How Secret Life of an American Teenager Should Have Ended

"How can you say you want to not be together and only be friends," Jack said from the opposite side of the dinner table, the incandescent light glimmering off his letter jacket.  "We've always been together, Grace.  Do you remember that time in episode one--"

Grace twirled her blonde locks, a look of either confusion or constipation spreading across her pretty face.  Crappy music from five years ago seemed to erupt from nowhere like an anonymous fart as  the scene faded into a montage that showed the first time the young couple held hands, their first kiss, the first time they discussed the implications of her promise ring.

Tom heaved a sigh as stale footage of his adopted sister making out with the football jock streamed across his reality.  This was why, despite the title of the show, no one had any secrets.  All these damned flashbacks interrupting reality showing you your hot adopted sister in her bra and panties.  And what about him?  What about Tom?  He'd carried the show for like a hundred seasons now; always ready to hop into the story as the heart warming comic relief or moral compass.  He'd been there since day bloody one, but not a single damn flashback or character development montage.  He let his spork fall to his plate with a clatter.

"Tom," his mother said, "Grace was just having a montage."

"Hey everybody," he said, "remember that time I made a sandwich?"

"Sunshine Lollipops" began to play as Grace and Jack's first coupling faded into a montage of Tom dribbling a bed of lettuce over a substrate of dusky pumpernickel.  This roughage was soon followed by perfectly symmetrical slices of cucumber, pearly white mushrooms, and two emerald slivers of green peppers placed to center at a jaunty angle, glistening dewily in his memory of that fine day.

Grace cleared her throat.  "Jack, do you remember the time we--"

"And then I added cheese." Tom added.  And indeed there was cheese.  Perfect scalene triangles of aged, smokey cheddar; a creamy, rich yellow comforter over a box spring mattress of leafy green.

"Grace, I love--"

"And then I added mustard!"  Tom added.  Reality zoomed in as Tom's spork spread a layer of gritty dijon over the top of his creation.

"Oh my God!" Cried Amy, who just then appeared at the table.  "Tom TOTALLY made that sandwich!"

"Yes,"  Tom said.  "And remember that time I hired a prostitute?  Off the internet?"

And then they cut to the time Tom did this thing.  Only not Betty, that hooker with a heart of gold who kept showing up as a regular character for some reason.  It was a previous, unfilmed sequence with a hooker portrayed by that chick who used to have red hair, but was now a blonde, giving him a dirty sanchez.  A scene that his agent had muscled into the contract, but was never meant to be viewed by man nor beast.  For some reason, "Sunshine Lollipops" was still playing.

Grace vomited, Tom's mother passed out, and Jack left the room to take care of business.

"Oh my God!"  Amy cried.  "You also know how to use the internetz??  You could so easily provide for a family!  I'm so leaving both the nerdy kid AND pompadour hairdo guy for you!"

It suddenly turned out that Amy was wearing a wedding dress (a real one; not the shitty one they picked out in the show,) and Tom was wearing a top hat, and also heart boxers with suspenders.  And galoshes.  And with that they piled into Tom's Monopoly car, and looked boss driving into the sunset whilst gummi bears and Monopoly dogs the size of Datsuns hopped about the veranda like they were on the motherfucking moon.

Tom Cruise Fights Aliens in Space

It was a Tuesday, and everything in Tom Cruise’s life was awesome.  He had $1B sunglasses, was the tallest most hetrosexual bachelor in Hollywood, and Suri’s playhouse had a mailbox that was worth more than most towns in Minnesota.  Oh yes, and aliens were attacking.  Aliens from space.

“Go faster, John Travolta!” He said.  John slammed the gas pedal to the floor.

“Vroom vroom!”  Spake his Ford Prius as it shot like a mighty, salmon-colored bolt of lightning-coated gunpowder down San Francisco’s mysteriously empty roads.

“Head for the Golden Gate!”  Tom cried, firing his twin Desert Eagles at the alien ships that loomed over the city like enormous, technological, looming things.  His gun’s names were Katie and Nicole, and he held them sideways in each hand, firing one after the other like a true gangsta G money boss.  The wind sung through his perfect hair, and he looked very tall and rich in his designer sunglasses.  “It’ll be up to let the sailboats past!  We’ll jump it!”

“But it’s a suspension bridge, Tom!”  John cried.  “It won’t go up!  NEVER!”

Tom sighed angrily.  Grabbing control of the wheel, Tom jerked John’s Ford Prius towards the bridge’s enormous suspension cables.  There was a thwump as the tires gripped the braided steel wire, and they wildly spun round and round the cable.

“Yee-HAW!”  Tom cried as he shifted the Prius into overdrive.  The car’s engine roared like a dragon that just found out it was adopted, oil smoldered, rubber smoked and bubbled, and the Prius careened up the cable at over a million miles per hour.  Time slowed, and for a while, they became their own grandparents.  Suddenly, they reached the top of the bridge and launched off the cable and into low orbit.

“Omigod!”  John Travolta cried.  “It’s the flagship!  It’s black and spikey like Justin Beiber’s hair!  Only black!”
They parallel parked on the ship as Tom Cruise continued firing his Desert Eagles like a boss.  Then they broke out and crashed through a hatch.  

“Haw haw haw!” Bellowed a mysterious voice.  It came from a figure with big, bug-like eyes, a dome-shaped head, and a gold cape like Bella Lugosi!  It also had moon boots and a belt buckle.

“Xenu!”  Tom Cruise cried.  “How did I know this alien force would be led by the one man who is nearly as tall and fabulously powerful as I?”  

“It’s not only me!”  Xenu bellowed.  And so it wasn’t.  Tom saw that he was immediately surrounded by an old man in a beard and a sweater.

“Sigmund Freud!”  Tom gasped.  “The father of psychology!”

The old man laughed.

“How could you do it, Siggy?”  Tom asked.  “All Scientology wanted to do was free earthlings from their Thetans!  All we asked was a three billion year contract and a donation of several hundred thousand dollars!  Then you came about beforehand and wrecked it all with your psychology!”

“And me too!”  Said a guy with a nose.

“Who the heck are you?”  Tom asked.

“Joe Psychiatry.  The guy who invented psychiatry!”

“You’re bad too!”

“This is the end of you, Tom Cruise!”  cried Xenu.  “From here on out, people will not believe in the invisible space people I blew up in a volcano five billion years ago!  Guided by my false ‘sciences,’ they’ll blame their problems on fake things, like the death of their spouse, and horrible childhood experiences!  And there’s nothing you can do to stop me!”

“I’ll stop you!”  Cried Tom Cruise.

“What are you going to do?”  Xenu asked.  His laughter filled the chamber.  “There’s two of you and three of us!”

“Then I’ll even the score!”  Said a voice!

“Michael Bay!”  Everyone cried.

“And with the help of Michael Bay I’ll transform into -- a giant metal tank-man!”  And so Mecha Cruise charged in and dealt Xenu a mighty blow that sent him careening across the room.

Xenu picked himself up, dusted himself off, drank a Red Bull, and clapped his broad hands loudly.

“Why are you clapping?”

“You fool-- the moment you set foot on this spaceship I set it to self destruct in five minutes!  We’ll take you down with us!”

“Yeah?  Well, no sacrifice is too great to stop you! I would expend every last drop of blood to see you dead and gone!  That’s why John Travolta will transform into a super megaton bomb!”

“What??”  Said John Travolta as his skin turned into metal and radioactive bits.

"And blow you all up!"

"Aieee!" John Travolta cried, emitting a bright green glow.  It was terribly painful.

“We’ll remember you, John Travolta!”  Tom cried, picking up Michael Bay in his arms and forcing open an airlock.  “We’ll remember you as we plummet safely to earth!  Farewell, my sweet knight! Goodbye, my prince!”

And so, with the spaceship a radiant and radioactive ball in the background , Mecha Tom Cruise and Michael Bay free-fell through the stratosphere to the safety of the earth below them.  Tom’s glasses looked just awesome as they landed in Charlie Sheen’s hottub among many beautiful women.

Ruthy's First Rufie

Rufie was lying on her belly in the Cambot household, her teenibopper legs lolling up in the air as she scanned through prerecordings of the other children's daily television allotment.  "Fruit on fruit contact!"  She cried, deleting the last fifteen seconds of Veggie Tales.  "False legume idols!  This is a clear violation of FCC Rule Deuteronomy 14:33:22!!"

"Hey there, Ruthie."  Rufio said as he came into the room just then.  Rufio lived in her house and was just a wee bit older than her.

She wobbled her legs in what was probably a mildly suggestive way.  "Hey there Rufio," she said.  "How would you like to get me some grape Shasta?"

"Oh, I think that's only for adults, Rufie," spake Rufio.  "You know what they say about teens and the evil of stimulant addiction."

"Er, I'm pretty sure it's caffeine free."

"Can anything ever be TRULY caffeine free, Ruthie?"

"Stop being such a square and get a blessed pop."  Rufio gasped.  It was the first time he had ever heard young Rufie use such language.  Rufie batted her sparkly eyelids, her bright fuschia lips like happy worms doing yoga spread into a smile as sweet as honey that was also produced by worms that were perhaps crossbred with bees.  "Why don't you get one for each of us?"

"Gee," Rufio said, coming back into the room with the Shastas. "It sure is nice living with you in the Cambot household, Rufie."  He said, sitting down next to her.

"Can I see your soda for a sec?"

"Sure.  Say, you sure have a lot of brothers and sisters."

"Yes.  Here, you can have it back."

"It's fizzing now.  It tastes fizzy.  Say, am I your brother?"

"I don't remember your backstory, David."

"Well, I love you all the same."

The remote slipped from Rufie's sebaceous grasp.  Did he just say what she thought he said?  Perhaps her heretofor unquestioned methods were purposeless.  She slid her right knee closer to him.  "Rufio..."

"I love Pastor Cambot too."

"Ah."

"And I love the dog."

"Mmm..."

"Do you know what I love the most?"

"Huh?"

"That theme song that plays every time we're about to have an adventure and learn more about family and being considerate of one another."

"Oh no."

"It goes like... you know... where can you gooooooo when the world won't..."

Ruthie sighed.  It was obvious the rufie she'd surreptitiously inserted into his Shasta like a man slipping a very small penis into a sleeping prostitute was obviously not going to kick in fast enough.  She took her can and blackjacked him across the back of the head.  Since it was only aluminum, she had to continue beating him for a bit, then finally picked up a pillow, then a chair to rend him unconcious.

"Gee,"  David said, waking up.  His head felt like it was full of grape Shasta.  Drugged grape Shasta.  It was also on something soft like a tumor.  A tumor shaped like an alluring girl's lap.

"I see you're up."  Rufie said.  He suddenly felt good.  And also hard.  "I took the liberty of taking off your pants."

He looked down, blinking at his purple manpipe came into fuzzy view.  A vague blur of well-manicured purple fingernails glid over it.  It was scary like a velicoraptor, but also sexy like a velicoraptor with boobs.

"Rufie stop," he tried to struggle, only to find his hands and ankles bound with a slinky.  "Where are we?"

"Someplace we won't be bothered, Akira."

He recognized the vaulted ceiling, and the wooded pews.  "Gosh, Ruthie, we're in your father's church."

"Shush now," she whispered, her dyed blonde hair, brittle like really sexy corn flakes, whisking over his bared chest as she planted kisses down his body.  "It'll all be over soon."

"Oog," he said.  "That feels good.  And also slippery like herpes."

"Mrbbbl," she said, her mouth full just then.

And then they had sex.  It was pretty okay, but he bled a bit.

Little Billy and the Polka Dotted Trousers

A look of utter malevolence and contempt crept across Tom Cruise's broad face like a communist spy as he approached the Orange Julius cart.

"It's been a while," he said, his voice hollow as an abandoned dumpster as he took off his sunglasses.  It had indeed been such a very long time. The flashbacks were stark, polarized, black and white; a grainy image of a much younger Tom, his lips stretched into a far less malevolent, open-mouth smile, his nubile hips, clad in Daisy Dukes, wrapped around the bulk of a pink, merry-go-round emu, his young abs bulging through his Pac Man tee as he waved to the camera.

"You've done well for yourself," said Tom, shaking the grainy image from his head.

The cart, predictably, said nothing.

"Saw you now and then when I took Suri to Taco John's or Panda Garden."  Tom walked around the side, running his fingers along the metal corners.  "She's that age, you know.  You remember when I was that young?'


He flashed back to his own perspective; the coolness of molded plastic between his legs, the merry-go-round pole in his right hand, his left waving back at an Orange Julius cart holding a Polaroid.

Tom laughed.  "Yeah, we went to the pinball arcade.  You got me that  posh Hawaaiin shirt from Chess King.  Yeah,"  Tom chuckled, jabbing a finger at the cart.  "Yeah, yeah I guess I did look just like Magnum PI.  Then you took me back to the food court for my first smoothie."  His smile was rapidly decelerated, like a Lamborghini plowing through a soup line of orphans.  "Yeah, I sure was green.  Never had one before."

"You have to mash the blender buttons harder."  Said the Julius cart.

"I'm trying," spake Young, Monochrome Tom, "but I find I have to bend over and gyrate my hips a titch to get my arm at the proper angle."

"Oh yeah," the cart mumbled as the ice sloshed about.

"I'm terribly sorry for the trouble."

After a further moment of gyration, its voice was husky, its breath heavy and humid as an abandoned refrigerator.  "Yeah, now pull the cup out of my dispenser."

"Shall I put in a straw?"

"Right through the lid, kiddo. Slide it in nice and deep and suck that sweet, sweet nectar."

'Slide it in nice and deep.'  The seemingly kind words sank into Older Tom Cruise's brain folds like a burning pirate ship that had herpes.  "I was just a kid," he seethed through gritted teeth.  He took the napkin dispenser and launched it  five, six feet, maybe even a yard, across the food court. "How could you do such a thing?"

The cart remained stolidly silent.

"I'm kind of a big deal now," Tom said.  "I was in Far and Away.  And Days of Thunder."  He swept his arms across the service counter, scattering oranges for tens and tens of inches.  "I threw a grenade into an alien ship's vagina!  I can take you down, Orange Julius Cart!"

"How does it feel when someone does THIS?"  He demanded, opening and shutting the minifridge door.  He moved the juicer to a slightly oblique angle.  "Doesn't feel good, does it?  Don't like it, DO you?"

He vaulted over the counter, running his fingers over the yellow molded plastic exterior.  "Don't have much to say now, do you?"  he jabbed his crotch into the metal corner guard.  "You jerk!"  His voice cracked against the tennis ball in his throat.  He ground his crotch in deep, running his hands across the sticky counter.  "How do you like it now, huh?  How does it feel?"  Despite the torrent of tears and mucus, his bunny was close to the train station.  "Ergh!"  He cried.  "This is how you made me, Orange Julius cart!  This is how you made me!"

There was an explosion of colors in his mind, and a torrent of one very specific color in his pants.  "Who's your wingman NOW, Goose?  You want me to show you the money, Cuba?? WELL HERE'S THE MONEY SHOT, YOU CRIMINAL!"

"Hey yeah," said John Travolta, behind the camera.  "That was pretty hot, but, uh, wasn't it the Orange Julius cart in Long Beach that did all that stuff?"

"What?"  Tom asked.  "Aren't we in Long Beach?"

"No dude.  You told the slave -- I mean chauffer -- to drive us to, uh, Oakland!"

"Oh," said Tom, dabbing his zipper with scattered napkins.   "Well, sorry about that."  He spake to the cart,"But what you just saw was SLANDER!  And we'll SUE!"  You could still hear him cry as they dashed away from the encroaching security guards "We'll SUUUUUUUUEEEEEEEEE!"