaded, I start walking until I find a nice neighborhood, go up to doors, knock, and give out pamphlets with titles like “Soon all suffering will end.” The brochures have pictures of families sitting on picnic blankets next to some wooden buckets of wholesome apples. I wonder if any of them ever lost a tooth eating one of those hard-core apples. I realize I should’ve pissed before I left that bar.

It’s almost a hundred and ten fucking degrees outside and I’m wearing a sports jacket, a tie, and jeans. What an asshole. The street is tree-lined. Felined purloined built up suburbanized galvanized sanitized foul oh it’s just the cat’s meow. I walk up to the first house and knock on the door. An overweight middle-aged woman with a glass of red wine in her hand answers. She is draped in expensive jewelry—jewelry foolery spoolery--and wearing cowboy boots. No clothing of any kind. I try to keep my eyes on her face.

Green dragon fly