HATE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE

In this weeks installment, I pay tribute to two of my favorite literary styles: Erotic Celebity Fan Fiction and “Chose Your Own Adventure”. The names of the celebrities have not been changed. They may sound like bigger ceelebrities that you have actually heard of, but I swear to God, they're actually just Canadian up-and-comers from the CW that you've merely never heard of.


HATE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE #1 : IN THE LAIR OF THE HOSEBEAST

“Oh shit!”

Startled by a sudden strange noise, you wake up in a strangers rickety, queen-sized, Ikea bed. The cheap, pink cotton sheets are wet with sweat and you can smell the musky, oily stench of stale bodily fluids.

Looking around the room, you see an odd mix of large stuffed animals, crystal pony figurines, mylar butterfly balloons, a life-size portrait of Rick Bannon, and a bunch of old, rusty medical equipment.

You become aware of someone singing off-key Cariah Marey songs in the bathroom to your right.

If you try to locate your pants, scroll down to PAGE #2.
If you make a break for the door, scroll down to PAGE #3
If you investigate the singing, scroll down to PAGE #4


PAGE #2
You search the floor frantically, trying to locate your pants. There's something horribly wrong about this house, and while your first instinct is to get the fuck out as quickly as possible, you would prefer doing so with something covering your filthy genitals.

After several minutes of searching for pants to cover your shameful nudity, a raspy voice calls to you from the bathroom.

“If you're looking for your clothes, you left them in here, lover.”

If you go into the bathroom to retrieve your pants, scroll down to PAGE #4
If you make a break for the door, scroll down to PAGE #3


PAGE #3
Overcome with a sense of impending doom, you decide to ignore your nudity and make a break for the front door.

“Mother fucking shit!” you yell as you discover that what you thought was the front door is actually an oven, and not because it at all resembles an oven, but because your parents were alcoholic first cousins.

If you decide to leave through the oven anyway, scroll down to PAGE #7
If you decide to head back toward the bathroom, scroll down to PAGE #4
If you decide to leave through one of the windows, scroll down to PAGE #8


PAGE #4
You walk towards the open door. As you approach, the singing stops and the person in the bathroom lets out a coy giggle.

“Come on in, Lover-boy.” says a raspy, but playful voice.

You poke your head through the doorway.

Oh fuck!! It actually is Cariah Marey!! She's lying in a bubble bath, nonchalantly sawing away at her left leg with a rusty hacksaw.

If you ask her why the fuck she's sawing off one of her legs with a rusty hacksaw, scroll down to PAGE #5
If you make a break for the door to the apartment, scroll back up to PAGE #3
If you take a gigantic dump in her toilet while engaging her in a conversation about the state of the American Family, scroll down to PAGE #6

PAGE #5
“Cariah Marey, you old so-and-so! Why the fuck are you sawing off your left leg with a rusty hacksaw?”

Cariah proceeds to give you a long, incredibly incoherent answer involving rainbows, by which time she has completely severed her left leg.

She giggles and points at a heap of clothes on the floor.

“You left your pants in here last night, after we copulated in the shower.”

You complement Cariah on aptly describing any sexual intercourse that may have occurred with the most cold, unappealing word possible.

She thanks you, then begins sawing away at her other leg.

If you make a break for the door to the apartment, scroll up to PAGE #14
If you attempt to staunch her bleeding by making a tourniquet with your belt, scroll down to PAGE #9.
If you grab your pants and charge headfirst into a nearby portrait of Rick Bannon, scroll down to PAGE #10
If you grab your pants, put them on and charge headfirst into a nearby portrait of Rick Bannon, scroll down to PAGE #11
If you take a gigantic dump in her toilet while engaging her in a conversation about the state of the American Family, scroll down to PAGE #6


PAGE #6
You decide to take a gigantic dump in her toilet while engaging her in a conversation about the state of the American Family.

Wow. Cariah has a fucked up concept of family. She keeps insisting that she actually gave birth to her stuffed animals and that they love her and call her Mommy-Ma-Ma.

Also, wow. You actually chose to take a gigantic dump in her toilet while engaging her in a conversation about the state of the American Family. Hi-five!

When you finish, she asks you to light a match.

If you light a match, scroll down to PAGE #12
If you ignore her request and don't light a match, scroll down to PAGE #13

PAGE #7
You decide to attempt to leave by using the oven, anyway. Unfortunately, on closer inspection, you discover that it is not a gas oven or even an electric oven, but an oversized E-Z-Bake oven, and there are several mold encrusted pizza boxes and a rancid Hungry Man Turkey Dinner inside.

If you decide to head back toward the bathroom, scroll back up to PAGE #4
If you charge headfirst into a nearby portrait of Nick Cannon, scroll down to PAGE #10

PAGE #8

You approach the window. Oh wait, you're an inbred cretin with fetal alcohol syndrome. What you thought was a window is actually a portrait of an extremely waspy looking Jesus.

You fall to your knees and begin sobbing, your spirits completely crushed.

If you try to locate your pants, scroll up to PAGE #2.
If you investigate the singing, scroll up to PAGE #4


PAGE #9
Wait, why the hell would you do that?
If you make a break for the door to the apartment, scroll up to PAGE #14
If you grab your pants and charge headfirst into a nearby portrait of Nick Cannon, scroll down to PAGE #10
If you grab your pants, put them on and charge headfirst into a nearby portrait of Nick Cannon, scroll down to PAGE #11
If you take a gigantic dump in her toilet while engaging her in a conversation about the state of the American Family, scroll back up to PAGE #6

PAGE #10
You scoop your pants off the floor and dash toward the nearby portrait of Rick Bannon. Ah ha! Remembering that your parents were alcoholic first cousins, you realize that your shitty inbred mind had mistaken a door for a portrait of Rick Bannon!

You step out onto the front porch, right as the real Rick Bannon is getting back from a night out alone. He sees you leaving his apartment. You are still naked from the waist down because you did not bother to put on those pants. Only instead of murdering you for making him into a cuckold, he assumes there's a reason you don't have any pants on and takes his own pants off.

You look at each other for several long, awkward seconds.

You clear your throat.

He looks at his watch.

And then you are both hit by a bus.

You spend the next thirty years of your life in a coma. Eventually, Cariah pulls the plug on you. Somehow, this actually causes you to wake up. She's wearing a creepy vinyl nurse costume and has had extensive plastic surgery to supposedly retain her youthful features, but really, she looks like a partially melted wax doll.

You have a stroke and slip back into another, deeper coma.

You come to again, another twenty years later, and promptly die of old age.

THE END

PAGE #11
You scoop your pants off the floor and put them on, then dash toward the nearby portrait of Rick Bannon. Ah ha! Remembering that your parents were alcoholic first cousins, you realize that your shitty inbred mind had mistaken a door for a portrait of Rick Bannon!

Crashing through the door, you stumble into daylight and sweet, sweet freedom. Or so you think.

Immediately after thanking God for getting you out of that nightmarish hellhole, you hear someone blowing on conch shells. Turning around, you see an advancing army of filthy orangutans. Before you have time to remove your pants and display your dominance, their leathery paws drag you to the ground and tear you to shreds.

THE END

PAGE #12
You strike a match across your teeth like a cartoonish villain. For a brief second, you notice the rippling effect of a gas leak, then everything goes white.

You, Cariah Marey, her fucked up stuffed animals and rusty medical equipment and probably Nick Cannon's suffocated remains are vaporized in the ensuing explosion.

Thank God!

THE END

PAGE #13
You ignore Cariah's pleas to light a match, and let her baste in the stench of your bowels.

You collect your pants from the heap on the floor, triggering a bear trap, which completely severs your left foot.

Cariah thrashes about in the tub, moving the stump that once was her left leg around and singing a song about how the two of you are now twins.

The last thing you hear as you bleed out is her awful, vocal warbling.

THE END

PAGE #14
Overcome with a sense of impending doom, you decide to ignore your nudity and make a break for the front door.

“Mother fucking shit!” you yell as the you discover that what you thought was the front door is actually an oven, and not because it at all resembles an oven, but because your parents were alcoholic first cousins.

If you decide to leave through the oven anyway, scroll up to page #7
If you decide to head back toward the bathroom, scroll down to page #15
If you decide to leave through one of the windows, scroll down to page #8

PAGE #15
You skulk back to the bathroom, resigned to the wretched fate of being Cariah Marey's living plaything. Seeing as how you just mistook the oven for the front door, you probably are stupid enough to actually find Cariah Marey pleasant and even talented.

Once back in the bathroom, you find that Cariah has now completely severed both of her legs and is in the middle of grafting a pair of pink vinyl pony legs onto her stumps. She's singing happily about her new Lover-boy and pointing at you every time she mentions this unfortunate schmuck.

If you attempt to burn you eyeballs out with a curling iron, scroll down to PAGE# 16.
If you take a gigantic dump in her toilet while engaging her in a conversation about the state of the American Family, scroll down to PAGE #6

PAGE #16
With the soul-crushing realization that you are doomed to a future of gecko ankle tattoos and vocal warbling, you search around the bathroom, looking for something – anything - you could use to end your life. While looking around, you notice your pants lying next to the tub, and shudder at the implications.

You grab a curling iron from a cabinet under the sink and plug it in, intent on burning through your eyeballs, into your brain. In the few moments it takes for the iron to warm up, you attempt to make small-talk with Cariah.

She's fine. Her favorite color, of course, is pink. No, you may not call her “Mimi”. Working with the ODB was fun because he was always calling her vacuous. She doesn't know what that means, but it sounds funny!

Thank God! The curling iron has finally gotten hot! You hold it in front of your face for a second, smelling the mix of electric heat and burning product, and say a little prayer for forgiveness.

Ow!! Fuck!! That really hurts!! What the fuck were you thinking?!! All you managed to do was blister your eyelids. Fuck!! Shit!! Ow!!

You run around the bathroom, flailing your arms, knocking shit off the walls and strewing makeup and hair products everywhere.

Finally, you regain your senses. For some reason you are still clutching the curling iron.

Cariah waves and blows a handful of bubbles at you.

If you fling the curling iron into the tub, scroll down to PAGE #17
If you take a gigantic dump in her toilet while engaging her in a conversation about the state of the American Family, scroll back up to PAGE #6
If you grab your pants and charge headfirst into a nearby portrait of Rick Bannon, scroll down to PAGE #10


PAGE #17
This is it! Using the last ounce of your strength, you fling the curling iron at Cariah, hoping to electrocute her in the tub so that you can tend to your blistered eyelids then find a way out of this nightmare.

The curling iron flies out of your hand, arcs out about two feet and comes crashing down to the floor. What the fuck? Did you think you'd found the curling iron with the world's longest fucking cord? Its still tethered to the wall, Dumb Ass!

If you take a gigantic dump in her toilet while engaging her in a conversation about the state of the American Family, scroll back up to PAGE #6
If you grab your pants and charge headfirst into a nearby portrait of Rick Bannon, scroll back up to PAGE #10