JimSoft Insanitarium -> Insane Stories -> Gaz
By CrazyJim

After a nine-hour operation, Gaz finally completed the process of dissecting his sofa. When questioned about this bizarre act, he responded to his television, “Well, it’s a war zone out here. We’re trying hard to find survivors, but at the moment we’re—” He was promptly reminded by his toothbrush that he was in his lounge room.

Several days later, Gaz finally announced, “Oh, yeah!” and continued on his merry way to his front door. Having forgotten the reason for this journey, he set off on the return trip, which would change his life.

Pulling off a rather enthusiastic 360 over his coffee table, Gaz learned of a talent he possessed that had remained dormant these past nineteen years. Mistaking this talent for the ability to fly, Gaz broke three vertebrae and several knuckle bones that somehow found themselves glued to his forehead.

Finally learning from this repeated failure, Gaz concluded that “there is a one to five hundred and sixty three chance” that he would never fly again, and a “three percent” chance that he would forget to include the space in ‘per cent’.

This is what led Gaz to a final understanding of his talent: he could converse with the television. Unfortunately, the television seldom conversed with him, but that seemed not to matter once he found out how to cook waffles.

Putting this matter aside, Gaz declared himself ‘unable to open my front door’. This distracted him from the slight pain he felt in the remnants of his left arm, keeping him happy for several moments before he collapsed from heat exhaustion that arose from inhaling too many chicken feathers from his pillow during his shower that morning.

Vowing never again to consume pork while in the vicinity of a pork-magnetised sharp piece of metal that flies at high speeds, Gaz let out a loud squeal and leapt from his television cabinet, pulling off several flips and three pieces of plaster from his roof.

Upon landing on the ground, Gaz came across something he had never noticed previously in the past—he had a splinter in one of his left toes. Remembering the last time this happened, Gaz let out a cry and ran to hide in his cupboard.

Some moments later, Gaz burst out of his cupboard, screaming “You’ll have to kill me first!” and belting his head on the roof of the cupboard as he attempted to stand quickly.

Noticing that nobody was around, Gaz returned to his position; sprawled on his lounge room floor with his leg twisted at such an angle such that he could nearly kick himself in the head, which he attempted, only to finally understand the meaning of ‘nearly’.

Gaz spent hours lying on that floor attempting to belt himself in the head with his shoe, but soon came to the realisation that it was not attached to his foot.

Gaz looked around and spotted his shoe, glued to his ear. He remembered the incident three days ago in which he misplaced a bag of celery-flavoured confectionery that led him to compulsively glue people’s shoelaces to his earlobe.

That was besides the point though, which Gaz made it his business to scream across his yard. What wasn’t, though, which Gaz also shouted across his yard, was that there was an old man with a strangely shaped head sitting in his garage making sounds of bees and catapults and bees in conflicts with catapults.

Not that this struck him as unusual, however. It was only last week that Gaz was sitting in the driver seat of his car, shouting similar sounds at pedestrians as he threw empty containers of tomato sauce, screaming “magic red container one”, “magic red container two” and onward until he began throwing large clumps of his passenger seat.

Gaz went to investigate this bee-and-catapult-sound-making-old-garage-man, but somehow managed to get his throat lodged in the glass sliding door of his house.

“Why is it always me!?” Gaz shouted as he squirmed and attempted to retrieve his throat from the clutches of his back door.

“Because you’re an absolute moron,” the old garage man called back at him.

“Come here and say that!” Gaz shouted back.

Sure enough, several moments later the old garage man showed up on his back verandah, about four feet in front of him, and repeated, “Because you’re an absolute moron.”

“What did you call me!?” Gaz screamed as loud as he could, which wasn’t very loud now that he was on the verge of suffocating.

“I said you’re—” the old garage man was cut off as he started buzzing, then let out a “whaboomf” sound, and then another buzzing, this time suddenly cut off.

“What… was… that…?” Gaz struggled to pronounce.

“What was what?” The old garage man looked at him like a cat looks at a piano that’s about to close on it.

“That thing… you just… did,” Gaz’s voice becoming no more than a gasp.

“I have no idea what you’re— bzzzzzzzzzz… breeezzzzzzzzzzeeeeeeeebbbrrrrr… WHABOOMF, CLARKBR… bzzzzzzzzzzz… brrrrrrbbbbbzzzzzzz… bzZZZZoozoouu!”

Gaz became frightened, and seeing no other way out of the situation, opened the sliding door and retreated into his house. Soon, though, Gaz would learn the real meaning of a dollar, as he ran to the kitchen just in time for a dictionary to fall open onto his head, followed by his kettle, a large paper weight, and basically everything but the kitchen sink, which soon followed suit.

“Whaboomf! Clutter… Whaboomf! Whizz…” Gaz cried out.

“Brrrzzzzeeeeeeweeerrrrzzzzzz… Bzzzzzzeeeeezzzzzzeeeee… BZEE!” the old garage man replied.

And so life went on, with Gaz lying at the bottom of everything that was once found in his kitchen in a slightly more ordered fashion, living off the scraps found in his vacuum cleaner, screaming “Whaboomf!” and the old garage man sitting nearby replying with “BzzeeeEEEeeE!”

© 2003 JimSoft