Home And Away Week
This post is brought to you by Chaz, who has his dirty little fingers in everyone's pies.
Dearest Chaz informed me, some eight hours ago, of a prank which was recently played on my arch-nemesis. On Friday, a friend of Brody's from high school in Atlanta--let us call him Ghandi, such is my admiration for the man--wandered into Dauten 23 to say hi. With Brody's door unlocked, but Brody nowhere to be found, Ghandi saw his opportunity. He had, on Labor Day, cooked up a terrible plan which he had always wanted to try: he wanted to strip naked, then take a polaroid of himself reclining on Brody's bed.
He checked Brody's camera for an auto-timer, and was disappointed. So, Ghandi called his girlfriend, Mother Teresa, to come assist him. He warned her of the rigors of this task, and she was up to the challenge.
So, stripped down to his socks and squatting on Brody's pillow, his anus and balls resting on the soft cotton, Ghandi gave the signal to take the picture. Mother Teresa pressed the button... and nothing happened. The camera was out of film.
At precisely this moment, Brody returned to the suite, was informed of the situation by his suitemates (who had done nothing to stop it from occurring), and began trying to knock his door down. Mother Teresa, in a stunning display of passive resistance, curled into a ball at the foot of the door and thwarted his attempts to get inside. Meanwhile, Ghandi wrapped himself up in Brody's comforter, to avoid losing his dignity. Changing back into his clothes, Ghandi and Mother Teresa strolled out of Brody's room, whereupon Brody began whipping Ghandi with a rubber hose.
There are two things you should take from this story : 1. Brody Hates Ghandi. 2. The man who put his balls on Brody's pillow is my new favorite thing about Atlanta. Any city that harbors anti-Brodies goes up a few pegs in my book.
Now, something I like about St. Louis... I hate to sound like a broken record, but Dystopia might be the best thing that's ever happened to me. You may not know this about me, but my equilibrium is somewhere between depressed and nearly suicidal. My mood is always in the red, so to speak. Since meeting her, though, more and more of my days have been black (to keep the stock market metaphor); perhaps this is because she, herself, acts as a blackness magnet--such is the extent of her commitment to all things goth. When she can manage to yell at her parents until they lock themselves in their bedroom, she sneaks out and stays the night with me. I don't think Cliff likes her, but the mall is certainly big enough for the three of us.
Ah yes, that reminds me. I've done some more research on Cliff, and what his story is. One of the security guards told me that, as with any major development, the Westfield company had to buy out all of the stores and residences which occupied the mall's projected space. One by one, every home and every store fell to the Westfield checkbook; every home, except Cliff's.
If you've read about Cliff in my previous entries, then you know that he's conspicuously insane. It should come as no surprise, then, that he's one of those nutjobs you read about in the papers, who chain themselves to their houses as the bulldozers loom. City ordinance stated that they could not force him out of his home, and the zoning board said that the mall could not be built around his house. So, a clever team of lawyers came up with the solution. Cliff was in his twenties, at the time, so they figured "what better place for a twenty-something to live than a shopping mall?" Cliff, being the nutjob that he is, accepted the offer. The lawyers drew up the papers, and Cliff became an official resident of the Westfield Shoppingtown in West County, the second resident of a mall in history--the first was a man who, in 1993, lawfully annexed a Jello store in the Mall of America by claiming squatter's rights.
So, in a roundabout way, I discovered that the reason Cliff lives in the mall is because Cliff literally lives in the mall. Why he lies about it, I still don't know. I suspect it has something to do with his lack of sanity.
I hope my next post will be many days from now.
That is all.
Dearest Chaz informed me, some eight hours ago, of a prank which was recently played on my arch-nemesis. On Friday, a friend of Brody's from high school in Atlanta--let us call him Ghandi, such is my admiration for the man--wandered into Dauten 23 to say hi. With Brody's door unlocked, but Brody nowhere to be found, Ghandi saw his opportunity. He had, on Labor Day, cooked up a terrible plan which he had always wanted to try: he wanted to strip naked, then take a polaroid of himself reclining on Brody's bed.
He checked Brody's camera for an auto-timer, and was disappointed. So, Ghandi called his girlfriend, Mother Teresa, to come assist him. He warned her of the rigors of this task, and she was up to the challenge.
So, stripped down to his socks and squatting on Brody's pillow, his anus and balls resting on the soft cotton, Ghandi gave the signal to take the picture. Mother Teresa pressed the button... and nothing happened. The camera was out of film.
At precisely this moment, Brody returned to the suite, was informed of the situation by his suitemates (who had done nothing to stop it from occurring), and began trying to knock his door down. Mother Teresa, in a stunning display of passive resistance, curled into a ball at the foot of the door and thwarted his attempts to get inside. Meanwhile, Ghandi wrapped himself up in Brody's comforter, to avoid losing his dignity. Changing back into his clothes, Ghandi and Mother Teresa strolled out of Brody's room, whereupon Brody began whipping Ghandi with a rubber hose.
There are two things you should take from this story : 1. Brody Hates Ghandi. 2. The man who put his balls on Brody's pillow is my new favorite thing about Atlanta. Any city that harbors anti-Brodies goes up a few pegs in my book.
Now, something I like about St. Louis... I hate to sound like a broken record, but Dystopia might be the best thing that's ever happened to me. You may not know this about me, but my equilibrium is somewhere between depressed and nearly suicidal. My mood is always in the red, so to speak. Since meeting her, though, more and more of my days have been black (to keep the stock market metaphor); perhaps this is because she, herself, acts as a blackness magnet--such is the extent of her commitment to all things goth. When she can manage to yell at her parents until they lock themselves in their bedroom, she sneaks out and stays the night with me. I don't think Cliff likes her, but the mall is certainly big enough for the three of us.
Ah yes, that reminds me. I've done some more research on Cliff, and what his story is. One of the security guards told me that, as with any major development, the Westfield company had to buy out all of the stores and residences which occupied the mall's projected space. One by one, every home and every store fell to the Westfield checkbook; every home, except Cliff's.
If you've read about Cliff in my previous entries, then you know that he's conspicuously insane. It should come as no surprise, then, that he's one of those nutjobs you read about in the papers, who chain themselves to their houses as the bulldozers loom. City ordinance stated that they could not force him out of his home, and the zoning board said that the mall could not be built around his house. So, a clever team of lawyers came up with the solution. Cliff was in his twenties, at the time, so they figured "what better place for a twenty-something to live than a shopping mall?" Cliff, being the nutjob that he is, accepted the offer. The lawyers drew up the papers, and Cliff became an official resident of the Westfield Shoppingtown in West County, the second resident of a mall in history--the first was a man who, in 1993, lawfully annexed a Jello store in the Mall of America by claiming squatter's rights.
So, in a roundabout way, I discovered that the reason Cliff lives in the mall is because Cliff literally lives in the mall. Why he lies about it, I still don't know. I suspect it has something to do with his lack of sanity.
I hope my next post will be many days from now.
That is all.
posted by Alfonzo Debussy | 11:55 PM
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