View Full Version : Jeffrey, Prince of Turds (1,800 words)

November 13th, 2010, 03:03 AM
~ Short little exercise to clean out the cobwebs. Was quite enjoyable. Comments welcome ~

“So Shorty was like, ‘the hell do you think you’re doing?’”

Uh oh.

“And I was all, ‘man, you did not just say that to me!’”

Here we go.

“It was loco, cous’. Completely off the Richter.”

I’m sure that it was.

“So what do you think?”

I think you’re a complete dope who should jump on the tallest building he can find.

“I think you sure showed him.”

The numb-nuts I’m speaking to is my cousin, Jeffrey Redfield. I know, what a ridiculous name, right? You would think that someone with a name like Jeffrey Redfield would try to live small and play it down, but noooo not our Jeffrey.

“Man, what’s with all the chicks in this sphincter of a town?”

“Well, what’a’ya mean Jeffrey B.Bear?”

I love to talk down to the kid, though he never suspects a thing, so it’s not quite as fun.

“Look at ‘em cous’! They all sheepdogs!”

Must. Fight. Urge. To. Punch. In the-

SMACK! My right fist launches skyward, connecting with Jeffrey’s chin. His head snaps back so quickly that his fat little cheeks ripple from the motion. I feel like Ryu from Street Fighter. Shyoryuken!

“What the hell man!?” He sounds like a little girl who has just seen her schoolyard crush eat a big, disgusting bug.

“Jeffrey, I am so sorry!”

I’m not.

“Honestly, I didn’t mean to hit you!”

Half-true. I wasn’t planning on it or anything. It just sorta happened.

“Well,” sob-sniff-sob-sob, pretend it doesn’t hurt, “it was uncool!”

Uncool? Do you want me to hit you again?

“Again, real sorry.”

Jeffrey looks up at me through those big, stupid glasses. His glasses magnify all of his features, making him look like one of those googly-eyed goldfish. Right now his eyes are all red and swollen, and so his glasses just magnify his patheticness.

“Why’d you hit me anyway?”

Because it felt so damn good.

“Oh, I don’t really like to talk about it...”

“Talk about what?”

“Really, it’s embarrassing.”

“Tell me cous’, it’s the least you can do.”

“Well,” Showtime, “I have this thing -- this rare genetic disorder.”

Nice... nice...

“Around three times a day I get these crazy spasms in my extremities, the doctors can’t really explain it. They say it’s so rare there’s only five recorded cases of it in the world!”

I am making this up as I go. What a riot!

“Ohmigosh!” Did he really just say that? “That’s awful cous’! I’m sorry I yelled at you!”

No, you dope. It’s a joke! A joke at your expense!

“Yeah, well, you’ve really embarrassed me Jeff.”

“Sheeeeeet, now I just feel plain awful. Can I buy you a soda? Will that make it up to you?”

Well, I am a little parched.

“It’s a start, Jeff.”

How far can I stretch this implausible lie before he picks up on it? I do believe I’ve just invented a new game.

“So what’s this disease called?”

“It’s called analuspoliogastrophemia.”

“Really? It sounds serious.”

“Oh, it is Jeff. You know Mike Tyson? They say he had it. It’s what made him such a fierce boxer.”

“Maybe you should take up boxing!” His big pimply cheeks rose into a cheshire smile. He looked like he ate a lot of cheese.

“Do you think this is funny Jeffrey?” My tone was harsh and insulted. Thank-you year nine drama class.

“N-No, of course not!”

“Good, because guess what Jeffrey? It’s hereditary!” I really emphasized this last word, eager to hammer my point home.

“Oh no!” His face inflated with surprise. He reminded me of the Surprised Emoticon, y’know, :-O !!

He waited a couple seconds to be respectful, and probably to process his shock.

Then he hit me with it, “...what’s hereditary mean?”


Oh, Jeffrey. You slay me. You slay me with that big magical weapon you have. Your ignorance.

“It means it’s been passed on through the family line.”

“Sheeeet!” His word of the day calendar needed updating.

“Yeah, cous’, looks like you probably have it too!”

After I told him that he got real quiet and sulked for awhile. It was, of course, an absolute blessing, but I figured it might get back to my parents if I didn’t do something to make him happy. I mean, I could just hear my mother shrieking in my ears,

“I told you to look after your cousin, not scare him half to death! He’s only fourteen, he lives in the middle of nowhere, and he only gets to visit once a year, the least you could do is pretend to be nice to him!”

Yikes mother, even in my imagination you’re a force to be reckoned with.


I bought Jeffrey a burger from the Burger King stall at our local arcade. He wasn’t grateful at all. He just sat there picking at it, looking like a depressed teenager sulking about -- hell, whatever it is teenagers sulk about these days. Everything, probably.

“Hey Jeffrey, ma’ man, why don’t we go upstairs to the Cineplex and catch a late movie? My treat.”

At last he perked up and sprang back to life. He reminded me of a dopey little terrier whose ears have pricked up upon hearing the coveted ‘W’ word.

“You got yourself a dealio, player!”

Shoot me now.


On our way up to the cinema Jeffrey decided to get back to his roots, and attempted to break the land speed record for most inane dribble spouted in a five minute period.

“So, anyway, as I waz (This is not a typo. He actually said it this way.) sayin’, the bitches around here are real sheepdogs!”

Wait, what? Is ‘bitches’ the affectionate term, and ‘sheepdogs’ the insult? Does that even make sense?

“Hey, now, we’ve got a few lookers around. You just gotta hit the right spots.” I dribbled. Please don’t flee in disgust, I promise I don’t ordinarily talk this way.

“Yeah? Like where? The dog pound?”

You turd-salad, you’re really overdoing the dog analogies.

“Naw man,” Kill me, “like the beach, or the public pool, or (I couldn’t resist, I had to throw in something ridiculous, for my sanity’s sake) the town dump.”

Jeffrey crinkled his brow in confusion. He had a great big glistening pimple on his forehead, just north of where his eyebrows met. I worried that the creases of his furrowed brow might act like a pincer, bursting that tiny skyscraper of swollen skin and spewing forth the yellowy-white goodness so that it ran down the contours of his face like flowing magma. Ugh, and here comes that burger again.

“The city dump? You playin’?”

Ugh! You are not a gangster Jeffrey! You are, without a doubt, the whitest kid I know.

“Naw, I’m serious. They like to hang out there to find bits of old jewelry that people have thrown away.”

Come on Jeffrey. Call my bluff.

“Aw-yeah, now that I think about it I seem to remember the ladies back home doin’ that too. They’re a strange species, who’s with me!?” He raised his open palm to my face.

Oh brother. SLAP. I looked down at my poor high-fived hand and rubbed my forefingers and thumb together, like they were covered in invisible mucus. God, I hope I don’t catch dipshit.

When we reached the top of the escalator I led Jeffrey towards the ticket counter. A group of young girls were walking towards us, probably headed down the escalator we just came from. Jeffrey arched his back and started to do this Michael Jackson-meets-Robocop strut. Apparently looking this unnatural was attractive back where Jeffrey came from. I grabbed him by the scruff of his collar and gave a firm tug that conveyed to him this:

‘Hey, Turdzilla, it is way too early in the afternoon for us to get laughed at. Walk properly or I’ll kick you so far up the arse you’ll have a legitimate reason to walk like a gay cowboy.’

Jeffrey slunk back to his default ‘Uncle Buck in a Karate Jumpsuit’ stance. I pointed up at the movie board and told him to pick something good.

“Pick something good, Jeffrey.”

“Hey, you know my friends back home call me J-Rizzle. Maybe you could call me that?”

“Come on Jeffrey, we haven’t got all day.”

He stared up at the neon board for no longer than six seconds.

“Hannah Montana.”


“Hannah Montana, I wanna see Hannah Montana.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Dude, have you seen Hannah Montana? She’s an absolute babe!”

She isn’t. I have no beef with her or her Disney-lite flavour of tween melodrama, but she is not hot. She looks rather like a horse.

“We are not spending good time and money on Hannah Montana. Pick again.”

I looked over at the poster for Sam Raimi’s new horror/comedy Drag Me To Hell. I thought it looked great so I began mentally rubbing my hands together. Nyahahaha.

“Alfred and the Chipmunks two!”

Don’t say shit like that. People can hear you.

“Come on man, don’t you want to see something with some balls?”

I eyed off another poster of an independent cop drama/thriller. It looked pretty interesting.

“Hmm...” Oh, Christ, this better be good. “What about the new Twilight film?”

“Were you dropped on the head as a child?”

He didn’t answer, but it was a serious question.

“Come on, it looks fierce (fierce? That’s a thing now?). It has Jacob and his werewolf clan and Edward and the bad-ass Cullen family, and they have to set aside their differences to defeat--”

“No Jeffrey. I am not endorsing any of this nonsense. What about Drag Me To Hell? It’s by the director of Spiderman. Surely you like Spiderman?”

I know you do Jeffrey. You’ll probably go to your high school formal as Spiderman.

“Yeah I do, but... that’s a scary one. I’m not too keen on the scary flicks.”

“Well, of course you’re not, you only seem to like movies geared at nine year olds.”

“What about Transformers Two?”

I looked up at the board once more. Transformers II started in fifteen minutes. It looked like one of the big-budgeted Hollywood wank-fests I avoided like the plague, but it was about as close to a compromise as we were going to get. Besides, the original cartoon was pretty fierce. Damnit, now he’s got me saying it.

“Okay. Deal. An excellent fourth choice.”

I led him up to the ticket counter and asked the guy for two tickets. As I was passing my money under the glass screen I felt something grab me around the waist.

“What the f-”

“Hey cous’,” I looked down at my waist, and, sure enough, the hand belonged to Jeffrey, “I just wanted you to know that I love you, and it’s great comin’ into the big citeh (again, how he said it) to spend some time with you and your folks.”

“Uhh, don’t mention it.”

“And, and, I want you to know that if you’re ever down my way (I wouldn’t be. I had far too much self-respect for that) you will always, always, have a crib in which to crash.


Shucks, Turdburger, that was sort of sweet.

“Thanks Jeffrey.”

“Word, cous’!”

“Yes, Jeffrey. Word.”