After an exhaustive search on Craigslist, I found a freaking TIGHT new spot to stash my hobo bindle for a few months. I won't reveal the locale, but I'll tell you that it is, indeed, in Washington, DC. Yes, I'm f*cking back. Deal with it.
Anyway, the reason I bring up that I'm off the streets is because, in a move that pretty much tells me God is punishing me for all my hobo jokes of late, I actually found myself back on the streets this weekend when I decided to take to the out-of-doors and go for a jog. Clad in a pair of very sexy Nicaraguan track pants (size XL) and armed with only a $20 bill in my pocket, I left the house at noon and planned to jog around the neighborhood until I passed the burrito shop where I thought I'd undo all the good that moving at a brisk pace may have had on my weak organism by eating enough refried beans to finally fit into these Nicaraguan track pants.
Unfortunately, nary a burrito would that $20 see. Instead, it would end up in two pieces in the pocket of a nonplussed Iranian and I would end up contemplating pulling a Jewel and living in my car. (On the brightside, though, finally that car would serve a purpose!)
Oh, where to begin... I know! Let's begin by blaming everyone else for my problems except for me. Sure, it might have been me who left my house keys in the house while I watched the door lock automatically behind me. And sure, maybe it was me who thought of everything from scaling a 10-foot fence in an attempt to break in through a window to seriously contemplating paying a locksmith $200-plus to break down my door, but wouldn't you do the same rather than think, "Hey, I suppose I could just call my housemate and find out if there's an extra key anywhere..."
Exactly. And so began Operation You're-Only-Making-This-Worse-Because-The-Neighbors-Watched-And-Laughed-When-Your-Oversized-Nicaraguan-Track-Pants-Got-Caught-On-The-Pointy-Accoutrements-Of-The-Gate-And-Oh-They-Also-Saw-You-Bribe-A-Locksmith-With-That-Burrito-Twenty-That-You-Accidentally-Ripped-In-Half-Because-It-Got-Caught-On-The-Zipper-Of-The-Pocket-On-Your-Nicaraguan-Track-Pants-(Which-Surprisingly-He-Still-Took)-So-Did-You-Really-Expect-One-Of-These-Fine-Upstanding-Citizens-To-Let-Your-Shambley-Ass-Into-Their-Home-To-Use-The-Internet-Then-Use-Their-Phone-To-Obtain-Then-Call-Your-New-Housemate-Respectively-To-Finally-Find-Out-Where-She-Had-Said-She-Hid-The-Extra-Key-When-You-Finally-Thought-"Hey-Maybe-I-Should've-Just-Tried-To-Contact-Her-In-The-First-Place-And-Save-All-This-Time-And-Embarrassment?"
And the answer to Operation YOMTWBTNWALWYONTPGCOTPAOTGAOTASYBALWTBTTYARIHBIGCOTZOTPO-YNTP(WSHST)SDYREOOTFUCTLYSAITHTUTITUTPTOTCYNHRTFFOWSHSSHTEKWYFT"HMISJTTCHITFPA-SATTAE?" is, of course, yes. You'd think, especially, after seeing my struggle with these large pants on that fence and my bribing of a clearly irate man with a two-piece $20 bill that my neighbors would be offering up their computers and phones to contact my housemate. But no. Instead, they acted all concerned, but avoided succumbing to my savvy attempts to enter their homes for three minutes to check my email and call my housemate.
"What I need to do is call my housemate, but my phone is in the house along with her number, so I need to check my Email on someone's computer real quick then borrow a phone and give her a ring. She's out of town and won't be home for another week."
"Well, that sounds like a plan!"
"Um...yeah. What I need to do is call my housemate, but my phone is in the house along with her number, so I need to check my Email on someone's computer real quick then borrow a phone and give her a ring. She's out of town and won't be home for another week."
"Yep! A fine plan, indeed! Good luck!"
I'm not sure what it is about upper-class white people in DC (or, actually, probably upper class people of any race, which I would be able to say for certain if DC wasn't so segregated), but they either don't pick up on hints very well, or they're just kind of mean. I know for a fact, that despite me being a complete jackass online, in real life, had I seen someone shambling the way I was shambling, I would've offered them up my classy new den to use the Web for a minute after hearing one of my killer hints.
But here's the real conundrum. I don't think conclusion two is correct. Although DC is full of dicks, these people were actually being nice, it seems, just as long as I stayed away from the inside of their homes. When I said I needed a locksmith, they went into their houses and emerged with a Yellow Pages and a house phone.
"I hope it works out here," said the lady with the blond bob.
I turned it on. "It's a little static-y, actually."
"Well, get a little closer to the house then."
I think I saw her wince when I attempted to alight the front porch so I stopped on the second step. "I guess I can sort of hear it from here."
"Do you want any water, dear?" asked the woman with the brown bob. "I can go fetch you a bottle."
"Oh, thanks, actually, yes," I answered.
Hot damn! These neighbors are the tits outside! Phones, water, yellow pages, delightful small talk!
The thing is, I've concluded, is don't ever try to get an invite in. Suddenly, you're a vampire -- and not the dreamy kind teenagers like to fantasize about having sexual relations with. (Sidebar: That's a trend I will seriously never understand.) Nope. You're the straight up Nosferatu kind in jumbo Nicaraguan track pants.
But for real, I'm extremely confused by this weekend's interactions. Clearly, these are a group of very nice, very understanding people. They seemed genuinely concerned about me not being able to get in my house. They gave me fancy water, for God's sake! Yet, at the same time, no one offered for me to step inside, even after HOURS of watching me struggle and come to the conclusion that what I really needed (besides fancy water) was someone's Web for three minutes.
But wait. Could Operation YOMTWBTNWALWYONTPGCOTPAOTGAOTASYBALWTBTTYARIHBIGCOTZ-OTPOYNTP(WSHST)SDYREOOTFUCTLYSAITHTUTITUTPTOTCYNHRTFFOWSHSSHTEKWYFT"HM-ISJTTCHITFPASATTAE?" have failed because of me? After all, I never asked anyone directly if I could compute in their home. Instead, I relied on what I thought was protocol in these types of communities and that's heavy, obvious hinting. ("Gee, if only I had access to my Email, I could just call my housemate and find out where she hides the extra key...") Maybe they just didn't get it? I mean, it wouldn't be the first time I ran into a group of idiots in DC...
But no. The man with the grey beard was reading The New Yorker! These snobs are my people! They must've known! So, what the hell? Did I smell?
Yeah, that's a possibility...
But even emitting a ripe, post-jog odor, I do declare that, in this case, someone still should've offered up their Firefox to me. In other words and acronyms, Operation YOMTWBTNWALWYONTPGCOTPAOTGAOTASYBALWTBTTYARIHB-IGCOTZOTPOYNTP(WSHST)SDYREOOTFUCTLYSAITHTUTITUTPTOTCYNH-RTFFOWSHSSHTEKWYFT"HMISJTTCHITFPASATTAE?" should have been a rousing success just like everything else in my life, like my job, my health...this blog post...oh...sh*t.
And so, after several unsuccessful attempts to use my neighbors' computers, I finally decided to seek out the Internet of those friends who were silly enough to give me their addresses. Jumping from one house to, uh, the only other one I know (aww...), I finally got online, called my housemate and got in my damn house. Sure, this is probably what I should've done in the first place, but then I'd still be a stranger to my neighbors, instead of "that degenerate who lives across the street." And, thus, the moral of this story is that you should never exercise because it will get you into trouble. Or something.
Hey, here's a picture of a hamster lifting weights.
Blog post saved!
And if that's not enough for you, here's some Russian humor in English, which I hope you'll find as priceless as I do.
The laugh track gets 5 stars!