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The Life and Times of Car Johnson Part 3

By Car Johnson

If you decide to get an operation, make sure you don’t go to some basement doctor with a hacksaw. My friend Joe did that and he didn’t become a she, he became a ‘’Oh my God, what the hell is that?!” Joe told everyone he got a job as a sideshow freak, but there hadn’t been any sideshows around here for eighty years. He really just ran up to random strangers on the street and forced them to pay to make him go away.

I felt sorry for Joe, so I decided to create my own sideshow and hire him as one of the acts. Since a sideshow can’t consist of one hacked up man, I went freak hunting. I found a pair of Siamese twins, some dude with no chin, and a priest who wasn’t into little boys. The priest was my start attraction. I rented an old warehouse, printed up some posters, and waited…and waited…and waited. It turned out that no one believed a priest couldn’t be a pedophile, so they figured I was a fraud.

Now I was out five hundred bucks and I still had to pay the freaks. So I used them to start a house cleaning service. Those Siamese twins were really good at dusting. They were also good at other tasks. I only got to sleep with them once. It was the best sex I’ve ever had, even better than the yoga instructor with the limber…everything. Too bad they weren’t prostitutes.  I’d have to pay them in other ways.

They say they want romance. I don’t do romance. They don’t call me Mr. One Night Stand for nothing. I’m not sure I want to trade my poke and leave lifestyle behind, even for super hot sex. A steady diet of fancy chocolates just makes you fat and hungry for a juicy steak. And what if I find some other babe or babes that are even better? I guess I’ll just think of their super sex as a taste of what could come next. It would be an incentive to keep on banging as many broads in as many ways as I can.

The Life and Times of Car Johnson Part 2

By Car Johnson

From home to the hospital, I managed to be born in a Mardi Gras float. We didn’t get home for four years. My dad was pretty pissed, so Mom left him for Uncle Frank. My mother did this a lot. They were identical twins, so I didn’t figure out what was happening until I was twelve. Especially since my father was also named Frank.

There’s a tradition in out family of giving twins the same name. It all started when my great-great-great grandfather, Bobby Binford murdered his brother Bill and took over his life. No one would have known if he hadn’t insisted that everybody call him Bobby. Good thing nobody liked Bill and were happy to let his brother take over his life. They wouldn’t let him call himself Bobby, though. People thought it was insulting to his brother’s memory. So when the new Bill’s wife gave birth to twins, he named them both John, so that if one of them ever decided to kill the other, they wouldn’t be forced to use someone else’s name.

Everyone in my family is an identical twin, except for me and my sister. We were the only fraternal twins in ten generations. My mom still wanted to follow tradition and give us the same name. Sis was born first, so I got saddled with the name Carol. Good thing I’ve gotten most people to call me car.

My sister doesn’t like me. She’s tried to kill me on thirty-eight separate occasions, but since she’s dumber than a post, all of them have failed. She tried to electrocute me with an Operation board, poison my food with excess salt and set me on fire with a packet of hot sauce. She once stole a bunch of knives from my house. That freaked me out and I asked her about it. She admitted it was so I’d end up chocking to death because I wouldn’t be able to cut my meat. She stole collection of Japanese daggers. Who the hell uses Japanese daggers to cut meat? I use them to shave.

I stopped shaving for a while, but my hair grows faster than a penis meeting Angelina Jolie. I ended up like Grizzly Adam’s hairier brother. I had to tie it around my waist just to keep from tripping. People mistook me for a member of ZZ Top. The final straw was when I started getting stalked by a deranged midget who thought he was an elf and I was Santa (my beard wasn’t even white!) I found him living in my attic with my missing hot plate and radio, frying eggs and listening to country music.

Needless to say, I chopped off the whiskers and sent the little guy packing. The only midget I want in my life is the cute little mini prostitute who sucks my toes. Yes, all she does is suck my toes. Her full sized partner does the rest. I’ve tried to get them to both give equally, but they’re death mutes and don’t seem to be able to read English. I tried drawing them a picture, but I can’t draw worth shit and had to spend two hours convincing them that I wasn’t asking them to brand my testicles with a curling iron. I guess I’ll just live with the sorta threesome for now and save up for two full sized chicks.

For what little I’m paying, those two are top of the line. All the other whores in my price range are freaks. I’m talking about goat faced, legless, mustached, FREAKS. I had to send one of them back because I was sure she would end up doing a “Crying Game” on me. Never trust a girl with and Adam’s apple, guys. Trust me, it ain’t no tumor. And ladies, if you have (or had) a pole instead of a hole, please be kind enough to TELL the guy you’re with. Is it so hard to say “My equipment’s on the outside” or “I had this operation once…”?

The Life and Times of Car Johnson

by Car Johnson

The air smelled like cheese. Not a really Christmasy scent, but nothing was traditional at Uncle Frank’s place. The red and green beer bottle hanging from the ceiling by bright piece of tinsel, the paper-mâché hula girls with Santa hats and the Christmas fondu and spicy shrimp balls all made for a disturbingly festive atmosphere. After a few Christmas beers, it was positively lovely.

I pulled two down from their tinsel hangers, one for me and one for my inner child. I pulled two more down. My inner child’s a roaring drunk. I stumbled through a winding path of oversized Star Wars figurines dressed up in a nativity scene. I set one of the bottles next to the miniature Darth Vader Frank had used for the baby Jesus. I guess a black caped villain with a bad case of asthma is similar to the Lord. Uncle Frank seems to think so.

Then again, Frank also thinks that stars look like the tiny eyes of fairies and milk and lemon juice go together. Maybe I should stop trying to see the world through his eyes. My therapist and parole officer would be glad. I don’t know if I can, though. Madness does run in our family. I don’t mean the common types of madness like depression or even schizophrenia. I’m talking about the “gophers rule the world and pickle necklaces are the next big thing in fashion” type of madness. The slightly creative, mostly stupid way of thinking that causes men to dump loads of money in business ventures that include pets, washing machines and laminating equipment.

Even so, I’ve done pretty well for myself. I bypassed my brother’s reverse skydiving venture and the lawsuit that went with it, and tried to invent a do it yourself tanning kit. It didn’t work out as I planned, but I was able to sue several flamethrower manufacturers for an extensive sum. I’m the reason for those “aim away from face” warnings. It was a good thing I was ugly as hell to begin with. Part of the money went to getting surgery to look like Rock Hudson, but without the desire for men.

That was good. Gay guys get all the women, and they don’t even want them. My new face leveled the playing field a bit, even if I didn’t have that gentle feminine quality women fall for, at least until they realize their new Ferrari has no gas and takes it up the tailpipe. Then they pick the first caveman they see, but only if he has a nice face. I am now that caveman.

Of course, I may smash beer bottles on my head instead of cans, but that just makes me seem all the more dangerous. Women find me edgy and cool, until I accidentally bleed all over their clothing or they catch sight of my cow fetus collection. But by that time I’ve gotten what I’ve wanted, so I really don’t care.

If I wanted a wife, I’d order her from Russia. I think marriage is an investment, so I want to buy the best. That’s why I’d never go Asian. They just seem so foreign to me. Exotic is one thing, but those slanted eyed broads are just too strange for my taste. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some xenophobic rube. It’s just that my vision of an ideal mate doesn’t come from some place where people eat soft serve ice cream out of toilet shaped bowls (Rocky Mountain Oysters are good enough for me.) Russian girls just seem the safer bet. Their traditions are pretty close to mine and they don’t think that mustaches are bad luck (everyone knows bad luck comes from crossing under ladders.)

I know I might come off as a complete ass, but I’ve smacked my head with beer bottles too many times to even know how to change. And why should I? My life has worked out so far, even if it’s been mostly by blind luck. Being a fortunate nutcase isn’t that bad. In fact, it’s kind of fun. Have you ever bathed naked in a fountain? And even if you have, how many times have you found a stash of silver dollars while washing your hair? My count’s seventy nine.

Now, you have to be careful when you fountain bathe. People don’t like it, so make sure that you only bathe at night and in a deserted area. Yeah, it’s fun to watch the faces of unsuspecting folk as you strip your clothes off and lather Irish Spring all over your body, but they’ll call the cops and you’ll have to use up a whole stash of silver dollars to bribe your way out of jail. And they don’t always call the cops. I once got caught by a group of super kinky french tourists and that was NOT fun. Let’s just say that I will never look at a croissant the same way again.

By the way, I am aware that not all Frenchmen are super kinky. I just happened upon a group that was. There are super kinky people in all countries. Super kinky isn’t just an extra dose of kinky. I’m kinkier than a hose. Super kinky people would use that hose to tie up a goat, while smearing themselves with tar and broken glass and sacrificing their testicles to Suzanne Sommers. They make S and M look like love taps. They put the “fet” in fetish.

You name it, they’ve tried it and invented new shit that mere mortals can’t even imagine without going insane. If you thought bestiality and necrophilia were the most disgusting things you could think of, I have one thing to say to you: Super kinkies added ping pong balls. I won’t even tell you what they do with back hoes.

OK, enough talk about perverts. I got a little sidetracked there. I get sidetracked quite a bit. I once helped my mother move a couch and ended up wasted in Costa Rica with a one eyed prostitute. And I still had the couch. My mom would have been angry with me if she hadn’t been laying on it with a hot Latino named Felipe. She gets sidetracked too.

one eyed prostitute