It is well established that the world is filled with idiots and assholes. They are everywhere. An idiot at work, an asshole at the store...well, you get the drift. Between these two types of people, there exists a smaller (though by no means rare) subset of the two:
The Hybrid Idiot/Asshole. These people are extremely difficult to deal with, as logic is usaully way down near the bottom on their list of values. While it is impossible to avoid this breed entirely (barring complete isolation), I have been developing my ability to quickly identify and cut off interaction with this type over the past several years. This is the story of one grand failure to do so on my part.
A Bit Of Background:
Now, I consider myself a generally good-natured, considerate chap most of the time. As a full time student, part time employee, and part time drunkard, there is simply no time for me to go around causing a ruckus these days. I pretty much just keep to myself and try to do as little damage to those around me as possible.
Flashback Three Months:
I'm splitting rent with a buddy near the local university when it comes about that me roomie is to be transferred by his employer to another state. This is cool with me, as I was interested in finding cheaper digs anyhow. After a bit of searching, I find a wonderfully inexpensive shithole in my birth-city, about twenty miles away from my previous flat. This place is creepy enough to be interesting, and cheap enough to keep me in the brew. Furnished with smoke/filth stained chairs and lamps, and decorated with paintings of anguished clowns and black men embracing, this place was looking good...a true manifestation of myself. Shit, it even came with a walk-in drainpipe closet where I could go to sob when things weren't going my way. Electricity and heat were included all for the low low lonely price of $350 per month. The only downside of the deal was that the bathroom was across the hall, but hell, I wasn't afraid to make use of a pissbottle, so no big deal.
Meet Joe Stumpo:
After thinking to myself, "Hot damn! My dream slum!", I march into the landlord's office on the first floor of the building and tell him that I would like to rent. Mr. Stumpo sat behind a desk piled with stacks of yellowed papers and an old typewriter. He appeared to be in his early 70's and had bug eyes, perma-stubble, and smegma crust surrounding his mouth.
"What's your name young man?", the old coot queried.
"Jeremy. I am interested in apartment number two."
"Ok, Jerome... whaddya like to be called?"
"Well, my name is Jeremy, but I guess you can call me J-Duece Love."
"Ok, Jerry, the rent will be $350 per month with a $350 security deposit. Oh yeah, I need it in cash".
"Cash? That will be a pain in the ass. Why cash, Mistah Stumpo?"
"Well, I don't really want the government to know what I am doing here."
At this point, the idiot alarm in my head was buzzing as it does with way too many people. Ah what the fuck, I thought. He hadn't shown much sign of being an asshole yet, so I agreed to rent from him, signed his fourteenth generation photocopy of the building rules, paid him my $350 deposit, and got the keys. I would move in on the weekend when I had time to transfer my bullshit excuses for possessions from there to here. He pulled his crooked, angiomatic hand out of his ass in order to shake my hand and and clutch my shoulder in a way that any mildly senile, aging shiester faggot would do.
A few weeks go by without much incident, except for a couple times where Old Stumps had entered my apartment while I was sleeping for no legitimate reason. I also had gotten a bunch of these types of notes on my door:
This shit was hilarious. Typed out onto a cut up envelope complete with mistakes, corrections, greetings, and handwritten signatures were these little messages keeping me up to date on my living situation.
So anyhow, several more weeks go by, and things are the way they should be. I be getting my Old Milwaukee on, my study on, and as surprising as it may seem, not getting my fuck on. Right on. And my homeboys do too.
Getting home a few days later after a long day of doing a bunch of things and wondering why the fuck I was doing them, I run up the dingy, corrosive hallway to my apartment door to find this note taped up for my attention:
Hmmm...this must be urgent! Or maybe not. Maybe it's only urgent if I get home after five. Either way, the man was using red ink, and we all know what that means. I decided to call right after five to find out where the fire the was.
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