Sleep Talkin' Man (11 page)

“What the fuck are you doing here?
Piss off back to the sick part of my imagination.”

As we’ve already established, Sleep Talkin’ Man is such a separate entity to Adam’s waking self that Adam himself even refers to STM in the third person. And I’m not just talking about those glaringly obvious digressions in personality: Adam’s good-natured humility to STM’s egomania, Adam’s generosity and kindness to STM’s insulting irreverence. There is so much more evidence than these basic traits alone to suggest that a wholly separate being is unleashed when the lights go down.

For example, people always want to know whether Awake Adam is as hilarious as Sleep Talkin’ Man. Well, Adam is a pretty witty guy, and even has the odd moment of comic genius. But does he have that pitch-perfect punch that STM manages with such frequency? Not even close. Adam couldn’t come up with this stuff
awake, certainly not this much of it, if he tried. And, believe me, he does try. But where STM rarely delivers a clunker, Adam is never afraid to go for the eye-roll-inspiring, low-hanging fruit joke. You know, the kind of puns that only dads make. Here’s a typical example, from one of our early morning conversations:

STM: 1, Awake Adam: 0.

But that’s far from the end of it. There are all sorts of words and phrases that STM uses that would never come out of Adam’s mouth. “Douchebag” is a distinctly American insult, never used by Adam in his waking life or, for that matter, by any self-respecting Brit. And, I’m sorry, but “hot dang” in a mildly posh English accent sounds ridiculous. Or how about this:

“Seriously man. I was mega wacked-out. True, blood. Peace out, muthafuckaaah.”

Huh?! Is STM moonlighting as a blaxploitation film actor?

Adam’s nighttime natterings are peppered with all sorts of un-Adam-like, un-English stuff like this. And I know exactly what you’re thinking: no, he didn’t pick it up from me. Of course, like most Brits, Adam has seen his share of American movies. I guess STM’s definition of cool is Quentin Tarantino.

More amazing, though, is the fact that STM sometimes comes out with words and phrases
with which Adam, to the best of his conscious knowledge, has no familiarity. One night early in his sleep talking history, Adam muttered,

“Dance for me, go on. Oh, you were! I thought you were having a spaz attack … Doofus.”

When I told his what he’d said, he chuckled, and then said, “Umm, what’s a ’doofus’?” And how about this:

“We gotta get out of here. Oh! There’s a giant aye-aye coming, and he’s pissed!”

Neither of us had any clue what he was talking about. After trying out a variety of spellings in Google, I eventually determined that an aye-aye is a type of lemur. Even after this discovery, Adam had no recollection of ever having heard of such an animal.

But it’s not just the odd word or phrase that distinguishes STM from Adam. STM has even
been known to mutter in foreign languages that Adam does not speak. Here he is dabbling in French:

“Touché, mon petit frère.
Now it’s MY turn to fuck you up.”

I actually posted this on the blog as “Touché (blah blah blah in french) …” because neither Adam nor I, listening to the recording, had any clue what he had said. Luckily, a few readers e-mailed us with the proper transcription and translation, “my little brother.”

Now, how about a bit of German:

“Ja. Bitte schoen, mein lieblich. Mit knackwurst. Mmm-hmm. Und Strudel. JISM!”

At least in this case, I knew enough of the language to make sense of it myself. And of course that last word, bellowed out with great enthusiasm, is pure English
/
American slang (and, incidentally,
not an ingredient typically used in German cooking).

All that said, I certainly don’t believe that STM has access to knowledge that is completely alien to Adam. Sleep Talkin’ Man can only be a figment of Adam’s subconscious, so all this stuff must be in there somewhere. Some psychologists believe that a function of the subconscious is to sort relevant information from irrelevant, so that the conscious mind knows what to focus on. Perhaps this is all random mental detritus that just got caught in Adam’s subliminal filter, only to emerge at night. It’s either that, or STM is, after all, a totally separate entity, a night spirit who roams the earth—fleeing rare lemurs, dueling French swordsmen, swearing like a longshoreman—periodically possessing Adam’s sleeping body only to share his experiences with the living. I’d go with theory number one.

Letters to Sleep Talkin’ Man

My cousin often sleepwalks. Late one night in a hotel, he walked out of his room on the sixth floor with his ice bucket, took the elevator down to the lobby, walked to the ice machine, and filled up the bucket. Then, he got back in the elevator, went up to the FIFTH floor, and pounded on a stranger’s door thinking it was his room. When they opened the door, he handed them the bucket of ice, walked over to the refrigerator, opened the fridge door, peed into the fridge, crawled into the stranger’s bed and went right back to sleep.

I can just imagine the review of the hotel that person wrote!

Kristin B.

Alberta, Canada

Hey, don’t creep up on me like that!
Superheroes are wound super-tight.

I’m losing faith in humanity, one faked orgasm at a time.

You never take my balloons out for a walk.
They need some fresh fucking air, take ‘em outside this time. And on a long walk. They like the sun. Don’t take them to the park. I don’t want them on the swings, they’re too little for swings. And the roundabout will make them sick, just take them on a nice walk. See the duckies.
Bye balloons!

You know, it’s a human race. And you lost.

Oh shit. It’s the munchkin sing-song.
Kick ‘em in their mouths, the tuneless fucking freaks.

Butt cheeks ahoy!
There she blows!

Mine’s a potato martini.
Serve it cold.

Well, if I’m the douchebag, you’re the contents, Titfuck!

I got my big meeting today.
The one where I stand up and say, ‘fuck this shit, I quit!’

God, you whine like whale song.
But a lot less eerie and beautiful and more, well, fucking annoying.

Elvis is dead. He is dead, I tell you!
Buried and oh, just a little bit smelly.
Bad burger muncher.

Whoever invented calories is gonna get their face fucked with ice cream cake.

Of course it’s your tomato.
You can do what the fuck you want with it.
Except have sex with it.

Fucking unicorns.
’Oh, I’ve got a horn!’
So fucking obnoxious.
You’re just a horse with a party hat, dickhead.

My butt cheeks are for squeezing.
Go on, take a handful. Take two.

Oh, great. Now you’re older than Jesus.
Your one great achievement in your sad fuck of a life.

I’m sorry, but not knowing what a horcrux is is a deal breaker to me.
Deal with it, muggle-fucker.

It’s a turd. I wrapped it, and put a ribbon on it, and I’m giving it to you. See? I give a shit.

I hate bubbles. Oh sure, they’re nice and pretty to begin with, but then the rainbow colors just go POP! Instant downer. Motherfucking bubbles.

I wanna be a bumble bee. But not a slutty bumble bee, going around, pollinating every flower it sees. I’m a one flower kind of bee. A monogamous bee.
Monogabee! That’s me.

Cream cheese to the moon, motherfucker!

Oh, I’ve got the tears of a hippo ballerina on my arm. Don’t touch. Don’t touch!
Sparkly. Oh so delicate and sparkly!
Oh, sparkly.

Ladies and gentlemen, in the event of sudden change of pressure in the cabin, you may wish to scream into your masks.
SCREAM BITCHES.

Red panda … blue panda … blue panda … Green! Panda, stop changing colors.
Someone go and get Chameleon and find out what the hell’s happened here.

Of course the mermen are all pissed off.
The mermaids are all bitches. And they can’t sing…. How do they have sex?

Mary had a little lamb. I ate it. Mary’s sad.
Stupid whiny vegetarian!

Don’t stop me. I need to put this on my Santa list before I forget. It’s my Santa list! You know, an Xbox 360 for me … and a cock slap for you. I’m so excited.

Seriously, there’s nothing like a good ass-licking before you go to sleep.

Ooooh!
I’m gonna play chubby bunny until I puke.
Yeeaaahhhh.

I’ll buy the cow and put it on the roof.
High-rise farming is gonna be MY invention.

Yeah, my balloons! Watch them dancing in the sun. Aren’t they—Fuck!
Fuck, you little fuck! Your kid’s a tossbag for popping them. Tossbag kid.

Ohhh, Snuffleupagus.
You’re such a hairy cunt.

“Today’s a bad day to be my underpants, that’s for sure.”