Some of my Shipwrecks

My most significant literary credit is the two stories I have in the anthology, from Hachette’s Grand Central Publishing, Loose Lips: Fanfiction Parodies of Great (and Terrible) Literature from the Smutty Stages of Shipwreck. It is a book of dirty, comedic stories about fictional characters, from a San Francisco-based show in a bookstore. I’ve done the show a bunch of times, though, so some of my stories didn’t make the book and a few haven’t really seen the light of day outside of being read at the original event. I present to you: Holden, Moriarty, Slugworth, and the T-Rex from Jurassic Park.


(You can hear this one, along with the other Catcher stories, in an episode of the Shipwreck podcast).

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is how the time machine works, and why didn’t I go back and kill Hitler, and how do I avoid screwing up the space-time continuum, and all that H.G. Wells kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. In the first place, that stuff bores me, and in the second place, the Doc would just about have a hemorrhage if I told you anything like that.

One day I was feeling bored as hell and decided to visit the year 2012. Don’t ask me why the hell I did it. I’m crazy sometimes, I swear. I don’t have to tell you what 2012 is like: everyone walks around half-naked staring into little TVs they carry around. They use them to watch little movies of cats and crap like that, I think. Anyways I started feeling awfully sexy after walking around Brooklyn for all of two minutes, seeing all these girls run around. I started feeling sexy as hell, if you really want to know.

For some reason all these morons were streaming in and out of a big old wooden shack in the middle of a lot, with aluminum siding all over it and that kind of music that sounds like a toilet flushing blasting out. Time travel really fouls up my head sometimes, to tell the truth, and I couldn’t place the word I’d normally use to describe these kind of people hanging around the warehouse bar I was looking at. They wore a lot of fake old clothing and were talking about Hollywood movies and different colleges and crap like that. I hate when people talk about that kind of stuff, really I do.

What were they? Fakers? Insincere people? Affected types? I just couldn’t place the correct word for some reason.

I went in and ordered a Tom Collins, and this maniac with a beard and a plaid shirt and tattoos all over his crazy body just went to town splashing gin and water all over the place, shaving the ice, squirting the lemon like a goddam magician. Boy, do I ever hate it when people try to put on a show for you like that. It depresses the hell out of me, if you want to know the truth.

I started talking to this group of girls: a chubby brunette named Hannah, a tall glass of water named Marnie or something, a pretty blonde who hardly said anything the whole time and just stared off and twirled her hair, and a real queen bee named Shoshanna.

“My uncle had to have both his knees replaced after a treadmill accident,” said the tall one. It must have had something to do with a previous conversation. “So now he has these faux knees.”

What was the right word for these people? Charlatans? Impostors? Frauds? I was going just about half crazy trying to remember it.

“Ugh, my battery’s almost dead,” the queen bee says, looking down at the weird little white screen she kept banging away at with her fingernails all night. “This place is really not meeting my phone needs.”

They were a real bunch of… Boy, I just couldn’t think of it. Pretenders? Impersonators?

Shoshanna went out to tend to her phone needs, and Marnie went out with her. The blonde had disappeared by then, which left me with the chubby one, Hannah. When I say chubby I mean only a little, and she had these big brown eyes and a cute smile. I liked her, if you want to hear the truth, I really did. She kept making fun of my hat but said she liked my gray hair, and she laughed at my corny antics: I kept dancing around and talking like a movie star, just because I was bored and all. She told me she was a writer, that she wanted to be the voice of her generation. I said that was a lot of bunk, and she just started necking with me, just like that. She just put her crazy tongue in my mouth.

We walked just about a thousand goddam miles to her house and she kept talking about her writing, like it was the most interesting goddam thing in the world. She said, “You seriously don’t know what an ebook is?” Her teeth stuck out a little bit in a way that was so goddam charming you just about wanted to kill yourself. Girls drive me crazy, if you want to know the truth. I can be a real madman when it comes to girls, really I can.

When we got to her apartment, she threw off all her clothes so fast you wouldn’t believe it. She seemed like the kind of girl who was always throwing her clothes off. I didn’t mind it, to be honest. In fact I found it quite attractive. I tried to take my hat off and she said, “Keep it on.” She kept kissing my mouth and face and started unbuttoning my shirt. Boy, she was really ready for me to give her the time. It started to make me feel a little sad for her, if you really want to know. I mean, here’s this great-looking girl, smart and funny and all, but really kind of pitiful at the same time. I wouldn’t watch a TV show about her, that’s for sure.

I mean, there I was, with her just necking all over me, this girl in absolutely no clothing at all, not even her underwear or anything, and I’m feeling depressed! I’m a maniac sometimes, I swear. What made it worse is that her little TV-screen device people in the future call a phone kept lighting up with the name “Adam,” and the image of some guy who looked like he might murder you if he got the chance. A real scary-looking bastard, if you want to know the truth, and every time he would call, she would give this sad sigh.

Then Hannah says to me: “Hey, I want you to do something.” She gets two glasses of water from the kitchen, and she wants me to spit water in her face, and for me to spit water in her face! It seemed very crumby to me and I said so. She said, “Come on, please.” I mean, she just kept asking me to do it, and she was naked and all.

I can be a real sex maniac when I want to be, to tell the truth. I mean, if I’m feeling sexy as hell, I’ll even do something really crumby, if a girl wants me to. I’m crazy about girls, I swear.


(This one was for a performance at the Association of Writers and Writing Programs conference, and I wrote it when I was feeling very low and angry about the literary world in general).

The Adventure of the Missing Scribe

It is with sorrow in my heart that I set pen to paper to record the final Sherlock Holmes story. A dear friend and one of the great minds of all time has met his untimely demise. Moreover, it shames me endlessly that I instigated the case that led to his end.

I arrived at Mr. Holmes’s flat on Baker Street last Friday morning with some news: “Word from Scotland Yard is that a famous author has been kidnapped.”

“My God, Watson!” shouted Mr. Holmes. “How truly inconsequential! Are you aware of the plethora, the multitude of such persons? They have entire conventions for them now, and each of these authors equally celebrated. Endless accolades, publications, adulatory reviews from friends and cocktail-drunk associates, and one author is more pompous than the next. All of them too busy and too holy to condescend to respond to a letter, each feeling qualified to weigh in at length on any subject at any time, no matter the breadth of his personal knowledge on the matter, or lack thereof. It is an arrogance akin to the following hypothetical scenario: imagine a crooked businessman believing himself a suitable candidate to become President of America–”

“My dear Mr. Holmes, I fear you are speaking of something entirely unrelated to the matter at hand.”

“My point stands, Watson. If one celebrated author is lost, another simply takes his place. Indeed, a writer such as yourself could stand to gain from a loss like this.”

“Ah, Mr. Holmes– so cold-hearted and calculating are you, and yet! One still feels compelled to cheer you on throughout your many adventures. But I have neglected this important detail, which should interest you: the primary suspect for this kidnapping is one Professor Moriarty.”

“Moriarty!” Mr. Holmes cried, leaping from his chair. “That’s guy’s, like, my fuckin’ Moriarty!”


I followed Mr. Holmes to Switzerland, to a rocky ledge by a waterfall, where stood the villainous Napoleon of crime himself, the mad genius whose many criminal enterprises were the scourge of London, the dastardly king of flawless larceny, blackmail, racketeering, vehicular manslaughter, jaywalking and manspreading. At his knee sat the famous author, tied up with ropes and behaving in a most cowardly manner, squirming and mewling in between asking whether Holmes or I knew any literary agents, and constantly offering up non-sequitor bon mots as if to appease us: “Sportsball?” The author would chirp. “I know nothing of sportsball!” At various intervals he would say to no one in particular, “Tea and books, that’s all I need!”

“Why, Moriarty?” Mr. Holmes demanded. “Why have you lured me out here?”

“My dear, obtuse, naive, Mr. Holmes,” Moriarty replied. “Don’t you see? It’s simple. I wanna ride that fat-ass bone, dawg.”

“Excuse me?”

“Perhaps you think I jest,” Moriarty said, walking towards Mr. Holmes and gently caressing his groin. Haltingly, Mr. Holmes leaned in and began to kiss the neck of London’s most notoriously ruthless genius.

“Your friend can watch, too,” Moriarty added, and for this I was most grateful.

As both parties began to disrobe, something animalistic and heretofore unseen appeared to come over my detective comrade, which he displayed through brutish grunts and boyish sighs alike. Moriarty all the while stayed calm as he took Mr. Holmes’s genitals in his hands and began rubbing them softly, then vigorously.

A glorious display it was, watching these two masterminds concede their feud and give into wholly thoughtless acts of wantonness. Moriarty placed his mouth upon the great crime-solver’s penis and moved his head back and forth as a sort of oral continuation of his earlier, manual stimulation. He then bid Mr. Holmes do the same. Holmes’s famed physical prowess and his legendary attention to detail translated perfectly to performing these acts of marital pleasure: his muscular vigor propelled him through over an hour of fondling his former nemesis, and he was able to bring the da Vinci of illegal mischief to near-climax, then to valleys of subtler delight, then back again, over and over. I confess I did stimulate myself while watching this miracle as it unfolded.

Moriarty expectorated upon his hand and applied the wetness to his John Thomas. In a quick movement he mounted our world-famous private investigator, and now Mr. Holmes made a face with which I was quite familiar. It was the face he made when he had deduced the solution to a caper.

“My God,” Sherlock said, as Moriarty thrusted inwards. “I, Sherlock Holmes, have a penchant for sexual encounters with the male species. Of course! It’s always been hinted at. Throughout my career I have acted, performed, been a public figure– and yet this fact I have hidden even from those closest to me. Why, I suspect that even if I were to be transported, mind and body, some one hundred and twenty years into a much more liberated future, I would still only be capable of dropping subtle hints as to the true nature of my sexual appetites. And why? Why not simply– out with it? To appease a dwindling number of men vastly less intelligent than me, who nonetheless follow my every adventure obsessively? Unemployed young men who would air their displeasure at such a revelation anonymously in public forums?”

“Again,” I pointed out to Mr. Holmes, “it seems as though you are speaking of something unrelated, which the rest of us cannot fully understand or even imagine.” But Holmes wasn’t listening, for Moriarty was at that moment ejaculating upon him.

“Professor Moriarty,” Mr. Holmes began. “I have but one request from you, now that I have fully discovered the true nature of my sexual being. And that is that I might urinate upon you.”

“Gladly,” Moriarty replied. “But please, don’t take it any further. I mean it: no shit, Sher–”

It was then that a piece of the ledge broke off and both extraordinary men fell to their deaths.

Only after I had boarded the train back to London did I realize that I had abandoned the famous author atop that ledge. Oops.


Arthur Wadsworth Slugworth, aged five, sat perfectly still in a cavernous black leather chair inside a dim boardroom, wearing a pinstripe suit. Next to him, in a similar chair and suit, sat his bald, mustachioed father.

“I am Slugworth,” Arthur’s father said. “And this is my son and my partner, A.W.”

Across from the two Slugworths sat a man much discussed in the Slugworth household—considerably younger than A.W.’s father, and considerably richer as well. He had flaming tendrils of blonde hair sticking out from underneath a brown top hat. He wore a purple hoodie. He sat with one arm angled so as to prop up his head, and his eyes lit up with a look young A.W. didn’t quite recognize at the time—Wonka almost looked genuinely fascinated, but there was something too much about it: something theatrically sarcastic. Next to Wonka sat a tiny orange man.

A.W.’s father opened a briefcase containing the culmination of his family’s labors: Slugworth Sizzlers, a sort of licorice that sparkled and sparked in one’s mouth.

“Oh, so you made licorice,” Wonka said condescendingly. “Please, tell me more about that.”

Wonka’s tone set the Slugworths on edge, but the older Slugworth began his prepared speech on the candy’s deliciousness and high quality of ingredients. A.W., and surely his father as well, thought of the long days it took to prepare the Sizzlers, their hands bloody from gathering snozzberries all day in the field, the many hours spent toiling in the father’s makeshift laboratory downstairs, A.W.’s mother complaining bitterly and openly about the lack of attention paid to her and one day finally leaving for good…

After a long silence, Wonka finally said, “Buying your product from you would be a great move for me, and it would be a huge waste of time and money if I missed such an opportunity.”

A.W. and his father smiled.

“Wait a minute!” exclaimed Wonka. “Strike that. Reverse it.” Then he high-fived the Oompa-Loompa next to him.

A.W.’s father’s facial expression moved from confusion, to heartbreak, and finally to cringing, desperate fury.

“Let me tell you something, Mr. Wonka. You surround yourself with your slaves and your moral lessons, but in the vast configuration of things, you’re nothing but a scurvy little imperialist.” Slugworth Sr. pointed at the Oompa-Loompa. “And it goes for you, too!” He took his son by the hand and walked out the door, into the zany opulence of the Wonka factory.

“And it goes for all of you, too!”


Thirty-five years later, Slugworth’s father had become permanently disabled after an attack by a stray Hornswoggler, but Slugworth, in his father’s stead, had built Slugworth’s Good-Time Sizzling Confection Stand into a multinational corporation. More importantly, Slugworth had met and fallen in love with a man whose personality complemented his own: Captain Reginald Steven Crunch III had inherited his cereal empire, but was a competent businessman and a charismatic leader. He loved children, loved sailing, and his warmth and enthusiasm were the only things that ever made the empire-bent Slugworth, who had grown to resemble a mustache-less Hitler, wore all black, and generally lacked social graces, happy. As a lover, the tiny, white-bearded Crunch was generous and playful, delighted in alternating small, cat-like licks with hungry inhalations of Slugworth’s gray, emaciated scrotum and testicles, loved to strut around the boudoir showing off his fat, white-hair-covered body, loved getting come in his beard, loved to crawl around on all fours, allowing Slugworth to pursue him throughout the otherwise empty Minnow or throughout Slugworth’s ghoulish dark mansion, until Slugworth would grab Crunch around his waist and mount him and pound and pound all night until they were heaving and sweating and crying with joy.

So it was with life-changing horror and defeat that Slugworth received the news one overcast afternoon that the Captain’s ship had been destroyed in a squall. A coast guard officer, hat in hand, told Slugworth, “This is absolutely the worst shipwreck we’ve ever seen. It just makes no sense.”


Years went by. Slugworth’s shrewd business acumen never faded, the quality and popularity of his famous Sizzlers, Boinkers, and Fudgepackers never flagged, despite relentless competition from Wonka, Fickelgruber, and Prodnose. But his cold, creepy demeanor and appearance became an issue, in terms of marketing, or so he was told in song form by a team of martini-drunk Oompa Loompa P.R. specialists. Slugworth, without the love of his jolly companion, was terrifying to children.

Around this time a Transylvanian count, with whom Slugworth and the Captain would sometimes vacation in Norway at certain times of the year, and who was himself in charge of a fairly popular children’s cereal, invited Slugworth to a villains’ convention. Missing human company, and thinking perhaps he could rebrand himself as a sort of anti-Wonka, similar to the Count’s image, Slugworth decided to ignore the pleading of the Oompa Loompas and attend.

At the convention, Slugworth attended seminars on cliff and waterfall avoidance, talks on vamping and on how to make your one big speech or jazzy number really count, and regarding just how much to abuse your sidekick. He drank infant tears and dined on rare albino African endangered rhino.

The Count introduced Slugworth to a beautiful German brunette witch, an extremely manly, dark-haired fellow who kept eating eggs and boasting, an inexplicably hypnotically enchanting environmental activist with red hair who wore nothing but a bathing suit made of leaves and introduced herself as one Dr. Pamela Isley, a huge-chinned comedian in all denim by the name of Jay Leno, and an unspeakable creature whose image—a bulbous head with a proboscis like an elephant, tentacles, rudimentary wings, dripping green ooze— imparted to Slugworth a sense of absolute cosmic horror and madness. This creature had come out from beneath the deep sea to herald the apocalypse, and had had a lot of success selling t-shirts and board games.

After a few absinthe cocktails, a few instances of legs and tentacles grazing one another slowly, a few confessional “I’ve always been misunderstood” speeches, eyes locking here and there amongst the group, everyone headed up to the Count’s hotel room to stand around and laugh at YouTube videos of orphans falling down, nuclear disasters, and so forth.

The witch started making out with Dr. Isley on the bed. Without looking, Isley grabbed the braggart’s trousers and pulled out his dick. He chuckled awkwardly. Leno, in the corner, unfolded the buttons on his bright blue jeans and started rapidly masturbating. Chocula began unbuttoning Slugworth’s shirt. He said, “It’s okay. It’s okay.” Leno made some joke about biting and sucking and Chocula said, “Eh, blow me, funnyman.”

So he did. Leno took his motor oil-soaked hands and stuck Chocula’s undead penis in his mouth, while Chocula began softly stroking Slugworth’s cock. Then the unspeakable creature from the dimension beyond our own eased its tentacles into the orifices of every other party member, bringing them to the brink of hysterical madness and back again. Leno said, “Hey, folks, I haven’t seen this much tentacle action since my last trip to—” but Chocula’s cock stopped Leno’s mouth from saying something that would have surely been racist and hacky. By this time Isley’s pheromones were making everyone insane with desire for her and jealousy for each other, and they all clawed for her attention. She rode Slugworth’s face, and shoved her green fingernails violently in and out of Gaston’s asshole, and peed on the witch.

Leno said, “Whaddya call an act like that?”

By this time the witch’s mask and wig had fallen off, revealing a long, sharp nose and horrifying deformities all across her chest, but everyone by this point was intoxicated with sexual ecstasy, cosmic horror, violent jealousy, and love, and so they all kept jamming and thrusting and heaving until the rug was moist with come and vaginal moisture and piss and slime, and they had all come several times and were completely exhausted. Slugworth felt, for the first time in years, that life was okay, and that people were friendly and kind. He felt invigorated.

Then there was a knock on the door, Slugworth opened it, and Ursula the sea witch and Jesse and James from Team Rocket walked in. The villains cheered wildly.



(I wrote this one last-minute and I won, my only #1 victory. It’s going to be on the podcast soon, I think).

My move was: I would come up behind these two twinks, they would act surprised, and then let me eat them both at once. Everybody had their one move. The triceratops moaned and rolled around in shit. The two twinks would chase you around the kitchen and could do amazing things with their hands. There was a team of like twenty little guys who worked together. The dilophosaurus, or DILF, spit on you. That was the ‘90s.

Dr. John Hammond, the biggest and sleaziest producer in showbiz, discovered me when I was just a teenage runaway. I was waiting tables, which I was awful at because my tail would trip people and I couldn’t reach the food from the counter, but it’s like my great-great-grandfather, who worked as a forklift, always said: “Hey, it’s a living!”

“I heard about that big cock of yours,” Hammond said. “How’d you like to be a star, kid?”

Pretty soon I was Jurassic Park’s biggest attraction, and for a while, things were perfect. I was awash in fame, groupies, cocaine, and the blood of tourists. The other dinosaurs weren’t just my costars and lovers: they were a kind of surrogate family.

But times changed. The amusement park industry isn’t what it used to be. People want it raw, real, cheap, dangerous. One day, Hammond brings on this new kid: the Indominus Rex. Real fuckin’ hotshot. Starts camouflaging himself, mind-controlling the raptors. Total show-off. I get up in his face and I say to him, I say, “Listen, pal. I’m the top dog around here and don’t you forget it.”

He says, “You better watch your back, old-timer.”

I say, “Suck my dick.”

We started making out, our sort of rounded square snouts rubbing up against each other, the two of us heaving with hot, angry passion. My weird dino dick rubbed up against his and our two bulbous reptile dongs sort of batted each other around for a while, because neither of us could reach very far with our forearms from this position. I spun Indominus around, lifted his tail, and tossed my comet into his smoking crater. I explored all over his Lost World and into his Fallen Kingdom. I felt his leathery, scaly skin as it pushed fast against mine. “Pull my tail,” he cried out, and I obliged. Cold blood throbbed through the veins in my lizard junk, chilling me I guess, like there’s a margarita mixer inside there. I got myself off inside his asshole, then bent down and jerked his prehistoric hog until he split his DNA all over me. We fell to the ground together and, just for a moment, lay in each other’s– I mean, not exactly in each other’s arms, like if you can picture the minimum amount that an arm could possibly encompass someone, it can still briefly, fleetingly, feel like holding someone.

It was perfect. It was wonderful. But I couldn’t admit to myself how hard I had just fallen for such an arrogant, scene-stealing jerk. I walked off the lot, with no plans to ever return.

Our little family started to spiral out of control. The pterodactyl shot his wife and himself on New Year’s. The triceratops lost custody of her kid; in the court proceedings her ex-husband cited the fact that she’s a dinosaur clone who fraternizes with other dinosaur clones. The velociraptors witnessed a bank robbery that resulted in a brutal murder. The compsognathus smashed a guy’s face on the sidewalk with their rollerskates. And one night, a gang of rednecks took me inside their truck, made me believe that they were soliciting me for sex, then instead told me that I probably never really existed, and was likely a historically inaccurate composite resulting from a variety of scientific errors over the years.

Finally Hammond came to me again. “I’m gettin’ everybody back together,” he said. “The triceratops, the raptors, the little guys, you, the Indominus Rex…”

“Fuck no,” I said. “No way, never.”

“I thought you’d say that,” said Hammond. “But what if I told you this: you and the Indominus get eaten together by a giant fuckin’ fish at the end. Also a lady runs around in heels, and the pterodactyls attack people after being freed from a dome in which they could have been attacking people all along in the first place. I mean why did they wait to escape to do that when there were people right there to begin with? It makes no goddam sense. Anyway, it’s gonna be stupid as hell and it’s going to make like a million, billion dollars.”

“I’m in!” I said. And when I saw Indominus again, we kissed long and hard and admitted we’d missed each other. The raptors, the triceratops, and the compsognathus were all happy to see me back, too, and I was happy to see them.

Before it was time to shoot, I went into the dressing room and took my mammoth tool out in front of the mirror. “I am a star,” I said. “I’m a star, I’m a star, I’m a star.”  

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