The past few weeks have been a nightmare for me. Regular readers of the Bomb will already know that recent times have seen the quantity and quality of my written output plummet. Very few things were written and fewer still were funny.
My life was turned upside down with the PETA debacle and, even though I presented a brave front, things have been going steadily downhill since.
What follows is an expose, one might say. It deals with the real dirt and pain that is my life. Be forewarned. Some details, though grisly in nature, were necessary to include in order to fully portray the horrific turn which my life has taken recently.
My hope is that this will also serve as an apology to you, dear readers, for falling short of your expectations, plus do double-duty as a big, fat, glorious announcement that I’m back, bigger and better than ever.
- Marty Sherman, July 12, 2006Chapter One
I had blacked out from drinking before, but never like this.
I woke up in a cold sweat, fully clothed and lying in bed. The room was pitch black except for the red LED on my clock radio which told me flatly that it was 3:19. Since it was still dark that must mean 3 a.m., but I couldn’t remember anything. About coming to bed, about the time before coming to bed, nothing. The room was eerily silent, even though my window was open wide to the night air. No barking dogs, no traffic. Not a sound.
I sat up with some difficulty and realized that my rib cage on the left side was very tender. I fumbled for the switch to the reading lamp on my night stand and winced at the brightness of the bulb when it came on. Once my eyes had adjusted to the light I could see my reflection in the mirrored closet doors to one side of the bed, and what I saw wasn’t pretty.
I had expected to be hung over, but this was ridiculous. I’d never looked worse in my life...pale, bloated, with a three-day growth of beard. There were bags under the bags under my eyes.
What day was it? I couldn’t recall. In order to get to my feet I needed to steady myself with one hand on the wall. I limped out of my tiny bedroom avoiding piles of dirty clothes, books, porno magazines and the occasional shoe. When I got to the bathroom I could see down the hall that the light was on in the living room. It wasn’t like me to leave a lamp on, no matter how drunk I got, but I needed to check out my ribs before I did anything else. I was just then realizing how difficult it was to breathe and I was experiencing sharp pain every time I tried. It suddenly dawned on me that the pain was what had awakened me in the first place.
I splashed some cold water on my face in an effort to feel better or normal or something, but it didn’t help. I spent some time staring straight into my own eyes and trying to recall what had happened, but I just couldn’t. Then I lifted my soiled and sweat-soaked shirt to reveal a nasty bruise that was already turning blue about half-way down my left side.
There was also a wide bruise on my upper left arm near the shoulder and both of my hands were sore along the knuckles. After checking my face more carefully and probing for loose or broken teeth with my tongue, I came to the conclusion that I was basically okay. I must have been in some sort of fight, but didn’t remember leaving the house.
My balance seemed to be returning so I decided to head to the living room and see if there were any clues as to what might have happened in there. I walked gingerly down the hall. The realization that my ribs might be cracked and not just bruised was weighing heavily on my mind until I saw what was in the living room. Suddenly, the pain disappeared. Unfortunately, it was replaced with overwhelming horror when I spotted the lifeless form sprawled awkwardly across the sofa.
It was Jackie, my ex-wife.#