- See unidentified thing on floor.
- Look at it.
- Look at it.
- What IS it? Look harder at it.
- Look at it while tilting head.
- WHAT IS IT?
- Bend over to look at it.
- Look at it lookatitLOOKATIT
- Poke it.
- Poke it again.
- Pick it up.
- Drop it.
- Look for it.
- Look for it lookforitLOOKFORIT
- WHERE IS IT???
- IS IT ON ME???
- Flail uncontrollably.
- See second unidentifiable thing on floor.
- Repeat from Step 2.
Category Archives: Ye Olde Apartment Complex
No, that isn’t a case of stupid-finger-syndrome (SFS) up there… I really do mean to emphasize the “HO’ part. Here’s why:
One of the clans of Redneck Hillfolk up at Ye Olde Apartment Complex has put a red light bulb in their porch light. And I think they mean it as a Christmas decoration, but I’m not sure. Let’s apply some Non-Stick Science, shall we?
1. There are no OTHER decorations visible. This would seem to indicate either it’s NOT for Christmas or these particular Hillfolk are unusually lazy.
2. The porch itself is home to a disproportionately large number of chairs. Like, I live alone, so I have one chair and a little patio bench on my porch. This particular batch of Hillfolk (whose apartment is exactly the same size as mine, remember) have at least 7 or 8 of those cheap-ass white plastic chairs. And no tables. This leads me to believe the light means what I always THOUGHT red lights meant and they’re using their porch as a waiting room.
(Wait. Do hookers have waiting rooms? That’s gotta be uncomfortable. And sticky.)
3. Hookers operating out of Ye Olde Apartment Complex wouldn’t even be all that illegal by the current standards of illegal immigrants and drug deals. In fact, it wouldn’t even be the most illegal thing I’ve seen this WEEK.
So, what do y’all think? Hookers or lazy trash? Or both, don’t wanna exclude the most likely possibility!
Several of the Redneck Hillfolk have really gone all out this year with their Halloween decorations around Ye Olde Apartment Complex, and I have found it just makes me that much LESS likely to do anything myself. There’s also a DAMN good chance the huge sack of candy I bought for Trick-or-Treat will be consumed entirely by Chuckweasel and myself.
Don’t get me wrong, I love Halloween, it’s just I’m not what you’d call a “joiner.” I don’t want to do what everybody else is doing, and the more they do it, the more I dig in my heels and refuse. Plus, I’m not really good with the decoration-removal part — my Christmas tree once stayed up until March!
Maybe THAT’S what I’ll do! I’ll start decorating for DIFFERENT holidays! Like, they can put up their ghosts and shit, and I’ll hang little hearts and cherubs in the window! Oh, it’s on now — this year’s Thanksgiving will be celebrated with shamrocks and leprechauns!
Okay, so I have realized a very important thing… As we all know, I am not a huge fan of children as a species… but I may, in fact, hate their PARENTS more.
Now, I know some of y’all have spawned, so present company excepted, of course. But allow me to illustrate — none of y’all would ever do THIS:
On Friday, I was leaving Ye Olde Apartment Complex to pick up the Weasel, and there in the little driveway dealie leading out of the parking lot are 2 parked cars. They’re snugged up close to the wall, engines off, no people visible… so after a moment of confusion, I start to pull past them…
That’s when a man who we shall call “Extremely Angry Brotha Man” sticks his head out his car window and gives me dickface! Like “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” dickface! And I’m even MORE confused… and that’s when the school bus pulls up.
FUCK. ME. Are you serious? Yes, they are. The 2 cars immediately pick up the precious snowflakes that have been disgorged by the bus, then pull into the road, make a U-Turn, and HEAD BACK UP INTO YE OLDE APARTMENT COMPLEX! Christ on a crumpet, this is why American children are so fucking fat! It’s MAYBE 3 short blocks from the end of the driveway to the very LAST set of apartments… you’re telling me Timmy can’t walk that far? Help. Me. Jesus.
When I was little, I walked a FUCK of a lot farther than that from the bus stop to my house… and I ain’t never died from it. And I had a friend who walked ALL THE WAY home from school up this long-ass flight of stairs in the side of the hill… and it ain’t kilt her, neither! I’m warning y’all now, if this shit continues, the next generation of kids will get stranded on the second floor if the escalator breaks down!
Oh, and Extremely Angry Brotha-Man? Keep that dickface to yourself — I am a childless person who is therefore not cognizant of the school bus schedule. And I don’t have to be, because as I screamed in the car on my way down the hill…
“I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR CROTCHFRUIT!”
PS: This incident made me drink a quart and a half of whole milk (shut up, it makes me peaceful) which I then promptly threw up because you’re not supposed to drink milk by the quart. So that man’s kid made me throw up. For SHAME.
Remember when I was taken over by dark and alien forces and I cleaned all day long without even realizing it? Well, it’s happened again. As we all know, I’ve been a little chemically unstable lately, so the house is what might be politely called “a fucking disaster area.” But now the meds are kicking in and I’m able to get up off the couch (don’t worry, the dent hasn’t filled in yet), so I thought I should start living like people again. Before Neicy Nash comes to my house and freaks me out with that hair (BTW, does anyone know if she’s the same girl that plays the cop on “Reno 911”? — if she’s not, them bitches are clones or something!).
Anyhoo, I decided to start in the bathroom (at the very back of the apartment) and work my way forward. So I put “Game of Thrones” on the bedroom TV OnDemand and set to it.
5 episodes, y’all. I scrubbed that damn bathroom ON MY HANDS AND KNEES for FIVE HOURS. I just went all OCD up in there. I took all the cabinets and furniture type shit out and wiped them down, then scrubbed the floor WITH A SPONGE before I put it all back. The cats think I have lost my goddamn mind (except for Callie Jean, who doesn’t care as long as “Game of Thrones” is on).
And now I kinda want to keep the door closed forever and use the toilet at the gas station to avoid besmirching my ultra-pristine bathroom. It can be for display purposes only, right?
Presenting: The “Don’t Give a Shit Kit” — now including the “Fuck It Bucket!”
So the power went out for about 24 hours this weekend (I know, right? It’s like fuckin’ Laos around here!) But I have discovered, I’se be fine without no ‘lectric… as long as I have HoodyHoo’s Patented “Don’t Give a Shit Kit.”
The most important piece of the kit is the “Fuck It Bucket.” This is an ice chest (or igloo cooler if you’re all fancy like that — I use the ones the Omaha steaks come in when Poor Ol’ Dad sends me food for Christmas because he knows food is my most favoritest thing). Anyhoo, you take the Bucket of your choice and you fill that there sumbitch with ice and a large quantity of beer and/or liquor. Then, when you call the ‘Lectric Company Bassurds and they tell you your shit’s gonna stay broke for hours or days or even weeks (it happens ’round here)… well, you just reach right in that Bucket and, well, you get the idea.
The rest of the kit depends on your usual length of outage — mine so far have been between 1 and 3 days (Chuckweasel’s was out once in the winter for A WEEK — he had to cook frozen pizzas on his barbecue grill!). My own kit usually includes:
A flashlight (I prefer the great big Mag-Lites like cops use… because it can double as a melee weapon)
A meat tenderizer (you know, the hammer thing) — this is for crushing the ice for your Bucket and… yes, as a melee weapon
Candles, lighter, matches
Books, cards, something to do
For your shorter outages, the lunchmeat in your fridge will still be fine to eat as long as you don’t fuck around leaving the door open (um, yeah, you should ALWAYS have lunchmeat, or at least canned tuna or potted meat or SOMETHIN’ — what’s WRONG with you???) For longer outages, a pack of hot dogs fits nicely in the ice chest, and you can’t beat canned beans and soup (which can be cooked IN THE CAN like you’re a cowboy!). Of course, then you’ll need a heat source, like a small gas grill on your porch or a fireplace (with fuel). You CAN cook a hot dog over a candle flame, but it takes so long that by the time it’s done, you really don’t want it anymore.
One thing I did notice I need but do not yet have — a windup clock. Telling time by counting hours using an egg timer SUUUUUUCKS.
But all in all, I say fuck it, let the power go out. When’s it coming back on? I don’t give a shit.
PS — Black Lawyer who lives on the third floor is such a dick that when the power goes out and the poor Redneck Hillfolk are starving (we’re all-electric, and they’re not resourceful like me), he gets out on his porch AND GRILLS STEAKS! I love that guy.
The latest new addition to the ever-changing cast of Redneck Hillfolk who inhabit Ye Olde Apartment Complex has developed an interesting new hobby: Playing very loud music at 3 in the morning. Now, I don’t know if it’s “real” music like a CD or what-not and I just don’t know the band, or if they’re over there playing Rock Band (badly), or if they’re in an actual band that just sucks. But for the past 2 weekends, it has been like living next door to the Copa Cabana, only nobody’s giving me any fruity drinks.
So Friday night, Chuckweasel comes over after the bar (about 3-AM-ish) and hears the “concert.” And he says to me, “You’re a law dog, can’t we call the cops or something?” And I was like, yeah, we CAN, but I’ve only ever been on the RECEIVING end of the disturbing the peace calls, never the instigator! I kinda think that’s how you can tell you’re getting old!
Turns out, there is a whole chart of Times/Activities with the Weasel — like what activity is okay to do at what time, and so on. I just always stuck to the campground rules that Dear Sweet Mama and her Dear Sweet Parents instilled in me as a child: don’t make noise between 10pm and 10am.
Those rules also work for phone calls — I have been known to tear UP a telemarketer for calling at 9 in the morning.