...on the short list

on my way home this evening, i get a call from the chairman.

"there are fire trucks down by your apartment"

"is my place on fire?"

"i don't think so. looks like it's by tutto bene."

"ok i'll take the back way in. see you in a bit"

so the bastard does the nice neighborly thing and he calls the neighbors. neither of the girls answers him.

the chairman calls back and confirms that the bastard's home isn't on fire. when i get home, the trucks are still there and so is an ambulance. i go upstairs to drop off some laundry. and then it hits me.

what if the firemen aren't done?

what if it spreads?

i better take some stuff with me.

so here's the bastard's short list. now taken into consideration that in my car already, i have my ipod, my shopping bags from trader joes, and my phone is on me. so given all that i grabbed just:

my laptop

the portfolio which i prefer to refer to as "the book"

my laundry to switch

and my sidi motorcycle boots. they aren't the most optimum foot wear but, they are my most expensive.

then i walked out. knowing that if the place burned to the ground, the bastard could function. on the way out, i drop off laundry and some fat bitch (and i don't throw that kind of insult around lightly, i don't want to get scoop angry with me) opens the door to the laundromat, looks right at me, walks into the laundromat, and lets the door close on me. i hold out my palm so that the door makes a resounding slap. she barely resists the urge to turn and see what the sound is because she knows what it is. followed by the bastard saying,"thanks jerk", to which she resists again the urge to turn and respond.

but i am tired

and i have no resistance.

so as i get to the counter, i pass her, and bang the bag into her fat carcass. granted, it's a bag of clothes but the bastard will not be denied. after this i get in the car and an old man from the block gives me the stink eye. he's been giving me grief for a while (long story, i'll tell it later) and as i pull out of my parking spot with my short list of stuff, we lock eyes and i think of my other list.

the list of people that are going to fucking GET IT when i leave this block. and they will fucking get it good.

—the bastard

phalanx

3 girls.

all in a row.

not moving and there's scaffolding to the left.

no where to go but in. so the bastard makes an opportunity, seemlessly mind you.

yes, the bastard is fucking seemless.

as i make the pass and one of them says "fuck you" to me.

do you kiss your mother with that mouth?

i flash the proper hand sign in response to her foul move. no honey, i wouldn't fuck you. not on your best day. which seems very far behind my worst day by comparison.

—the bastard

things you need to know today

little man.

the thing that you were probably grappling with wasn't whether or not to get out of the bastard's way but, HOW QUICKLY you could make that happen. also, the other thought that was rattling around in that vacant space you call a head was, "maybe i should trying and update my haircut because this one makes me look like fucking parker lewis"? because yes, you should update your haircut squire. no one should look like they came to work via a doorway to/from the past. discuss. and oh yes, please die.

speaking of dying.

young lady.

with the bad dye job. or rather bad bleach job.

the phrase you were looking for when someone holds the door is "thank you". say it with me. "thank you". very good. now onto the meat of the manner. you aren't THAT good looking. just because you clearly have a tanning salon near your house doesn't mean that it makes you look good. and i've already mentioned the streak job. come on, don't all you impolite sort watch sex in the city? besides, you kind of look like a pug in a wig. plus, you suck at living too.

sales monkey.

the bastard doesn't want to hear about what kind of games eson will broadcast.

the bastard doesn't care about their newsworthyness.

however, the bastard does care that you shut the hell up before there is a report on the news tonight about a dead sales monkey thrown out of the ninth floor of an office building in murray hill. it might very well interrupt the uconn game. or the marion game. or the whatever the fuck game you were blabbing on about.

come on! i'm saving lives here.

oh.

wait.

coffee.

—the bastard

smug

psst.

hey.

new york.

the bastard has to tell you something deeply personal.

all of your children.

who ride to work with you on the subway.

are walking ids,

or twitchy and shouldn't be dressing themselves

and kicking

and twitching

and kicking

what the fuck did you feed your child this morning, jerkpiece

or

are fat

and annoying tubs of lard who shouldn't be flipping their braids around hitting folks like they own the goddam place.

leave them home.

or

maybe

fucking raise them to act properly on the train.

we can work on the clothes and weight some other time.

now don't get me wrong. i am a parent. a really smug parent. i think the sun rises and sets on my boy. but, my boy knows how to behave himself on a train. and to be fair, he's 7 and that's pretty much when most kids become aware that they can reason and that the world might not revolve around them but,

curb your kid

please

before i come unglued.

thanks

—the bastard

...on shoving

...and napoleon complexes

...ummmmm, hey short lady. yes you short lady why are you shoving? why are you name calling. i know it's a real bitch to be that short and all and i know that it's all ME ME ME and such, and i feel really really bad about you having to walk through life with that tragic tragic haircut, but if we weren't in mixed company, i would stab you in the neck. that shoving and shouting is quite unnecessary. have a nice day.

and oh yeah you can go to hell too. >>smooch<<.

—the bastard