I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas. My fingers are Santa's little helpers. My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments. I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn. Sisyphus, sweating uphill. Bukowski, scribbling away in rooming houses. A river always flowing. I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.
Thursday, March 27, 2003
Short Order Cook...
Man, do you remember that one freak that answered the "roommate wanted" ad that you posted up at the local college? You were desperate and you needed somebody in there fast. He was short. Big ass nose. Kinda like Tim Roth, but ugly as hell. He was a cook at a local burger place, hey, now wasn't the time to be judgemental - remember, you needed his money.
The first warning sign was that when he moved in, it took him about fifteen mintues. And that was with a cigarette break. Second warning sign? You used to hear him talking to Captain Kirk as he was watching Star Trek. "Yeah, go Kirk!".
He only lasted about a month and a half. He just got weirder and weirder, til you couldn't take it anymore. Then, you thought he stole some money from you, you almost choked him to death, and then he threatened to send the Mexican Mafia on you. He was Irish.
Yeah, I remember him. What a dumbass...
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