"Goddamn Idiot" Week
Every single one of you deserves to die. People who aren't reading this deserve to die. People who are reading this deserve to die. If the person next to you can't read English, they also deserve to die; doubly so, in fact. But whoever is responsible for closing my god-damned door deserves to burn in Hell for the rest of eternity.
Until this Saturday, I had lived within the walls of the Westfield Shoppingtown in West County for over three weeks. The times when I would wend my way back to Suite 3100, I never needed a key because : a) the suite door was always unlocked. b) my room door was always wide open.
The staggering irrelevance of my room key led me to, in my time at Westfield, lose the key. I suspect that it is buried deep within the folds of a LoveSac but, as I said, it did not matter. The door to my room never closes.
Dystopia had gone home for the evening; she's willing to sleep with me in a mall, but Wash U. beds are simply too uncomfortable for two bodies. I was laying down for some "Alfonzo Time," featuring The Postal Service, when the fire alarm went off. I tell you, were there not a fine for ignoring fire alarms, I wouldn't have moved an inch (save to turn up the music); but, being that my door was wide open, I thought it best not to be caught prostrate by a fireman.
As much as it hurts me to rely upon my suitemates, I found Chaz, Vlad and Alan outside and we stood motionless, staring at the flashing lights spinning out the windows of our building. Chaz took a swig from his handle of vodka and asked whether or not it was an actual emergency. His question was answerered when a long-haired, lanky figure burst out of the dorm's second entrance, screaming and waving what looked like a flaming bag of popcorn.
"Number eleven school in the country and he can make popcorn without setting it on fire," I said. We all had a jolly chuckle at my wit. That's when things started to go wrong. Alan realized that the keys he picked up were not the right keys; nevermind why anyone would have a set of housekeys five-hundred miles away from their house. Chaz had neglected to pick his keys up, thinking it much more important to save the handle of vodka. He claimed he "didn't have time to get both." He took another swig.
I, of course, being only a transient resident of Suite 3100, could not reasonably be expected to have my keys, though my suitemates may have different opinions on the matter.
We all turn to Vladimir, poor simple-minded Vladimir.
"Vlad," I said to him, "do you have your keys?"
"Da," he nodded. The three of us sigh with relief, and the fire alarm gets shut off. We file into the building and shuffle up the stairs to our door. Standing in a semi-circle around it, the three of us look expectantly at Vlad. He proceeds to reach into every one of his pockets before shrugging and saying "Wrong pants."
These people are going to give me a twitch.
Alan and I attempted to open the door with a bent coathanger, a process which is about as productive as simply urinating all over myself. Chaz got impatient and ran off to innovate in the world of drunken hijinx, leaving his handle of vodka by the door. Vlad then told Alan and I that be believed his keys were in a pair of pants he left the bedroom of one of his campus concubines; one who he had not seen in some time. Though it is, apparently, against Russian tradition to acknowledge a woman once you have deflowered her, Alan and I forced him to retrieve his pants and the keys within.
Meanwhile, I sat and contemplated the lock. I thought if I could just force a bit of coathanger into the lock, it would open and my problems would be over. I broke off a piece of hanger and began to fiddle with the lock. I hear a chuckle from over my shoulder and I turn to see not Alan, but a long-haired, lanky boy laughing at my misfortune. I shot him a glare that, in a perfect world, would have sent pain of an undescribable magnitude shooting down his spine; instead, my glare seemed to spur him to utter an unforgivably ironic comment:
"Number eleven school in the country and he can't remember his damn keys."
I turn to try my psychic attack again, and I realize where I've seen this boy before. He was the fucker with the flaming bag of popcorn! I pull the coathanger shard out of the door and begin chasing him down the hall, shouting a string of explitives as I went.
Those of you who might have read Alan's post on the subject have been mislead. It is true that I do no engage in the low-brow "physical activites" that my peers take part in, but my psuedo-coma was not induced by a lack of muscular strength on my part. I am anemic, and the shift back to Bon Appetit food has left my iron count dangerously low. The momentary weakness which Alan has so hilariously made light of was actually a dire medical situation. The electrolytes he force-fed me were not, in fact, helpful. I needed protein, and I'm lucky to have woken up this morning, though the circumstances under which I woke up this morning were not, themselves, lucky.
As you read, Alan propped me against the door to our suite, right next to Chaz's vodka. My rude awakening came when the door to the suite was opened from the inside by our dear friend, Vladimir. I opened my eyes and saw nothing but green, thinking, for sure, that I had been blinded. As I collected myself, I found the green blind to be a post-it note from my RA, reprimanding me for having alcohol in the hallway, as well as for passing out. Apparently, I am to be fined.
But yes, you must be wondering, how did Vlad open the door from the inside?
He had retrieved his keys, of course, though he neglected to unlock the door once inside. But even a man as hateful as myself has moments in which he is blinded by relief. I was inside the suite, and my problems were solved.
Except that the door to my room was closed....
In a period of 24 hours, I've managed to lose $50 for falling asleep next to alcohol and $170 for losing both my keys, necessitating not one, but two, replacement locks.
This whole experience simply serves to solidify my undying hatred of humanity, and of popcorn.
That is all, you bastards.
Until this Saturday, I had lived within the walls of the Westfield Shoppingtown in West County for over three weeks. The times when I would wend my way back to Suite 3100, I never needed a key because : a) the suite door was always unlocked. b) my room door was always wide open.
The staggering irrelevance of my room key led me to, in my time at Westfield, lose the key. I suspect that it is buried deep within the folds of a LoveSac but, as I said, it did not matter. The door to my room never closes.
Dystopia had gone home for the evening; she's willing to sleep with me in a mall, but Wash U. beds are simply too uncomfortable for two bodies. I was laying down for some "Alfonzo Time," featuring The Postal Service, when the fire alarm went off. I tell you, were there not a fine for ignoring fire alarms, I wouldn't have moved an inch (save to turn up the music); but, being that my door was wide open, I thought it best not to be caught prostrate by a fireman.
As much as it hurts me to rely upon my suitemates, I found Chaz, Vlad and Alan outside and we stood motionless, staring at the flashing lights spinning out the windows of our building. Chaz took a swig from his handle of vodka and asked whether or not it was an actual emergency. His question was answerered when a long-haired, lanky figure burst out of the dorm's second entrance, screaming and waving what looked like a flaming bag of popcorn.
"Number eleven school in the country and he can make popcorn without setting it on fire," I said. We all had a jolly chuckle at my wit. That's when things started to go wrong. Alan realized that the keys he picked up were not the right keys; nevermind why anyone would have a set of housekeys five-hundred miles away from their house. Chaz had neglected to pick his keys up, thinking it much more important to save the handle of vodka. He claimed he "didn't have time to get both." He took another swig.
I, of course, being only a transient resident of Suite 3100, could not reasonably be expected to have my keys, though my suitemates may have different opinions on the matter.
We all turn to Vladimir, poor simple-minded Vladimir.
"Vlad," I said to him, "do you have your keys?"
"Da," he nodded. The three of us sigh with relief, and the fire alarm gets shut off. We file into the building and shuffle up the stairs to our door. Standing in a semi-circle around it, the three of us look expectantly at Vlad. He proceeds to reach into every one of his pockets before shrugging and saying "Wrong pants."
These people are going to give me a twitch.
Alan and I attempted to open the door with a bent coathanger, a process which is about as productive as simply urinating all over myself. Chaz got impatient and ran off to innovate in the world of drunken hijinx, leaving his handle of vodka by the door. Vlad then told Alan and I that be believed his keys were in a pair of pants he left the bedroom of one of his campus concubines; one who he had not seen in some time. Though it is, apparently, against Russian tradition to acknowledge a woman once you have deflowered her, Alan and I forced him to retrieve his pants and the keys within.
Meanwhile, I sat and contemplated the lock. I thought if I could just force a bit of coathanger into the lock, it would open and my problems would be over. I broke off a piece of hanger and began to fiddle with the lock. I hear a chuckle from over my shoulder and I turn to see not Alan, but a long-haired, lanky boy laughing at my misfortune. I shot him a glare that, in a perfect world, would have sent pain of an undescribable magnitude shooting down his spine; instead, my glare seemed to spur him to utter an unforgivably ironic comment:
"Number eleven school in the country and he can't remember his damn keys."
I turn to try my psychic attack again, and I realize where I've seen this boy before. He was the fucker with the flaming bag of popcorn! I pull the coathanger shard out of the door and begin chasing him down the hall, shouting a string of explitives as I went.
Those of you who might have read Alan's post on the subject have been mislead. It is true that I do no engage in the low-brow "physical activites" that my peers take part in, but my psuedo-coma was not induced by a lack of muscular strength on my part. I am anemic, and the shift back to Bon Appetit food has left my iron count dangerously low. The momentary weakness which Alan has so hilariously made light of was actually a dire medical situation. The electrolytes he force-fed me were not, in fact, helpful. I needed protein, and I'm lucky to have woken up this morning, though the circumstances under which I woke up this morning were not, themselves, lucky.
As you read, Alan propped me against the door to our suite, right next to Chaz's vodka. My rude awakening came when the door to the suite was opened from the inside by our dear friend, Vladimir. I opened my eyes and saw nothing but green, thinking, for sure, that I had been blinded. As I collected myself, I found the green blind to be a post-it note from my RA, reprimanding me for having alcohol in the hallway, as well as for passing out. Apparently, I am to be fined.
But yes, you must be wondering, how did Vlad open the door from the inside?
He had retrieved his keys, of course, though he neglected to unlock the door once inside. But even a man as hateful as myself has moments in which he is blinded by relief. I was inside the suite, and my problems were solved.
Except that the door to my room was closed....
In a period of 24 hours, I've managed to lose $50 for falling asleep next to alcohol and $170 for losing both my keys, necessitating not one, but two, replacement locks.
This whole experience simply serves to solidify my undying hatred of humanity, and of popcorn.
That is all, you bastards.
posted by Alfonzo Debussy | 7:37 PM
2 Comments:
Epic, Alfonso. Truly epic.
~Bridget
A plague o' your house.
That is all.
Post a Comment
<< Home