Martin Roger Perfect

January 24, 2007

Michelangelo Roberto Puttanesca had an ordinary life. Then his uncle died.

Being the only surviving Puttanesca (after everyone else in his family besides his uncle passed away after eating two-day old salad) Michelangelo received a handsome inheritance. His inheritance looked good in a mirror.

Prior to his uncle’s death, Michelangelo spent all of his time watching Netflix and working at his day job. It doesn’t matter what type of day job it was – suffice to say it was at a desk, and involved sending many emails, and placing four or five phone calls a day. Michelangelo quit his job after the money hit his account, but he did not cancel his Netflix.

He did not cancel his Netflix because he needed them. Being somewhat fat and unkempt (though under the fat and the unkemptness not a bad looking WOP at all) Michelangelo didn’t know what else to do with his life. He didn’t need to work, didn’t have any family, and was too fat and sloppy to make any friends. He thought of spending his new money on buying friends, but decided against this. Even bought friends demand attention, and Michelangelo, despite his apparent alienation from the world – didn’t really want company of that sort. What he needed was some booty. Patooty. Booty patooty.

The little red envelopes gave him an idea. He was almost three quarters of the way down the AFI’s list of the top one hundred movies of all time (and about fifteen pounds fatter) when it hit him – he could do this sort of thing in every aspect of his life. He had all the money, and consequently, all the time, in the world.

He turned into a whirlwind of studiousity. He finished the AFI list, then he read the Modern Library’s top one hundred novels of the twentieth century. Then he listened to Rolling Stones’ top one hundred albums of all time. He hired a personal trainer and hit the gym, losing a hundred and two pounds. He got laser removal, had his eyebrows done, started eating only products derived from soy. He hired a pilate to teach him yoga. He ate a sandwich. He learned how to play the piano, ride a horse, a motorcycle, a woman. He rode many women, of both the mother and whore type. He slept with men. Animals. Trees. He learned everything he could possibly learn about sex.

He followed each major religion for three months each, and then some minor ones in February. He learned how to act, how to sing, how to play all major American sports, and then some minor European ones. He hunted game with arrows, spears, bullets, rocks. He took a gymnastics class, and then quit because he thought it was gay.

Cooking. Sailing. Chess. Dance Dance Revolution. He mastered them all. He mastered everything. He had the time and the money to master everything.

In essence, Michelangelo Roberto Puttanesca re-created himself as the model of intellect and skill. He then changed his name to Martin Roger Perfect, thinking that his old one sounded too ethnic.

Once all of this was done, Martin Roger had aged several years. Along with his knowledge and his skills, and his newly svelte figure, he now also had salt and pepper hair. Wow.

He met a beautiful, intelligent, shapely woman, with breasts made out of sandwiches, and asked her on a date. She agreed. They went out for fajitas. And beer. Fajitas and beer.

“What do you do?” she eventually asked.
Martin Roger smiled. “Everything,” he answered. “Anything.”
“Really?”
He nodded. She paused, reflected upon the news, and then said:
“How boring.”
Martin Roger was shocked and apalled.

He then exploded.

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5 Responses to “Martin Roger Perfect”

  1. dailysalad Says:

    this website no longer makes any sense.

  2. codyhess Says:

    You got what you asked for.

  3. notwithabangbutawhimper Says:

    Well, at least he didn’t end the story with “i bite your eyes.”

  4. codyhess Says:

    I’m a fan of the story personally, as M Roger Perfect represents everything I’d like to acheive with my own life, up to and including spontaneous combustion.

  5. dailysalad Says:

    i really like the story also. i’m just commenting on the fact that even i’ve lost track of our format. it truly is a salad.


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