Good Morning Bottom Dwellers,
THIS JUST IN…..the much ballyhooed “Bridge to Nowhere” leads directly to my apartment. Who’d have ever guessed?
I arrived home a little earlier than usual and found a note taped to my rotting door. It was from ‘Blind’ Richard the property manager that read “zuki I need to talk to you” leaving a cell number for me to call. Adding further ambiance to what is already a miserable hovel, an old broken down refrigerator with door swung wide open revealing stains and grease only JOE could appreciate was leaning against the wall.
I’m not sure why I was given right of first refusal, but ‘Blind’ Richard thought I might prefer this ‘fridge’ over the puke green one currently being used to grow mold. I thanked him for his consideration and suggested the fat cross-dressing cab driver upstairs may want it. ‘Blind’ Richard immediately began to laugh saying “he’d only use it to store his wigs” and chortled his way around the corner.
I live among the poor and disenfranchised. This suits me just fine as it describes much of the last decade. When the winds blow dust into my apartment from ever widening cracks in the old door, or endure endless banging around living next to the laundry room, I grumble and curse at the condition of my life vowing to make it better.
Then I do nothing.
I remind myself of what I’m paying for rent and cringe at the expense of living in a fecal palace while supporting a studio. This is a balancing act as long as my health (such as it is) holds out as well as my source of income. No guarantees about tomorrow as I could sneeze and go directly into cardiac arrest! But given my new knee will again make me mobile, for now, it all seems to be working.
Having experienced desperation to extreme paranoia I’m uniquely qualified to comment on those of us that bottom out in life’s rich pageant. I was consulting with the Bagwan the other day sipping on a fine Chardonnay discussing the rumors flying around about the new ownership changing the name from Blondie’s to the ‘Cheeky Monkey.’
Given the Bagwan’s “love” for his fellow-man, we began to recall the number of people that have killed themselves either by eating a bullet or as a result of chronic addictions. The list turned out to be quite lengthy given the closed loop of patrons and servers. I wondered if there was any correlation between Blondies and death. He never said so, but I believe this was the primary reason the Bagged One took his leave of our company and patrons seeking a less hostile environment.
I stopped by Blondie’s just after they opened at 11:00 am to see if any of the new ownership for the “Cheeky Monkey” was around. I met George Pushman a gregarious affable 40-year old that seemed to laugh at everything. I always get nervous around laughers, but he’s totally revamped the place and from what I can see the changes are outstanding!
Then something began to boil.
I suddenly felt the rumblings and cramps that arrive just prior to moving one’s bowels so I asked George if the bathrooms were functional. He said they were and to go ahead and use it. Not only have they put in two brand new stalls but added two additional urinals w/cakes! I gratefully sat on the can and relaxed. Unfortunately, I relaxed to the point my movement moved as if it was shot from a cannon! The velocity was tantamount to dropping a 10 lb stone into a bucket from 50 feet above! The ensuing unholy anointing caused me to lose my breath and actually scream like a little girl!
For the two or three of you still reading this “connubial collaboration” don’t let things get to the point where you spray paint feces all over your socks. Take the time to seek revenge if wronged or shove the retarded guy from the corner of Santa Fe and Mississippi to beg. You’ll no doubt make more than I do.