by Brent Kellogg
September 8, 2003

Mass confusion was the order of the day Monday at the God Have Mercy Medical Center where auto wreck victim Ashley Carlton lay on a gurney bleeding internally as doctors stood around ignoring the pregnant woman. Only after the patient's unborn baby's heart stopped beating was Carlton rushed to the operating room.

Acting like a little black worm had bored into his skin and was crawling around inside his small intestine, a trying to do his best to look worried Brad Carlton had a perpetual urge to go off into a corner to crack his head open and look around for a brain.

With members of the Abbott family loitering around asking dumb questions, like, "What's going on?" when they knew their darling loved one had been in an accident, had internal bleeding and was finally being whisked off to be operated on, Carlton had to spell it out for his brother-in-law, Jack Abbott.

"They're taking Ash to surgery," Carlton whimpered.
"They're in such a hurry? Did something happen?" Abbott cracked.

"Well, not really. Ash was only in a bad car wreck. You were at the accident scene were you not? She's bleeding internally and the baby's heart stopped. Isn't that reason enough to rush her into surgery, Jack?" Carlton did not say, but should have given what idiots these people are.

As old man John Abbott stopped drooling in his cup briefly, Carlton belched, "They're trying to save the baby!" The noise must have awakened the old man from his perpetual sleep as he hacked, "The baby?"

Had the old man gone blind too? Did he not know the woman he still thinks of as his biological daughter is pregnant? And even after being specifically told the baby's heart had stopped, the geezer asked, "Was Ash aware of what was going on with the baby?"

Yes, Mr. Abbott. She was aware. She knew that in her highly agitated state she could give birth at any moment and that's why she raced home at breakneck speed, crashed her car and went into unconsciousness.

"Maybe it's a good thing she was sleeping," the old guy quipped, only to be told by Carlton that no, she wasn't sleeping. She had been awake a full ten seconds before slipping back into unconsciousness.

As if his wife were in any condition to make any rational decision during that period of time, Carlton began bawling again over the unknown. Gosh, his wife and baby could die and who then could he blame?

Because these evildoers fabricate and spin they do not rely on truths or first-hand reports. They do not rely on anything so piffling and small and dangerous as honesty. They whimper and whine and must be told over and over to stay positive and believe because the victim is strong and will pull through.

And because he's hopeless and should be put in a home, old man Abbott chimed in again to ask, "Any news?" as if maybe a miracle had happened during the ten minutes since he had last asked.

Compounding their depression and the overall sadness was the arrival of Nick and Nikki Newman who must have known Mrs. Carlton had been in an accident but they too had to ask, "What happened?"

Told of the car crash, goofy Newman asked, "Was it bad?"

Silly boy! No, it wasn't bad. That's why everyone is hanging out at the hospital, wringing their hands and bawling.

Then, in a moment of pure insanity, Carlton tried to calm everyone's fear when he proclaimed, "It's in God's hands."

This is nothing shocking. This is nothing even remotely unusual or uncommon. Even when Mrs. Newman tossed out the old cliché, "how are you holding up?" it came as no surprise that Carlton would bring God into the equation.

During all the adulterous affairs he's had. During those moments of passion last year in the hotel bedroom with his wife's best friend, Carlton never asked God for anything. Only now when his meaningless life is in chaos does he utter the blasphemy. "I keep praying I'll wake up from this nightmare."

And as Mrs. Newman spewed, "What's done is done," Carlton's daughter appeared on the scene to say she came to pray and if daddy needed her she'd be in the hospital chapel. But Carlton dare not enter the home of God. He's got more important things to do like, placing the blame for his wife's accident on Victor Newman.

"This is Newman's fault," Carlton said, the rage and hate causing the horns on his head to smolder.

Please God, you've got to do something. I'm praying every night. You've forgiven me a million times but I just can't help myself. I've got to hate someone.

Brad Carlton is but a puppet, a toy onto which impotent myths are projected spit forth by Satan to ratchet up the nagging fear that this horrible thing, this irreversible atrocity like all the others will pass and then mostly forgotten just as God will be until the next tragedy.

Oh dear God! How painfully obvious was it Monday when Brad Carlton arrived at his wife's hotel probably somewhere in Utah and eyeballing the great Victor Newman practically swapping spit with his wife that something more tragic than what is to happen to Mrs. Carlton hasn't already infected Mr. Carlton's lower colon?

With his upper lip bent out of shape the most intelligent words ever to ooze out of Carlton's mouth spilled onto the carpet adding to the array of strange looking stains.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he cracked, all coupled with the ever-present threat of death and/or immortality, endless failures and setbacks and yet re-emerging above ground stronger, more aware, attuned, enlightened and potent. "C'mon Newman, I dare y'a," Carlton may have wanted to say but didn't because just like all the men in Genoa City those who come up against the aging old man Newman turn into quivering, gutless sissies.

Even when Newman said that he was there to "make sure your wife is well taken care of," Carlton was shaking so much all he could wonder was what it was that Newman had been telling his wife. The same wife he cheated on not so long ago with her best pal.

"I told your wife that her unborn child should be her one and only priority," Newman grunted, as if at month #14 or however many months she is overdue Mrs. Carlton hasn't had the good sense to avoid stressful situations like, encounters between her current and former husbands and maybe, just once, will get off her ass and seek prenatal care.

Completely dumbfounded and perhaps thinking to himself "I have got to do more than squeal like a stuck pig whenever I catch Newman sucking around my wife" Carlton changed the topic to business! Gosh, Mr. Newman. Would you be so kind as to tell me the inner-workings of your company? I hear you're trying to hire Jabot's lab rat away from us. You've hired that greasy lawyer too. What's up with that?

It was all Newman could do to not burst out loud laughing. Did this pipsqueak actually think he would be given insider information? You snorting coke again Carlton?

With his nose high in the air Newman was on his way out the door when - perhaps to certify that he's all faux manly and squinty and artificially buffed up - Carlton oinked, "We're watching you closely."

While it could not be ascertained, Newman undoubtedly doubled over in laughter the moment he was out of sight. There again was Brad Carlton. All fierce and makeshift macho and ready to be flown offshore to land on a carefully positioned photo-op aircraft carrier. What a joke.

And as if she needed to prove again that she is nothing but a sperm thief, a degrading dirty piece of scum full of icky germs and scary phallic exploding things, Mrs. Carlton summed up the encounter by proclaiming that something is going on that nobody wants her to know about. Why did Newman keep asking about her baby? Why did her husband not once mention the absence of that precious little Newman baby he adopted until she mentioned her unborn baby? Boy howdy, whatever is going on it can't be good.

As for the whereabouts of Abby Carlton the two-year-old was where every child this age should be. With the traveling nanny at some pool being taught how to swim by total strangers. God, something was wrong alright.

Turning the situation into a nationwide laughingstock more of a joke than it already was, Mr. Carlton babbled how nice it was that his daughter wasn't present to witness the ass-chewing he gave Newman. Damn toddlers pick up and remember for a lifetime the bad vibes emitted by their parents and later in life turn out to be Internet stalkers. And by the way: that skunk oil product you concocted and was so toxic we had to get you out of the lab and hire a lab rat to do your dirty work?

It's "elegant" Mr. Carlton quipped, hoping too that the long awaited rollout of Tuvia would make his wife less fearful when deep down he knew Tuvia is really just disposable bile for Jabot's endlessly gluttonous chemical and political stratagems.

Then, like some chuckling semi-comatose chicken, Mr. Carlton thought long and hard about his recent anal probe and realizing he hadn't checked Olivia Winters' head for ticks in at least a week, somehow managed to say nothing is going to go wrong.

And seemingly recalling that's what she thought when she stole Newman's sperm, Mrs. Carlton cackled, "I hope you're right."

Carlton's statement was meant to be throat grabbing. Gosh, could it be something tragic will happen? Hasn't this woman been through enough? Which one of her babies will die? While a big hint was served up that it could be Abby, it's obvious from the big belly and difficulty walking Mrs. Carlton displays that the unborn baby will die.

The death, of course, will have a severe impact on Brad Carlton but should be a relief for Mrs. Carlton in more ways than one given how just about everybody knows she's never really loved her husband and has a direct connection with Newman she'd like to pursue.

Relationships in this city like Carlton's last about a year and it's been that long. After a few days of blaming himself, Mr. Carlton will forget about the dead baby and be ready to move on.

If there is a tragedy it will be that Ashley Carlton wasn't the one who died.

At the rate Brad Carlton is going this week he's gonna get a huge whack upside his empty head for his hypocritical ways.

Sensing his daughter is troubled by something hunkmonkey J.T. Hellstrom did to poor Colleen, Carlton raced to the Fenmore Glowtique on Friday where he knew the odds were good that it was Hellstrom's day to open the little shop of horrors. Sure enough, Hellstrom was there so Carlton lit into him about how his daughter is "miserable" and it's all Hellstrom's fault.

Unwilling to give up the sticky details - how he porked his former girlfriend's mother and that Colleen had found out - Hellstrom said only that the two lovebirds had broken up. Besides, hadn't Carlton ever screwed over a woman he loved?

Thinking back for a moment to the time he had sex with his wife's best friend Carlton caught himself. Hey! This isn't about me. It's about you, he snarled, completely forgetting that prior to allowing an adult to drive his 16-year-old daughter mad with lust it was he who had made his always miserable daughter even more miserable.

Babbling how Colleen isn't at home waiting to hear from J.T., Carlton assured the already feeling the peer pressure to have more sex Hellstrom to forget about having divine clumsy groping interactions with his daughter. As always it will take time and won't be easy for babes like Colleen, but "she will get over you," he said, noting that hopefully Colleen will be "a lot smarter" next time she falls in love and that Hellstrom should be thanked for giving her a lesson on trust.

Since its inception in 1984 the Genoa City News has repeatedly complained about some of the most asinine throw away clichés known to man the characters that make up this mini-megalopolis known as the armpit of Wisconsin use on a daily basis.

In recent times we've tried to ignore the hackneyed "godsend" and "opportunity of a lifetime" uttering and have even tried to overlook the infamous most overused cachectic line of them all; "What are you doing here?"

But after the scene Brad Carlton made Thursday at the Newman Jitter Joint we couldn't help mentioning again how moronic just about everybody in Genoa City is.

While enjoying breakfast with his daughter [and doesn't it make you wonder why the pregnant, I'm so worried about my wife wasn't with him or he keeping a close eye on the sperm stealing white as a sheet Ashley] Brad noticed Colleen becoming squirmy when Anita Hodges was spotted nearby.

"I wonder what she's doing here?" Mr. Carlton hurled.

Had I actually been at this coffeehouse by day club for all ages by night [I would have to be stupid to hang out anywhere near where packs of high school/college delinquents and other sewer rats congregate] and had heard Carlton say something that is so typical of the annals of sub-mediocre sensationalist scriptwriting gone the way of "Debbie does Dallas" and similar crap, I would have screamed;

"She's here eating breakfast and drinking coffee just like you are you freak! What do you think she's doing here? What are you doing here?"

God, is there no accounting for simplemindedness? It's bad enough when people are asked what they are doing in their own homes or places of business, but to ask what a customer is doing in a store is like asking someone "is it hot enough for you" when the temperature outside is 110.

Not to belabor the issue, but when has Brad ever met Anita? Just how does he know Mrs. Hodges and what would make him wonder what she was doing anywhere?

Beautiful logic

April 7, 2003

by Molly Media

Minutes after the dawn had spread daylight across the new and improved Brad and Ashley Carlton marriage many wondered how long it would be until Brad found another reason to cheat on his wife or Ashley would steal another man's sperm so that she could have another baby. To this day Mr. Carlton has never asked his pregnant wife to have a paternity test and blindly accepts that his marriage is safe, secure and honest and that the unborn baby is his.

And isn't this how it should be?

So what if the marriage participants took vows to honor and love in sickness and in health forsaking all others and to be true as long as they both shall live and then violated the sacrament? All it took was an apology from Mr. Carlton for having had sex with his wife's best friend and everything old was new again.

Even after learning Monday that his wife has been seen with her former lover again Carlton told his bride that it was okay. If Mrs. Carlton wants she can scamper around naked in a drunken screaming haze because Genoa City's megasnooty elite population is so damn screwed up and insane and torrid affairs are expected.

Sugary drool slobbering from her lips, a pleased as punch Mrs. Carlton said how much she wants hubby to enjoy her pregnancy and maybe even invite Olivia Winters over for a group belly rub and the demons willing, the evil woman will agree to be a godmother to their baby.

The past behind them, the Carltons now say they can talk about anything. Yes, it's true. Brad actually said this. Whatever his wife does from now is perfectly okay. She won't have to explain her actions even if those actions involve the great Victor Newman.

In keeping with the hypocrisy that rots what's left of their crusty souls Brad implored Ashley, "we can’t have secrets" for they've seen what happens when secrets are in place and must never allow those secrets they've locked up in the broom closet to get out.

All hail. Fall down on thee kneepads and praise a fornicating loving god for pairing them and making them the luckiest people in the whole spinning out of control world. Beautiful is the logic of the Great Carltons.

February 14, 2003

Can you feel the love?

by Brent Kellogg 
Genoa City News staff report

Declaring on Friday that his wife's pregnancy is, "a miracle" and that his estranged wife should "celebrate" by having sex and how this changes everything and they will pretty much forget that he slept with his wife's best friend, what happened next in Brad Carlton's life is perhaps the most unbelievable thing to ever happen in Genoa City.

Fresh from another My Life is an Open Book therapy session with interloper Wes Carter - during which she whined how hurt she was when her two former husbands cheated on her - Olivia Winters apparently got some finger licking good Jerry Falwell religion and reached the conclusion that sleeping with her best friend's husband was merely one of those accidents people make and can be quickly discarded regardless of the many times she rubbed the tryst in Ashley Carlton's face.

The evil, butchering bitch ho trotted her sorry ass over to the Carlton home, rang the doorbell, and seeing Brad in his robe when the door opened, pretty much guessed correctly that the Carlton's had reconciled because Ashley had already written the past off as a learning experience.

There would be no more secrets and no more lies, Ashley said, fully realizing that this story had all the most delicious elements of cheap-ass soap opera trash but couldn't help but admire in this mirthless and adulterous city, the scumball cheatin' doctor, the really evil sister, bad sex and partially insane husband who would fornicate her best friend at the drop of a hat, and of course, the large blob growing in her belly that would make everything old new again.

As if this were not already the most insidious thing ever, that butcher, that cheap disgusting excuse for a woman named Holivia by those who know her best, had the audacity to ask if she could have her friend back!

Holding out a hand of death, Olivia became all weepy-eyed as Ashley took it. The two collapsed into each others' arms and wept silently as a smiling Brad looked on.

Brad was, undoubtedly, smiling because he was imagining himself later in bed with Ashley having sex. "Can you feel the love?" he might ask and Ashley would moan and say how good it was and Brad would say, yum, Olivia thought so too. What say we call her over for a threesome? And Ashley would groan as she reached for the phone.

Yes, it sounds appalling. But nowhere near as appalling as what happened. For accepting Olivia's, um, olive branch, Ashley may have just as well come out and suggested that now they were pals again, she and Olivia could share Brad and maybe have a few nubile male Greek servant-boys on hand to buff their ass cheeks with imported Guatemalan chamois as they take turns riding Brad's missile. And oh my, Ashley did not say to the evil snake, I've never noticed before how taunt your nipples are. Are they cold? Shall I warm them up for you? C'mon Sugar, go with the flow, we're pals again. Feel the love.

Don't ask, don't tell

by Brent Kellogg
Genoa City News

Caught up in doing what's best so that she might obtain the elusive and meaningless buzzword "closure", Ashley Carlton concentrated Monday on putting the final touch on a legal separation from her husband and did not give much thought to how strange it was that her doctor had referred her to the local butcher for important information concerning her health.

Failing to inform the patient of her pregnancy, Dr. Reese Walker, in a hint of toxic irony induced by Zoloft and Paxil popping, simply instructed Carlton to take better care of herself before announcing that she could be released from the Center 4 Disease in about an hour.

Vaguely aware she wasn't being told everything, Mrs. Carlton asked, "What do you mean?" Take care of myself? As in sexual gratification? What?

Totally ignoring the question, Walker asked if Carlton had spoken with Dr. Winters. Told no, Walker smirked. "No matter. She may have gotten busy" and again told the Carltons to check with the butchering bitch before leaving.

Failing to see the importance, not once asking Walker, hey, why don't you save us the hassle of having to track down the busy bitch by telling us what you know, Brad Carlton let the quack waddle off and then, in a sad little outburst of bliss, told his wife how determined he was to focus on her condition.

And again, when Ashley said she had no desire to speak with Dr. Winters, Brad did not think, gosh, maybe I should find out what Walker knows. The little concern Brad may have had for Ashley was circumvented when she let it be known that women's intuition told her Winters was after his body and how far had he gone with the ho anyway?

Looking as if he had just swallowed a moldy slug, Brad ran off cackling and hissing and dangling Dr. Winters ovaries from his neck like a gimcrack. Another visit with the butcher might help him make up his mind as to whether living up to those often ignored wedding vows was in order or maybe he and Winters should get married so that they too could go through the revolving marriage door.

Before Brad arrived at the Office of Township Evildoers, the equally vile Dru Winters was there hovering like a sex-starved vulture desperate for a lusty piece of verbal porn. Had her sister screwed the hunkmonkey again? Was it good? How long is Brad's penis? Yum, yum.

The high-maintenance black nightmare most everyone would find extremely difficult to like if they bumped into her in a bar or say, a fetish dungeon, oinked that if her sister wouldn't give up the latest details of her sex life, she'd pry it out of Brad.

Dru's sick inquisitiveness would have to wait for another time as sister dearest had suddenly found the one remaining caring bone in her otherwise callous covered body. Her once long-time friend Ashley's life was in ruins and to think she, Dr. Olivia Barber Hastings Winters, had anything to do with the devastation was so utterly repulsive.

Dru let that tender bit of miserable cultural poison sink into her exhausted embittered soul and departed just as Brad arrived with news that his wife was pretty much okay and would be leaving within the hour. And God bless her perverted little heart, Olivia tried doing the right thing when she said there was something the Carltons needed to know.

Amazingly, though he had been told again there is something he should know about Ashley's medical status, Brad said his wife had no interest in hearing anything Olivia had to say.

Still trying to get through his thick head, Olivia said okay, she'd give Brad the news and he could pass it on to Ashley.

Instead of saying, Jesus, this is about the fourth or fifth time I've heard there's something my wife should know and why doesn't somebody just freaking tell me, Brad said he'd "try" to tell Ashley whatever it was she should know but wasn't being told and nobody was asking. Besides, since Ashley wanted a legal separation, he might have to speak with Ashley's lawyer, like, maybe next week.

Did somebody say separation? The word made Olivia's black eyes flash and squint. Maybe telling Brad his wife is pregnant could wait until she'd had one more chance to mount his naked body calling him a bad, bad horsey and smacking his tender butt with a riding crop.

January 21, 2003

Buttinskies & Butt-holes
by Michael Kelly