After taking the month of February off from scripting, I'm officially declaring myself back in the swing. Suggested by my own Aunt Sharon of Birmingham, Michigan (a firecracker of a lady who, I think we can all agree, gave up on sanity long ago), here comes something we hope you'll really like... Chutzpah!.

Check back often! Goodnight, all.

posted by Jeremy Bear 11:10 PM

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Happy belated Fat Tuesday... after all, what's the point in wishing anyone a Happy Lent?

Recently, Carey and I added a wonderful device to our home: a DISHWASHER. I estimate that approximately 73% of all the tragedies that have thusfar occurred in our Long Beach home have occurred as a direct result of our ham-handedness in the dish-cleaning department. The madness had to end, I tell you, so we went for broke.

A few weeks back, Care saw an ad in the paper for a used one, so we went to check it out. A woman who looked like a whorehouse madam answered the door and told us, all smiles, to "meet her at the back". We did... an older guy let us in (the guy Carey had talked to on the phone beforehand) and... well, all I can say about this place is that it needed to be condemned. Foul. FOUL. It was a small warehouse filled with dirty old junk.

The guy (who's speech was next to unintelligible) explained that the city of Long Beach was running him out of town because his home had become an environment hazzard. Yes, that's the kind of dirty I'm talking about. Anyhow, he showed us his used dishwasher, which was a rusted-out dirt trap.

THE GUY: Nubba wub hubba wubba. Puhnubba.

JER: What?

THE GUY: Fuh NUBBA wub HUBBA WUBBA. Puh-NUBBA!

JER: What?

THE GUY: Puh-NUBBA. PUH-NUBB-UH!

JER: ...

THE GUY: Fuh-wubba?

JER: What?

I'm not sure how, but for some reason the guy convinced us to buy his piece-of-crap machine for $80. To be honest, I think we just wanted to get out of there quickly and our judgement was impaired. Since the dishwasher wouldn't fit into our car, I agreed to give him a $10 deposit and he'd deliver it later. (Carey thought at the time I should've paid him everything up front. No way, Care. 10 bucks is about as much as I'm willing to gamble in the eventuality that this whole thing goes south... which it did. Read on.)

*Brief Interlude for the sake of background info*
Before I continue, I should mention another supporting cast member to the drama that's become our Lives in Long Beach. Since housing is scrunched so closely out here, one is forced to become painfully familiar with one's neighbors... everyone knows everything about everyone else. For example, I wouldn't be surprised if the family across the street knows the brand of birth control we use. It's just all right out there for everybody.

There's a very small garden separating our building from the next apartment building on our street. Across the way, facing us, lives a man that Carey and I have come to refer to as "Snake Guy". Snake Guy blares early 80's metal at all hours, walks with a limp, smells like booze, and is frequently seen walking around the neighborhood with his pet boa constrictor draped over his shoulders. His beard and clothes are scraggly, his hair unkempt. The rumor is, Snake Guy sells drugs out of his apartment. There have been numerous attempts over the years to throw Snake Guy out of the neighborhood without success. Apparently, Snake Guy's wife is a well-connected city official (although no one has ever met her or, indeed, can vouch for her existence)
*End interlude*

A few days later, Wubba Guy pulls up to the house to deliver our dishwasher. Confused fellow that he is, he knocked on Snake Guy's apartment door, ready to hand off the goods. I ran outside just in time to see an obviously annoyed Snake Guy sending Wubba Guy away. I cleared up the misunderstanding and went down to Wubba's van to help him get the dishwasher out.

Then... hhh.... Snake Guy offered to help hoist the dishwasher into our home.

This made me nervous. I didn't want the dude in our home for any reason. I didn't want his paws on our admittedly grungy merchandise. There was already a war going on between Snake Guy and all our neighbors and I didn't want to be seen as fraternizing with the enemy. But, in the end, I thanked him and the three of us began to lift the machine out of the van.

Now, in the light of day, this dishwasher looked about 10 times worse than it did in Wubba Guy's den of filth and iniquity. Rusty, dirty, awful. More of a dishfilther than a dishwasher. Snake Guy saw this and flew into a fury.

(If you've a weak stomach or sensitive ears, read no further. Consider yourself warned)

SNAKE GUY: (to Jer) You bought this thing?!

JER: Well, yeah. It was kind of cheap...

SNAKE GUY: You gotta be kidding me.

MR. WUBBA: Nuh-hubba nubba chubba...

SNAKE GUY: You better have gotten a guarantee for this thing. It needs to be hosed down with bleach! It's disgusting!

MR. WUBBA: Ubba, nuh, wuhwuhwuh...

JER: Well, I don't know... uh.

(Jer, Snake, and Wubba lift it out of the van and onto the sidewalk. The dishwasher door flies open and some sort of hinge breaks loose. Filth flies everywhere)

SNAKE GUY: Jeezis! Look at that! It's a piece a shit!

MR. WUBBA: Wubba nuh fuh-nubba sho....

JER: Look, let's just...

SNAKE GUY: The door's broken! Do you see that? The DOOR IS BROKEN.

JER: That's... a problem.

(Wubba takes out a mini monkey wrench and attempts to repair the damage. Snake Guy gestures to Jer that he'd like to have a word with him in private. They take a few steps away from the machine.)

SNAKE GUY (low voices): Son, I want you to listen to me... what's your name?

JER: Jeremy.

SNAKE GUY: Jeremy. Okay, listen up: that dishwasher is a piece a shit. Do you understand me? Don't buy that thing. Okay?

JER: Well, yeah.

SNAKE GUY: I mean it. It's a piece a shit.

JER: I know.

SNAKE GUY: Don't buy it.

JER: You're probably right.

SNAKE GUY: I've seen a lot of shit, believe me. And that thing is SHIT.

JER: Mm.

SNAKE GUY: My brother delivers these things for a living. He could get you a good deal.

JER: Oh yeah?

SNAKE GUY: Better than that thing, that's for sure. Jeezis. Look at him, tryin' to fix it with his little monkey wrench.

JER: Yeah, that's bad news.

SNAKE GUY: Fuggin' guy. Piece a shit.

JER: Uh.

(At this point, a burly fellow, dressed casually-but-conservatively, walks up to Snake Guy. He's holding an envelope)

BURLY GUY: Sir? Do you live in this building? Unit 10?

SNAKE GUY: Yeh. Who's askin'?

BURLY GUY: (handing him an envelope) You've been served. Have a good day.

(Burly Guy leaves. Snake Guy opens the envelope and reads the piece of paper. He begins to shake his head)

JER: *Koff*, well, listen, thanks for your help. I'll just, uh...

SNAKE GUY: SonuvaBITCH!

JER: ...Hrm...

SNAKE GUY: Say, Jeremy... you know those guys that live below me? The Butt Boys?

JER: I'm sorry?

SNAKE GUY: The Butt Boys that live in the unit below me. You know, the faggots. The two guys. Fags. You know 'em?

JER: I don't really know anybody in your building all that well. Is...?

SNAKE GUY: Read this. Sons a BITCHES!

(Snake Guy hands Jer the paper from the envelope. In a nutshell, it's a formal, legal complaint about the noise Snake Guy makes, the disturbances, the harassment, etc. with the threat of eviction and/or legal action. Jer reads.)

JER: Oh boy. What's "TAG"?

SNAKE GUY: Henh?

JER: It keeps saying "TAG". What's "TAG"?

SNAKE GUY: That's me. My name's Tag.

JER: Oh, is that your name? I never knew. Well, good to meet you Tag.

SNAKE GUY: Sons a bitches...

JER: Yeah, sorry about that. A whole legal... thing... Well, listen, again, thanks for the help and...

SNAKE GUY: Say, Jeremy. Do me a favor, will ya? You're a good guy, right?

JER: ...I don't know... not usually...

SNAKE GUY: It looks like the fags have written a formal complaint. You wouldn't believe what they're trying to say about me. It's all "loud music" and "he sells drugs" and... can you believe that? They're saying I sell drugs out of my apartment!

JER: Well... do you?

SNAKE GUY: ...

JER: ...

SNAKE GUY: Uh. Heh heh... uh.

JER: (very nervously) Y-y'know, I'm just kidding. I wasn't really suggesting--

SNAKE GUY: Ha ha ha, I know you were, buddy... ha ha ha!

JER: H-ha ha ha....

SNAKE GUY: Ahhhhhh, fuck. Anyhow, do me a favor, will ya? Write a letter to the city of Long Beach and tell them that I ain't ever harassed nobody. Do that for me?

JER: Whuh... you mean...

SNAKE GUY: They're all gangin' up on me, see. I ain't ever harassed you, have I?

JER: You mean me personally?

SNAKE GUY: Yeah, you know, I'm helpin' you with this dishwasher, here... that's pretty nice, innit?

JER: Yeah... it's nice.... you know, if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not get involved in the whole legal thing between you and... you know...

SNAKE GUY: You don't want to get involved?

JER: Well, it's just... that... I've never... I mean, thanks for your help... uh...

SNAKE GUY: You know what? Forget it. Don't get involved. I don't blame ya. Faggots.

JER: Okay.

SNAKE GUY: I mean, can ya believe the faggots around here?! Jeezis!

JER: Yeah, well.

SNAKE GUY: Just do me one favor, though. Okay?

JER: Okay.

SNAKE GUY: Don't buy that piece a shit.

JER: Okay.

SNAKE GUY: I mean it. All right, I'm going back upstairs. See ya later.

JER: Well, thanks again... say, Tag?

SNAKE GUY: Yeh?

JER: How did you get that limp, anyhow?

SNAKE GUY: Broke my leg in 7 places two years ago. You don't wanna know how.

JER: Oh.

SNAKE GUY: Then last year, I had a stroke.

JER: Oh.

SNAKE GUY: Anything else you wanna know?

JER: Uh, nope. That's it. I'll see you around, I guess.

SNAKE GUY: Later. Don't buy that thing.

(Jer returns to Mr. Wubba, who still can't manage to close the door all the way.)

JER: How's it looking?

MR. WUBBA: Fuh-nubba wuh-thubba fnoo.

JER: You know, sir, if the door can't even close, I don't think it's much use to us.

MR. WUBBBA: ...

JER: I mean, sorry you had to come all the way out here, but... it's just... we can't use it.

MR. WUBBA: (nods) Fuhnubba.

JER: Let me help you get it back in the van.
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And I did. I told him he could keep the deposit money for the trouble (he looked like he needed 10 bucks more than me anyhow). He shrugged, muttered something about the environmentalist bastards in Long Beach, and drove off. A couple of days later, we bought a pretty good one from a used appliance store up in Gardena for $250 and, so far, it works really well.

And, ever since, whenever I pass Snake Guy outside, he always waves hello. Still booze-stinkin'. Still limpin'.

I have no idea how the homosexual fellows are doing with their lawsuit, either. I'm sure I'll hear all about it eventually.

posted by Jeremy Bear 5:58 PM

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