Tuesday, October 9, 2007

The Move (Part I)

Alan Parson's Rocks
I listen in the ghetto
Thugs stare, so jealous!



Glorp, Splorch.....



So I get off of work Friday with a smile on my lips and a song in my heart because I get Columbus day off (Yay!), and skip home happily, not even minding the traffic, though let me go off track for a fucking second here: WHY are there traffic JAMS on the damn HIGHWAY?! I will never understand when there are signs posted every 500 feet for almost 2 miles saying there is only one lane, and at the end of that one lane is another highway, no stop lights to hang anyone up or anything, and yet I sit in line for 15-20 minutes... and when I get to the front of the line there is no reason for the hang up! I know the reason why is people cannot wait and have to jump ahead in line, and the thoughts that go through my head as I watch both them skipping to the front, completely oblivious of the signs, and the morons in the front of the line who let them in, are enough on their own to get me incarcerated. I wish I could personally set fire to each person who hangs the whole line up by cutting in line, and then skull rape them or watch Smeagol teabag them as they die a horrifying death.



So anyway I am whistling along with the music, happy to be alive, and I got the inclination something would ruin it. Like a dark cloud over the horizon, I knew something was on the fringe because the Stevester is not allowed happiness, not for an extended length of time.



I get home, and there is a message from Smeagol on my phone. I knew what he wanted, JJ had tipped me off: Smeagol claimed he had paid his rent and was no longer in danger of getting evicted, but wanted to inexplicably move his things out anyway. WTF?! SO I just never answered the phone. The next day I am at my in-laws house, something we do every Saturday, and Smeagol calls and uses a different name, telling my father-in-law that he is family and he really need to talk to me. The phone is given to me, and I can hear through the toothless whistle he makes when he tries to pronounce the letter S that he is proud of himself. He wants me to help him move a few items. I am a pretty good sport, and in all honesty do not totally mind as I really do love everyone in my family, which is why I make fun of them so hard.



Anyway, all gayness aside, I tell Smeags I will meet him at my parents house at about 3, and I do so. He then informs me that because he has had some problems credit wise, he will need me to use my id to rent the truck. I am pissed but acquiesce, since like I said I try to help out when I can. We go to 35th and Troost, no trucks. 15th and Locust, no trucks. Fifty fucking second and State, not State line, which is not that far, but 52nd and goddamn State, a 35 minute drive since I have no idea how to get there other than to go to State and then go south... and we finally get a truck. We go back to my parents house and pick up JJ, as Smeagol is too weak to be of any assistance and I will be damned if I pick up a refrigerator by myself, and go on out.



Now before I go on, let me explain about Smeagol's cavern. It's kind of funny, it was not too far off from the actual Smeagol's Cave in the Hobbit; his electricity had been off for 11 months (no joke), so it was dank and dark, and everything but the fridge was in the basement, which had a constant drip somewhere and no lights other than a filthy window. I pissed all over his water heater because I'm an asshole, and we moved his dog shit crusted appliances up and out, and it's funny that it had dog shit on it since he had not had a dog for more than 2 years.... hmmmmm......



Anyway, we get to the fridge, which fucking reeks. I, like a gosh darn retard, decide to open the door and see what was smelling so bad, like an idiot forgetting that his power had been off for 11 months and Smeagol is way too lazy to empty his refrigerator of any food that had been in there, I should have known that he would have just called it a loss and moved on, since Smeagol lives off of his own failure.



A fist-sized, no joke a fucking FIST-Sized glop of maggots falls out of the fridge and onto the floor right in front of me. Luckily my K-Rat training had assisted me into jumping back fast enough to not get tainted by the maggots, but not fast enough to not land in the brown viscous fluid that also poured out, getting it all over my feet, which were safely ensconced in a pair of flip flops. JJ almost threw up, and shot me the death look, but decided the shit water on me was bad enough. I went around to the sink to try to wash my feet off, and silly me I should have known his water was also off... the only utility still on inexplicably was the telephone. Sounds fiscally sound, we take the doors off of the fridge. As this is happening, I am standing behind the fridge by the kitchen sink, and Smeagol is on the other side of the was emptying his fish tank, which had been sitting for all this time with shit-sludge water in it.... there is a window between the kitchen and the breakfast nook, and I turn just in time to get a nice pitcher of that shit all over my a-shirt, turning it shit brown wherever the sludge touched....



So we get the truck filled back up, and go to the QT to grab a soda. Fuck it I don't even give a shit I am not putting my nice shirt on over that shit sludge a-shirt, so I head on in with that A-shirt on, get a drink and head back out. I don't know how desperate the ladies are around here, but as I was getting back in the truck this older woman looks at me and licks her fucking lips..... man I got fish shit on my shirt and you are trying to hit on me?!

Every time Smeagol got into the cab of the truck he moaned like it was so physically taxing on him he almost could not take it, which is funny because he only moved 4 or 5 boxes, totaling about 10 pounds (heavens no, not all at once, combined poundage). JJ and I are snickering because he is moaning so pitifully the whole time he is moving stuff around, like he is a ghoul or something. JJ informs me this a lot better than when only himself and Smeagol were there, since Smeagol is so weak he had to have mover assist on almost every box, most of which only contained clothes.... he also put 2 pairs of socks on his hands for some reason. WTF?!

So get this picture as you wait to read part II tomorrow... Smeagol, in his hospital scrubs still, probably tiny flecks of dookie and other assorted fluids on it, or not either way, with huge knee high cotton socks on his hands, trying desperately to pick up a box of t-shirts himself, maybe farting softly in anguished little spurts from all the exertion, moaning loudly like a mystical retard.

Or how about this picture: Me, wearing only a wifebeater, jean shorts and flip flops, standing in some brown viscous fluid, mouth agape looking at the sheer numbers of maggots feasting on the bacon, taco bell, eggs, and other various groceries that had been left to rot in the fridge, trying to wring out the shitty fish water from my shirt, wondering if I can get in a shower hot enough to burn all the filth and failure off of me...

Part II tomorrow.

1 comment:

This Haggard Machine said...

Mystical Retard


...pure genius!