I Got Nuthin’

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La Loco Laundry

Classes are finally over and I’ve been grading finals and trying to catch up on all the things I’ve put on the back burner — hell, more like an unplugged crock pot — for the past month.  Like laundry.  When I find myself spritzing my jeans with Febreze, it’s time to suds the duds.  But, Innernetz, I really, really hate going to the laundromat. I’d rather take a kindergarten class on a field trip to the DMV after giving them jellybeans and espresso for breakfast. 

Things were getting desperate, however.  Besides the Febreze, I was also down to wearing Mr. Dingo’s boxer briefs while using band-aids to hold them up.  So off I went to the laundromat thinking that it couldn’t be as bad as I was expecting.  Hahahahaha!  Oh come on, Innernetz!  You know me by now.  Of course it could!

There were two empty machines in the back of the laundromat. I dumped my clothes onto a table and began sorting when a shadow emerged from the corner.  It was Yoda’s evil twin.  Short, swarthy, and with his face wrinkled like a two-pack-a-day Shar-pei , his sudden presence at my elbow startled me.

“Drop something you did?” he croaked as he timidly handed me my bra.  At least I think that’s what he said.  His garbled words oozed past broken yellowed teeth that tap-danced like drunken tombstones in his puckered mouth.

“Thank you,” I said, noticing a wet thumbprint on my C-cup.  He glided backward into the shadows as eerily as he had appeared.  I held my bra away from my body in case the disgusting propagated.

I had just started a load and settled into a chair to mock my students’ papers when I felt a bony finger tap me on the shoulder. I looked up expecting to see Pervy Yoda but no, it was Bod-a-lish-us.  Bod-a-lish-us was wearing an ultrasheer body stocking and fuck me stilettos.  Let me say that slowly: Body.  Stocking.  She woke up that morning, cracked open a plastic egg she’d been saving since 1989 when she was thirty pounds lighter, and, with the aid of a crowbar and shoehorn, strong-armed the sheer burnt orange “suntan” abomination over her calves, thighs, and hips until she reached her armpits.  Then, the body stocking depriving her brain of any oxygen, she looked in the mirror and declared herself flabulous.  She looked like a radioactive hotdog.  And she brought her own buns.  Bubbly, puffy, crusty buns.

Bod-a-lish-us waved a container of laundry detergent in front of my face and asked, “Me use?”

“Sorry,” I said shaking my headwhile prying my container of detergent from her purple three-inch acrylic nails. 

Tears brimmed at the edges of her heavily kohled eyes.  “Me use?” she repeated pointing to a laundry cart with a small load of hoochie-mama accoutrements.  Damn, I thought, if I don’t let her use my detergent, what is she going to wear to work tonight?  Besides, the body stocking was obviously her laundry-day outfit.  Letting her wash the rest of her whoredrobe would be like a public service. 

Sighing, I said, “Okay, but please use just a li—”

“Gracias!” she said.  Her tears dried up like a sunbathing raisin contemplating its deferred dreams.  And then waving her talons, she summoned three kids who entered the laundromat rolling one of those SUV-sized granny carts.  And there went my laundry detergent. The Bod-a-lish-us brood opened and slammed washing machine doors and swung from them like low-hanging crotchfruit.

I had just taken my seat and opened my gradebook when I was again disturbed by a poke at my shoulder.  It was Pervy Yoda handing me another of my bras. 

“Drop something you did?” he said, giving me the side eye.

This was just too creepy. 

“Get away from me, you fucking freak!” I screamed.  Inside my head.  I searched for the manager.  I found her watching a telenovella in a little room at the far end of the laundromat as she reverently stroked the coin-changer strapped to her belt.

“There’s a guy back there stealing underwear,” I said. 

She sighed and, without taking her eyes off the screen, yelled something unintelligible over the din of the TV.  I smugly waited for Pervy Yoda to levitate to the front of the store.  He would’ve gotten to us sooner but for the disruption in the force as three Bod-a-lish-us muffpuppets cried out in glee and raced through the laundromat on laundry carts slamming into washing machines.

When he finally reached us, Pervy Yoda and the manager shouted back and forth at each other in tongues until the commercial break was over.  The manager threw her hands up in the air, tossed a few words over her shoulder punctuated by an occasional “Ayiii!” and then went back to her show.  Pervy Yoda slunk back to his hole.

“That’s it?” I asked.  “Aren’t you going to kick him out?”

“No miss.  No worry.”

“But he is stealing underwear!”

“He stop, miss,” she said. “He here with one of his children and their mother,” she explained, pointing toward the Bod-a-lish-us brood.

Fuck this, I thought.  I stormed back to my washing machines, took out the wet clothes, and left.  I’d buy a bucket and scrubbing board before ever going back there.  Once home, I stomped to the bathroom.  And then I opened my laundry bag to hang up my wet… dental floss thong, fishnet thigh highs, and cupless bra.

These weren’t clothes.  These were pieces of fabric held together by fairy dust and surface tension.  In addition to my own clothing, I had stolen Bod-a-lish-us’s undies.

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Call Me Dingo Fierce

Things have pretty much sucked since my last post, Innernetz.  With so much going on it’s been difficult to write with blinding tears and snot running all over the keyboard and whatnot.  Everything I wrote sounded like, Waaaaaaa!  Waaaaaaaaa!  Moving sucks!  Waaaaaaaa! I hate living in the ‘hood! Waaaaaaa!  We’re broke! Waaaaaaa! See how boring that gets after a while?  I tell you waaaaat, I was sick of myself.  I needed something to take my mind off of my pathetic pity party and the unsettling feeling of just seeing my new neighborhood on Cops. 

And then, then Innernetz, I got an email from the folks over at Noble Works Cards.  They asked if I’d be interested in hosting a giveaway on my blog.  Giveaway?! Hells yeah, I’d be interested in a giveaway!  One lucky and creative As I Was Saying reader is going to get a $25 gift card to spend on some of the hilarious, irreverent, and often downright offensive Noble Works gift cards, mugs, calendars, and memo pads.  Could anything be more perfect for you, Innernetz?!  But simmadownnow, bitches.  You gotta work for this. 

Here’s how this is going down.  Head over to Noble Works Cards and take a look around. Pick your favorite card and leave a comment to this post telling me what card made you pee in your pants, who you’d send the card to, and any additional comments you’d write on the card before dropping it in the mailbox.  You have until Saturday, February 13th at noon (because I’m not rolling outta bed before then) to submit your comment.  On Valentine’s Day, I’ll announce the comment I love the most.  And Voila!  You have a $25 gift card!  How easy is that?

You wanna know how easy it is?  Here’s a card I ordered for Mr. Dingo’s former employer with the $25 gift card Noble Works sent to me for hosting the giveaway.  And here’s my P.S.:

I hope that you get syphilis of the soul from all the people you’ve fucked over and that the dried piece of jerky you call a heart is absorbed into your lower intestine like a cancer and passes through your anus like the hardened piece of shit you are.

Dingo

I wonder if I should sit on it for a day or two?

But Innernetz, my absolute favorite purchase is the St. Bitch the Fierce Magnetic Memo Pad.  I love this memo pad.  It’s a legally recognized license to be the fashion police and to launch a citizen’s arrest all wrapped up in one delightfully robed visage — St. Bitch the Fierce.  I can’t wait until they get here.  I will be a superhero!  I can write wrongs and right wrongs.

My first citation will be given to the baby mamas and their crotch fruit who live directly above me.  How shall I put this?  Oh yeah, I hate them.  Hate.  Them.  The never ending noise. Sweet baby jebus, the constant noise!  Are they wearing cement shoes?  Why are they running around in circles for hours and hours every single night?  I mean, shouldn’t the little semen demons be in bed by 8?  But the running, jumping, and screaming continue until 2 or 3 in the morning.  Are they herding sheep before they count them?  All that running simply reminds me that polio once played an important role in child care.  And then there’s the music.  I may have been able to forgive the loud thumping bass that rattles the three-inch-thick steel security gates over my windows but I cannot forgive the desecration of the King of Pop and Billy Jean.  Aren’t there copyright restrictions that prevent Menudo wannabes from singing “Billy Cheen es not my luvah.  Cheese jussa girl says dat I am de juan”?  Really, Baby Mamas?  Is that the song you really want to have on repeat?  I know, I know, many of you are probably saying, “Oh Dingo, have you tried talking to them?” Silly Innernetz, do you want me to get stabbed in the face?  Because a knife sticking out of my face would not be a good look for me.  And that’s where my St. Bitch the Fierce memo pad comes in handy.  I can anonymously leave them a polite note asking them to respect their neighbors and STFU.  I should get a good citizen award but I’m already a saint and it would be a sin to be so greedy. 

Two nights ago the thumping and jumping reached Def Con 4.  My earplugs whimpered in defeat.  And then, it happened.  There was crash that shook the ceiling and sent Dingo Girl running for cover.  All was quiet for about five seconds and then there was keening and howling like a pack of drunken coyotes on a Spring Break bender.  Holy shit.  I wasn’t sure what to do.  Should I bang on the ceiling?  Call an ambulance?  The po-po?  No, I St. Bitch the Fierce had an even better idea. 

Running into the bedroom where the crying was the loudest, I climbed on top of the dresser.  I was only six inches away from the shrieking and crying.  But it was six inches too far.  I stretched up on my tippy toes.  My calf muscles, still sore from the move, groaned in protest, but this was important.  I was not going to stand by and do nothing.  Bracing my hands on the wall to give me some leverage and traction, I was just three inches from the ceiling.  Three scant inches from ground zero.  I didn’t hesitate.  I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with air, and shouted:

HAHAHHAHAHAHWOOOTWOOOTHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHTAKETHATMUTHAFUCKA!!

And for five blissful seconds, the yelling, crying, and music stopped.  I held my breath.  Fuck.  And then I breathed a sigh of relief.  I am St. Bitch the Fierce.  And I don’t care how obnoxious you are, you wouldn’t stab a saint in the face.  Would you?

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Furby

So, there I was at Starbucks, grading papers and trying to ward off an Overused Comma coma with a Cranberry Bliss bar, when Tiny Bladder at the next table asked me to watch his stuff for the millionth time.  I rolled my eyes, stuffed a chunk of Cranberry Bliss into my mouth and said, “Dude, I don’t care how cold it is outside, no one wants your dollar-store notebook and the ratty goddamn trench coat your mama obviously dressed you in.” Somehow, through the crumbly brown sugary goodness that fell from my mouth he heard, “Sure! No problem!” Then he dashed off.

While Tiny Bladder ran to the bathroom, a fetid odor snuck into the coffee shop, curdling the last of the lemon frosting sticking to my fingers.  I held my nose in the nick of time because, given a few more seconds, it would have jumped off my face and scurried out the door.  For there in the doorway stood Furby.  I groaned.  I had thirty-three more papers to grade with sentences like:

Homosexuality didn’t have a name in the 12th Century.  It was called gay in the 20th Century being that men what lived together were happy.

And

During the American Civil War in the late 1960s feminism was dying.  It was in its death throws.

I did not have time to deal with Furby’s brand of crazy.  My stomach tried to dissolve itself with its own acid as Furby’s pungent, dank, mop soaked in urine, moldy cabbage scent settled over the store.  I turned back to my papers hoping Furby would not sense the crazy magnet implanted behind my left ear during a secret government experiment in the 1980s.  He had thirty or so mangy stuffed animal torsos from the Island of Plague Infected Toys pinned to his moldy jacket and 70s era running shorts.  As he made his way toward me (natch!) eyeless heads with mouths disfigured by rats and dry rot taunted me, “We’re coming to get you, Dingo!  We’re coming to get YOUooouuuuUUU!”

It’s just a dream, it’s just a dream, it’s just a dream, I told myself, closing my eyes and wishing it all away.  It worked.  Sort of.  When I opened my eyes, Furby was seated at Tiny Bladder’s table drinking Tiny Bladder’s coffee and writing in Tiny Bladder’s notebook. 

“Excuse me, “ I said.  “Someone’s sitting there; he’ll be right back.”

Furby continued to scribble in Tiny Bladder’s notebook.  Although Furby ignored me, his Typhoid Toys did not.  Bouncing and bobbing with every elaborate flourish of Furby’s Tiny Bladder’s pen, their empty eye sockets stared at me accusingly, spewing reproach (not to mention hantavirus) in my direction.  I was supposed to be watching Tiny Bladder’s things!  What kind of derelict sentinel am I?  I had to do something.

Before I could interrupt him again, Furby paused from his frantic writing.  Apparently, all that creative activity, together with the large coffee, were making him warm.  So he removed the head-studded coat with some fanfare, and the smell of sick room sweat and body odor became even more overpowering. 

But at that moment, thoughts of compassion, understanding, and kindness rose above the wormwood stench of Furby’s presence.  Furby, after all, seemed to have fallen on hard times.  I was warmed by the holiday music playing over the speakers. The beautifully lit professionally photographed pictures of pumpkin pie latte evoked Normal Rockwell images of friends and family.  Furby’s furry contingent of contagion was his family.  And I, I am a friend to man, a comrade of all mankind.  My mind floated on thoughts of “we are the world” and “we are the children,” and, miraculously, my body went with it, all the way up to the manager where I, with compassion, understanding, and kindness said, “He’s using someone else’s stuff.” Because nothing overcomes a spiritual bond with your fellow man like good ol’ property rights.  It’s the American Way!

I stayed at the counter thinking of Peace on Earth and ordering another Cranberry Bliss as the manager gently, and with compassion, understanding, and kindness, gave Furby the boot.  Furby gathered his things and flounced out of the Starbucks with a primetime pageant-worthy flounce to end all flounces.  If trumpets had heralded his departure, it would have been no more dramatic.  Still, if he had turned at the door and said, “Good day, sir!  I said, GOOD DAY!” I would have applauded.

Instead, I hummed Fa la la la la! La la la la! all the way back to my seat and launched into another poorly written paper.  Tiny Bladder returned.  Dear god!  What took him so fucking long! 

“Hey!” he exclaimed.  “What happened to my coffee?” He eyed me suspiciously.

“Well,” I began to explain but was cut short.

“And where’s my coat?”

Oh shit.  Still sitting on the chair was Furby’s coat of heads, all of them staring at me critically with their vacant eyeholes.  Tiny Bladder’s trench had departed.

“That’s not your coat?” I asked.

Yes, there are eight million stories in this naked city.  And tonight, one of those stories is a little less naked. 

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Fine Feathered Fiends

Alfred Hitchcock scarred me for life. “Good evening,” my ass, motherfucker. How am I supposed to sleep when all I can think about are birds waiting to peck me to death on the way to the subway station?  All the ghosts, goblins, and ghouls from the twisted minds of Stephen King and Clive Barker don’t scare me as much as Hitchcock’s fucking birds. With their beady eyes and sharp beaks, birds are nature’s ultimate killing machine. If you put a bird up against a lion, the bird would win. Shut up!  It would too!  That’s the National Geographic special they don’t want you to see. Can you imagine the worldwide panic?  I don’t like birds. Except for puffins. Puffins are cute. And chickens. Chickens taste good.  There are no puffins or chickens in Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds for the same reason that not even Peter Jackson took the screenplay for Alien vs. Hello Kitty very seriously.

Another reason I hate birds is because of the lunacy they inspire in otherwise normal people.  Anything that motivates people to wear pith hats, safari vests, and knee length khaki shorts while walking around chirping bird calls to each other ranks up there with Renaissance Festivals and Star Trek conventions.  These are the people who, as children, wore calculator watches so they could keep track of how often they got beat up at the playground.  Fortunately, although Central Park is a birder’s paradise, I rarely encounter bird watchers. They get up way too fucking early. By the time I get to the park, the early birds have eaten their worms and the early birders have moseyed off for coffee, shuffleboard, and a relaxing change of diaper. But there’s one birder I see quite frequently. Unlike the others, her voice is not the hushed, subdued equivalent of one hand clapping. Her voice is The Clap. A painful, abnormal discharge that induces nausea and general discomfort.

The rain last week kept The Clap sightings to a minimum but there was an outbreak yesterday as Dingo Girl and I were on our morning walk. The Clap came into view as she swooped toward an unsuspecting flock of feathered menace. “I see ‘em!  I see ‘em!  The blue jays!” she yelled, running to a rock outcropping in the middle of a small stand of trees. She tried to run up the rock face but her bright yellow Crocs slipped on the smooth surface and she fell backwards, Crocs over cranium. Her pasty legs and multi-colored muumuu flashed and sparkled like a chameleon under disco lights. The bags of Wonder Bread tied to her waist burst open, sending doughy goodness spinning through the air like cotton candy. I had a sudden craving for carnival food and was torn between rushing over to help and rushing to Coney Island. Oh, come on, Innernetz!  You know I did the right thing!  It was too early to go to Coney Island.

But The Clap didn’t need my help.  She jumped up unscathed and carefully made her way to the top of the rock. “Pretty biiiiiiird!  Pretty biiiiiird!” she hissed, sounding less like Mother Earth and more like a sucking chest wound. “Pretty biii — *hack* *cough* *hiss* — iiiird!” Craning her face to the tree branches she raised her arms to the sky and hopped in a lop-sided circle resembling a one-legged chicken trying to cross a hot road. “Blue jay, blue jay, bluuuu *hack* *phlegm* *ooze* jaaaaaay!”

The Clap stopped her masturbatory mating Macarena long enough to yell at Henpecked Husband to get the camera. Henpecked rummaged through his Power Ranger backpack and rushed over to The Clap waving — a cell phone. “Not that one, damn it!  The good camera!” The Clap wheezed. Henpecked, properly castrated, dumped the contents of the the backpack on the ground next to the sullied slices of Wonder. “Here! Here!” he whimpered, racing toward her with &another cell phone. But it was too late. The Blue Jays scattered. And by Blue Jays, I mean Crows.  Big, black, nasty crows. It’s easy to see how The Clap could have confused the two. After all, Blue Jays are blue and white and Crows are black. I would’ve made the same mistake as well if my Guide to North American Birds was written in Braille.  And if I were a moron.

The Clap, being the avid birder that she is, obviously knew the best way to get the Blue Jays Crows to return. She cupped her hands around her mouth, took a deep breath and called, “Come back here you motherfuckers!” Surprisingly, it didn’t work. The Crows circled in an ominous dark cloud. Damn, I thought. I’ve seen how this movie ends!  And that was my cue to get Dingo Girl and go. It was about to get ugly. Do you know what a flock of Crows is called?  A murder! Yes, a murder of crows. That’s not a mistake made by superstitious naturalists long ago.  That’s not even a hint.  That’s a warning.  A warning somewhere along the lines of someone throwing a note through your window attached to a rock that’s attached to a dead ninja with your name painted on his toenails.  I had a feeling that I was about to witness a fly-by.

Perched on the rock with her pasty skin, bright yellow Crocs, and flamboyant muumuu, The Clap resembled the lesser-known urban fairy tale character, Snow Blight. Surrounded by the Seven Loaves.  And her Dopey husband.  As Dingo Girl and I headed home and away from the impending crime scene, we could hear The Clap still trying to daintily woo the crows:  “Goddamnyoushitforbrainsmotherfuckers! God *hiss* *phlegm* *cough* damncomehere!”

If The Clap hasn’t been murdered, I’m sure I’ll see her again.  Perhaps at Starbucks.

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I’m over at The Greenists again!  Come see me!

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