Tuesday, June 24, 2008

What a Shituation



I wrote an essay called Shitvitation in my forthcoming book. Bubbsie and Oldest Daughter know the essay cause'ns I read it at the Fixx Reading Series. In short, my apartment manager had a girating asstastic experience on my porcelain goddess while dishing on the phone with one of his chippies. Oh, what a shitmare it was, just ask B or Amy. Amy and I were furiously emailing back and forth during Shituardo's fiesta for party of one.

On Monday, Shituardo and his sidekick, a lovely bloke who kindly smiles at everything I say, came over at 9AM to replace my tile-oleum with actual see-ramic tiles. Unprepared and terrified I'd be bombed again, I wrapped my toilet in duct tape and closed the door. I also offered up additional insurance, 20 bucks each for lunch. I spent the day standing guard in the living room as they ripped up the linoleum and replaced it with tiles or as my mother refers to them, teelays.

By 4PM, the tiles were down and the shitwins were leaving for the day. Curious. As you can see from the above picture, my refrigerator and kitchen table were in my living room in front of my "bedroom" (murphy bed) and my stove was in the walk-in closet. Fortunately, my couch magically converts to a bed, so I slept on that. My LR felt like white trashapalooza. All I was missing was a pig to roast, a Budweiser keg to tap and a few toothless kinfolk. I do believe if I had the aforementioned items, I would've been able to send out motel notepad stationary invitations for the event.

The next morning Shituardo was back, and so was the duct tape. He grouted the tiles and took off. Thinking he'd be back in 5 minees, after an hour, I called him and asked him what the plan was. He said, "I be yack-yat 2 wee-m." By 3PM there was no sign of Wardo. I called him and said, "It's waaaaay past 2 and I have a million things to do. I need to know exactly when you're going to be here to finish what you started." "I yo. I yo. I yo." He said, "Yive yinutes I be yack."

Fine. Fine. Fine.

30 minutes later he returned. As you can see from the below picture, the floor didn't get mopped. According to S-wardo, white-trashalvania could be reformed. However, he couldn't mop the floor until Wednesday because the grout needed to set. Funny, he could subject the grout to dragging a refrigerator, table and a stove across it, but cleaning it, well that was out.


FUCK THAT.

I'll do it myself at the crack'o. There is an upside, though. He didn't pillage my divaoilet. I have new tee-lays instead of puckering linoleum and it only cost me 40 bucks.

When I saw him on his knees grouting my floor with his ass in my face, I thought I really hope a proctologist wrangles his anus sooner than later to find a cure to his sewage crisis.

Poor guy.

FreidaBee's Love Letter


You must read FreidaBee's Love Letter to her Thyroid, Dear Thyroid, I miss You and I'm Sorry.

I laughed.

I cried.

Regardless of whether you have a thyroid issue or not, her letter has a very positive healing affect. It's beauuutiful.

 

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