I came out of the cellar,
said cellar being after
a drunken morning
when I should have been sober. I opened the door...
Friday, July 22, 2005
Enough to cream me queer...
I came out of the cellar,
said cellar being after
a drunken morning
when I should have been sober. I opened the door...
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
In The Cup / Out Of Control
IT WOULD BE a pyrrhic victory, indeed;
The murder of my roommate...
Worse would be the septic verse,
according to the fractured lines above.
What is only slightly worse is the almost inevitable chance to replace the mindless 40-something gnome with which I reluctantly share air space, with a far worse CROWD of dreadful bunkmates - behind iron bars!
But self-restraint has become all but unbearable to moi. My quasi-american mind screams for the satisfaction of immediate gratification: a few quick strokes of an icepick, or the surprise of a sheet over its, erm, HER, sleeping body while that nightly stream of noisy saliva attempts to terminally anchor those final screams what any sane bastard would wish were quickly muffled by the smelly pillow, the one upon which the decrepit creature's head-esque shoulder-globe once negligently rested...
NO! OH, No... Loki save me from the fire of impulsive desire. Shiva spare me the creeping want of fatal satisfaction. Apollo speed from me the sapphic melodrama that I would scribble, had I any idea of choriamb, spondee, trochee, or accentual metre, let alone lesbianism...
(AHEM)
(Oh, yeah...) Save me from that which is a fate worse than any slow, state-sanctioned death!
As one can observe from the statically ambulatory douche balloon photos offered above and below, the problem persists. Creeping, indeed, day by day.
My dilemma, dear readers, remains the same as when I first realised the bind that implored some sort of release: my roommate is too sensitive - as well as remarkably immature - to endure the least criticism regarding her vast repertoire of bad habits, lack of hygiene, and, OH! - noxious expungement.
Yet, she is so blatant in her reprehensible behaviour as to beg the question: What the fuck is so wrong with a person that it daily, sometimes HOURLY, happily attempts to prompt discussion about being bloodily bloated, about enduring a yeasty itchiness, about how it's "gonna take a dump"?! (More on that latter, turgid topic.) It has been told before - in person as well as in writing - and yet it does no more than laugh off the caveats. And take on new ways of being outrageously, overtly offensive in its unhygienic manner. And remain aloof of the basic ways of even the most mindless humans.
Oh, The Horror. THE HORROR!
Saturday, July 09, 2005
Douche Bag
AH, IT IS Friday morning, I am up early. Yet am not at all too crotchety, for the weather is cool despite it being the middle of July, the rain is coming down as if Al Queda planned it...and my roommate has just finished regaling me with not only an inadvertently insouciant description of the her recently acquired yeasties but how it so itches. I truly wish she were deaf and mute; at least she would have had to use her hands to convey the dreadful tale about her itchy cunt rather than digitally oblige the dreadful itch while she pontificated on about her vaginal discomfort!
I AM JUST A ROOMMATE!!! What the fuck possesses the tiny mind of this 42-year-olde fustilug to divulge every development that occurs in her unfucked crotch?! Even were I a female acquaintance, I doubt I would want to hear about it.
Am I correct, ladies?
Although a man, I am no stranger to the vagina. Unless the other is my lover, however, I DO NOT WANT TO HEAR ABOUT WHAT GOES ON IN ONE'S HOLE(S)! It is bad enough that the mannerless swat what inhabits the rat's nest that is the other room in our Brooklyn four-floor walk-up refuses to shut the god-damned toilet door, but that is for another day.
Ahem...
To add to my horror, it turned out to be a two-pronged attack.
She subconsciously - or so I would like to believe - flanked me.
Even in her very absence
she is incorrigibly revolting.
Saturday morning, and I saunter into the toilet to do what any human - as well as the occasional paleolithic palestinian - performs in order to face the day relatively unfettered and seemingly clean. As I start the shower, splash some water on my face and prepare to disrobe that I may fully appreciate the luke-warm water spraying hither and anon from the crusty showerhead, my eyes are brutalised by the sight of my favourite tea cup sitting on the sill of the tiny window - beside a giant white douche bottle! Staggering back, I spin and then lurch forward into the living room to find and finally strangle the yeast-stricken bitch. In my rage I kick a small box that, like too many other items before it, has been left in the middle of the fucking thoroughfare not unlike a brain-damaged five-year-olde child would have done.
It is the douche box!
Oh, how I wish I had the clap, or some other, ANY other, drippy dick disease, that I could reciprocate her announcements about her not-so-private aperture. Oh, how I would sling my ropey strings of diseased semen on her computer keyboard!
Alas, I am bereft of any such ailment. The lack of an icky weapon, as well as the absence of my wretched roommate, leaves me suddenly empty. The rage is gone, the homicidal desire has retreated to await a better day, and the cat is in the corner. His back is arched, his tail fearfully straight and his eyes as big as the yeast-flushing plastic baster that initially prompted me to go berserk.
I retire to the toilet to discharge my duties as plaintively, quickly, and quietly as possible.
I AM JUST A ROOMMATE!!! What the fuck possesses the tiny mind of this 42-year-olde fustilug to divulge every development that occurs in her unfucked crotch?! Even were I a female acquaintance, I doubt I would want to hear about it.
Am I correct, ladies?
Although a man, I am no stranger to the vagina. Unless the other is my lover, however, I DO NOT WANT TO HEAR ABOUT WHAT GOES ON IN ONE'S HOLE(S)! It is bad enough that the mannerless swat what inhabits the rat's nest that is the other room in our Brooklyn four-floor walk-up refuses to shut the god-damned toilet door, but that is for another day.
Ahem...
To add to my horror, it turned out to be a two-pronged attack.
She subconsciously - or so I would like to believe - flanked me.
Even in her very absence
she is incorrigibly revolting.
Saturday morning, and I saunter into the toilet to do what any human - as well as the occasional paleolithic palestinian - performs in order to face the day relatively unfettered and seemingly clean. As I start the shower, splash some water on my face and prepare to disrobe that I may fully appreciate the luke-warm water spraying hither and anon from the crusty showerhead, my eyes are brutalised by the sight of my favourite tea cup sitting on the sill of the tiny window - beside a giant white douche bottle! Staggering back, I spin and then lurch forward into the living room to find and finally strangle the yeast-stricken bitch. In my rage I kick a small box that, like too many other items before it, has been left in the middle of the fucking thoroughfare not unlike a brain-damaged five-year-olde child would have done.
It is the douche box!
Oh, how I wish I had the clap, or some other, ANY other, drippy dick disease, that I could reciprocate her announcements about her not-so-private aperture. Oh, how I would sling my ropey strings of diseased semen on her computer keyboard!
Alas, I am bereft of any such ailment. The lack of an icky weapon, as well as the absence of my wretched roommate, leaves me suddenly empty. The rage is gone, the homicidal desire has retreated to await a better day, and the cat is in the corner. His back is arched, his tail fearfully straight and his eyes as big as the yeast-flushing plastic baster that initially prompted me to go berserk.
I retire to the toilet to discharge my duties as plaintively, quickly, and quietly as possible.
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Eater
My roommate's so stupid
She failed to see a coffin
outside the turkish restaurant
by which she walks
no less than
four fuckin' times
a day,
every day,
goddamit.
It drives me to scribble such wretched verse as that which you have had to endure, dear reader.
Is there any better reason to leave off from a lousy roommate, than her eye-opening ignorance what compels me to pen not so eloquently as I do, now, about the bleeding obvious? And in case my meagre words fail to make a case, then let me introduce a couple thousand words:
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Vocabulary, Schmocabulary
I HAVE not taken the time to count if it is as little as I have to some folk posited, but I imagine that "120" is nevertheless a liberal amount in respect to my wretched roommate's almost total vocabulary. Of course, this does not include her alarmingly loud non-verbal expressions, even if some might argue that they indeed should be counted as such.
She is never at a loss to quickly identify anything as “thingy,” nor will she not hesitate to employ “thingy” as a noun, verb or accident. Even things she sees daily and should not fail to know how to properly identify, are granted her gutteral recourse to “cute”: the teevee, a dropped shoe, a clove of garlic, one of the few forks she has not thrown away during a daily “cleaning attack” (more on THAT social disease in a future post), her remaining Cat. The list of things she calls “thingy” is as long as her memory is short.
Another atrocious aspect – one worse than even the above attempted alliteration – is her odious reflection of any supposed dust-up, as a “hairball.” From the U.S.’ involvement in Iraq, to the slightest allusion of misapprehension between two closely packed straphangers in that infrequent albeit inevitable moment when one or the other jockeys for position just as the train jerks out of the station, it is no less and no more than a “hairball.”
When her butt erupts, so does her ass: “That’s what I think of that!” she cleverly opines. And just in case all two of us fail to appreciate her wit, she performs this clever line several times a day, every day. Such sagacity is often prompted by a remark shouted by one of the screaming heads on the news channels she perpetually patronises (such as Fox or MSNBC). Sometimes she even exhibits her digital dexterity by forming her fingers into a fleshy “gun”! But we are always granted her gleeful explosion of laughter immediately afterward, an expression which is best described by that Cleesian phrase, ”Like a seal being machine-gunned.”
She is never at a loss to quickly identify anything as “thingy,” nor will she not hesitate to employ “thingy” as a noun, verb or accident. Even things she sees daily and should not fail to know how to properly identify, are granted her gutteral recourse to “cute”: the teevee, a dropped shoe, a clove of garlic, one of the few forks she has not thrown away during a daily “cleaning attack” (more on THAT social disease in a future post), her remaining Cat. The list of things she calls “thingy” is as long as her memory is short.
Another atrocious aspect – one worse than even the above attempted alliteration – is her odious reflection of any supposed dust-up, as a “hairball.” From the U.S.’ involvement in Iraq, to the slightest allusion of misapprehension between two closely packed straphangers in that infrequent albeit inevitable moment when one or the other jockeys for position just as the train jerks out of the station, it is no less and no more than a “hairball.”
When her butt erupts, so does her ass: “That’s what I think of that!” she cleverly opines. And just in case all two of us fail to appreciate her wit, she performs this clever line several times a day, every day. Such sagacity is often prompted by a remark shouted by one of the screaming heads on the news channels she perpetually patronises (such as Fox or MSNBC). Sometimes she even exhibits her digital dexterity by forming her fingers into a fleshy “gun”! But we are always granted her gleeful explosion of laughter immediately afterward, an expression which is best described by that Cleesian phrase, ”Like a seal being machine-gunned.”
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Morning Noise
IT STARTS with a grating rustle of coin-washed linens, but I am sure that were even the finest virgin silk introduced to her insouciant skin it would produce no less an abrasive effect. Said sound abruptly pulls me, each and every morning, from the heaviest of slumber.
She is two rooms away, with the door nearly shut tight and a curtain to further dampen the light and sound from without.
Half a second later the inevitable aural a.m. onslaught commences.
It explodes with a quick tearing sound, as if someone's tongue is being torn out. It is not unlike the kind of heavy, wet and reluctant hand towels that were once advertised as having bred Bolsheviks back in the 1950s, being deliberately ripped in half. A series of phlegm-filled smoker's coughs rend the already ruptured air. And then she is up, hacking her way to the toilet. As if a corbelled arch whose heavy bricks are held in loosely place by a single thick thread of curved re-bar rather than tightly with mortar, her bowed legs do not so much as propel as bounce her into the bathroom. Inebriated elephants with bowling balls for toenails would be more graceful and less loud. By this time, the horrific flatulence has already made its way out of her unimaginably wrecked lower G.I. There are occasional oral flourishes that would put to shame a chorus of drunken sailors at a frat party. I wish I had the mettle to tear off my ears and plug the resultant holes with that which nevertheless remains to funnel in the awful sounds.
Even if she had the single social grace to close the closet door, I would be privy to every tiny tinkle of pee that jets out of her hole. The cacophony of excreta reaches a fever pitch with a diarrhetic release made inevitable by her daily diet of cheap chinese noodles, pot, beer, coffee and asparagus. From every rancid aperture pours forth filth: spit, piss, shit, gas, hack, belch, et al.
This goes on for no less than two hours; longer if she is not needed at work or it is a weekend day. How she manages to ingest the coffee, cigarettes, pot and whatnot would amaze me were I not so disgusted by the debacle. The brutal burps and forced farts, singly, LITERALLY, make the herringbone hardwood floorboards shudder.
I understand from folk where she works that her morning noise is no longer confined in the morning nor at home.
She is two rooms away, with the door nearly shut tight and a curtain to further dampen the light and sound from without.
Half a second later the inevitable aural a.m. onslaught commences.
It explodes with a quick tearing sound, as if someone's tongue is being torn out. It is not unlike the kind of heavy, wet and reluctant hand towels that were once advertised as having bred Bolsheviks back in the 1950s, being deliberately ripped in half. A series of phlegm-filled smoker's coughs rend the already ruptured air. And then she is up, hacking her way to the toilet. As if a corbelled arch whose heavy bricks are held in loosely place by a single thick thread of curved re-bar rather than tightly with mortar, her bowed legs do not so much as propel as bounce her into the bathroom. Inebriated elephants with bowling balls for toenails would be more graceful and less loud. By this time, the horrific flatulence has already made its way out of her unimaginably wrecked lower G.I. There are occasional oral flourishes that would put to shame a chorus of drunken sailors at a frat party. I wish I had the mettle to tear off my ears and plug the resultant holes with that which nevertheless remains to funnel in the awful sounds.
Even if she had the single social grace to close the closet door, I would be privy to every tiny tinkle of pee that jets out of her hole. The cacophony of excreta reaches a fever pitch with a diarrhetic release made inevitable by her daily diet of cheap chinese noodles, pot, beer, coffee and asparagus. From every rancid aperture pours forth filth: spit, piss, shit, gas, hack, belch, et al.
This goes on for no less than two hours; longer if she is not needed at work or it is a weekend day. How she manages to ingest the coffee, cigarettes, pot and whatnot would amaze me were I not so disgusted by the debacle. The brutal burps and forced farts, singly, LITERALLY, make the herringbone hardwood floorboards shudder.
I understand from folk where she works that her morning noise is no longer confined in the morning nor at home.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
Shock Horror Cat Funeral
Today I and my roomie, along with a mutual friend from UK whos is boarding with us, went down to the railroad tracks to recover the formerly frozen body of a Great Manx that had died exactly two weeks ago, when the first great blizzard of 2005 hit New York City.
She had thrown what I sincerely hope was merely his spent vessel over the fence, into a thick snow drift that covered the steep bank leading down to the freight and passenger rails. I had not been home when he peacefully passed away, and she had seen to disposing of his body before I was able to get home. (She had rung me up with the news, and I had immediately taken my leave to make may home through the horizontal blast of ice and snow.)
As I was the only one with boots as well as the will to retrieve the olde boy's body, I alone ascended the thorn-covered and somewhat muddy hill. Upon reaching the blue bags in which he eternally rested, I was stunned to observe that he was head up, his front claws curled round the small tree that had only barely arrested his (hopefully posthumous) descent. The bag was in such a way that he could not have escaped were he still alive then, as the opening was at his stomach. Had he attempted to exit, he would have had to let go the tiny tree trunk and continued sliding down a snow covered hillside, blindly.
I only hope that it was a bizarre coincidence and had naught to do with the fact that my roomie was not so goddamned drunk and high as to have made a horrible mistake. I wish she would have fucking awaited my arrival.
I can write no more for now. I am breaking my vow to not get drunk, and hope I do not awaken covered in blood after having made my own fatal mistake...
She had thrown what I sincerely hope was merely his spent vessel over the fence, into a thick snow drift that covered the steep bank leading down to the freight and passenger rails. I had not been home when he peacefully passed away, and she had seen to disposing of his body before I was able to get home. (She had rung me up with the news, and I had immediately taken my leave to make may home through the horizontal blast of ice and snow.)
As I was the only one with boots as well as the will to retrieve the olde boy's body, I alone ascended the thorn-covered and somewhat muddy hill. Upon reaching the blue bags in which he eternally rested, I was stunned to observe that he was head up, his front claws curled round the small tree that had only barely arrested his (hopefully posthumous) descent. The bag was in such a way that he could not have escaped were he still alive then, as the opening was at his stomach. Had he attempted to exit, he would have had to let go the tiny tree trunk and continued sliding down a snow covered hillside, blindly.
I only hope that it was a bizarre coincidence and had naught to do with the fact that my roomie was not so goddamned drunk and high as to have made a horrible mistake. I wish she would have fucking awaited my arrival.
I can write no more for now. I am breaking my vow to not get drunk, and hope I do not awaken covered in blood after having made my own fatal mistake...
Saturday, February 05, 2005
Welcome to my not-so-homicidal release...!
I have lived round the planet.
I have toured extensively.
I spent fifteen years, starting in the 1980s, maintaining a fanzine.
I have been married.
I am an Eagle Scout.
I used to be a crackhead.
I nearly went into the USAF Academy in Colorado Springs, CO.
I love Cats.
I maintain clandestine residences in Los Angeles as well as New York City.
I can sleep through a war when my ageing corpus decides it is time for those few four hours of naptime...
and were it not for this somewhat sterile medium, I would be in prison for murdering a roommate who, despite her sweet demeanour, possesses the most wretched manners I have ever known.
My friends, colleagues and lovers thought I was merely employing hyberpole when I told them about my roommate's rancid outbursts, uncessant flatulence, morning noise and absolute lack of social graces. I even recorded her atrocities in the A.M. for them; I was accused of merely employing my audio engineering abilities to exaggerate what could not be nearly as horrific as I alleged was the daily aural and olfactory assault. (I will eventually upload a session for all to hear, once I figure out to capture it on my laptop.) This blog is my last resort, that I do not keep bottled up what was too close to exploding in a homicidal fashion.
Of course, if my roomie finds out about this blog, I WILL have to kill her so as not to be kicked out.
I plan on posting a couple of times a week, or at least as frequently as my murderous impulses demand.
MetroHopper
I have toured extensively.
I spent fifteen years, starting in the 1980s, maintaining a fanzine.
I have been married.
I am an Eagle Scout.
I used to be a crackhead.
I nearly went into the USAF Academy in Colorado Springs, CO.
I love Cats.
I maintain clandestine residences in Los Angeles as well as New York City.
I can sleep through a war when my ageing corpus decides it is time for those few four hours of naptime...
and were it not for this somewhat sterile medium, I would be in prison for murdering a roommate who, despite her sweet demeanour, possesses the most wretched manners I have ever known.
My friends, colleagues and lovers thought I was merely employing hyberpole when I told them about my roommate's rancid outbursts, uncessant flatulence, morning noise and absolute lack of social graces. I even recorded her atrocities in the A.M. for them; I was accused of merely employing my audio engineering abilities to exaggerate what could not be nearly as horrific as I alleged was the daily aural and olfactory assault. (I will eventually upload a session for all to hear, once I figure out to capture it on my laptop.) This blog is my last resort, that I do not keep bottled up what was too close to exploding in a homicidal fashion.
Of course, if my roomie finds out about this blog, I WILL have to kill her so as not to be kicked out.
I plan on posting a couple of times a week, or at least as frequently as my murderous impulses demand.
MetroHopper
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)