Skeksies are so stupid, I wonder how they have not failed to remember to inhale after exhaling.
I HATE going outside on general principle, but when I do, what I hate the very most, is going to the elevator. As fat a fuck as I am I should make it a policy to walk up and down the stairs. And I just might. But I have to be careful walking upstairs, because I hurt so bad when I get to the top landing; And when I hurt, I strike back. If I got to the top landing and met someone up there waiting for the elevator, like Bat Faced Bitch, I'd throw a punch right to the bridge of her nose, sending her down on her ass, and walk off. I would be whistling too.
No, I'm not ready to start marching up and down stairs, but I may sooner than I think. You see, the most annoying thing is to be using the elevator while the Skeks are up in force. The reason? It's simple. The fucking Skek mind is limited, being only the size of a walnut composed of shit and two brain cells. These cells are working at cross-purposes, canceling each other out. That's why they can tie their shoes and not shit themselves, or piss on the sidewalk after taking their dicks out first. They can perform very rudimentary tasks, like scratch an itch, but not take a shower.
Further, Skeksies like to go places. They LOVE to travel. Hands down their most happiest endeavor. The problem is is that they don't understand the
concept of travel. Travel is a
major change in your environment. To them, walking out their door is traveling, and to some extent, they are correct. But their concept of traveling is somewhat parallel to ours, where we pack our bags and get on a bus or plane to a destination. They believe that they are doing the same when they step outside with all that they own in a bag slung across their backs. They'll walk around the corner, sit on the sidewalk until dark, and then return after taking a long trip.
Also, when they travel, they love to be in a vehicle. But the question is, where does a Skek get a vehicle? It's the elevator of course. The elevator is similar to a plane for them, or even worse, and amusement ride. Thus the term 'Skeksie Ride'. There are only NINE floors in my building and sometimes I can wait up to eight or nine minutes for the fucking elevator. Can you imagine that shit? That means a stop on every floor, sometimes even twice, and yet statistically speaking, this should be rare. Well, not if a single skek lives in your building. I'll explain.
Firstly, Skeks always complain that it takes too long for the elevator, but cannot see how they are the cause of it. Case in point, these mental defectives have come to the conclusion that when you press the down elevator call button, the elevator will come,
but if you press
both buttons, the elevator will come faster. This is hardly the case. What they are doing is making the elevator make an unnecessary stop thus adding to its reaction time. I can tell this when I'm riding the elevator up and some moron gets on the elevator at lets say the six floor, and then presses the First floor even though the elevator is going up to my floor. This sad fuck does not realize that after I get off of my floor, the elevator is only going to go down, stop at the sixth floor again and then proceed to the First. A wasted stop for a wasted brain.
Secondly, these motherfuckers believe in holding the door for their friends. I swear to the god of retards that one day I'm riding downstairs to the First floor, this Short Guy and myself and the elevator stops on the sixth floor. That little fucking Aunt Jemimah chick walks in with the washrag tied around her head and holds the door. She calls out to her Skek friend. The elevator door try to close but she's still holding it, leaning out, calling her friend. The Short Guy swears under his breath and stomps out of the elevator, heading for the stairs. I look at her, "Look honey, I've got to go, let the elevator go and catch the next one." She turns and looks at me. I am quite larger and taller than her, but she still sizes me up. Then her gawky White dude friend comes bolting into the elevator, allowing her to let it go. Then Aunt Jemimah reaches over and presses the Seventh floor button....UP ONE STOP.
"You're kidding me, right?" I ask the little Black fuck. The gawky White dude sees that I'm incensed, "Hey, I've never seen you here in the building before. Are you new?" No, I've lived here for two years, I reply, grateful for his deflection. The elevator stops at the First floor and I scowl at Aunt Jemimah as I walk out the door. This is what I call caught in a 'Skeksie Ride". If you have one or two Skeks doing this shit you'll have a severely debilitated elevator reaction time.
Thirdly, Skeks like to stop on every floor. They all pile in an elevator, since they've all been waiting. They've been gathering on each floor for so long because you have one of these shitheads holding the elevator for another. Then another is pressing two buttons. Then what you have are elevators filled to capacity and stopping on every floor in both directions to answer all the calls given it. Again, caught in a Skeksie Ride.
Finally, Skeks hate to wait. So these fuckers, especially the ones on the Second and Third floor will always go to the elevator, press both buttons, wait for half a minute, and then trot their bowlegged asses downstairs. Meaning, your chances of stopping on the Second and Third floor are pretty much guaranteed. So an elevator ride that should have taken two minutes, now takes five. It's annoying and will bring tears to your eyes when you watch the elevator stop on nearly every floor, and wait for longer than two minutes on two of the floors, only to open it's door on the First floor and an elevator full of these fucking walking murder victims come wobbling out like penguins in a zoo.
It's enough to make a grown man cry. I'm not lying to you.
Well, if I hate Skeks so much, then why did I go to the 28th street Church of the Holy Apostles for Thanksgiving? Well, the honest two most answers are, 1) my cupboards were empty and 2) they serve great grub. Oh, and a third reason, 3) they let you take in a Glad container as much as you want. This made dealing with Skeks somewhat tolerable. I hopped onto the train in Penn Station, and I have to swear to you, the station was so packed with commuters heading out or in to see their loved ones that it was shoulder to shoulder human madness. It's times like these that I hate being outside. All you need is one terrorist with one grenade, or some fucking nut yell fire, and you'll instantly have a whole lot of dead people. That entire fucking area would turn into a massive meat grinder.
It was just too many people. A goddamn ocean of bodies tightly packed together like a sea of heads. It was madness. But I waded through this swamp of humanity and got outside where the air was somewhat fresh. I head to the church and there, going around the corner, was a line of Skeks, like zombies, standing, waiting for entry. There must have been over a hundred people there. I jumped on the back of the cue and took my ticket from the volunteer at the end of the line and waited..
Behind me, two Skeksies got into a conversation. Their diction was as if they both had a mouthful of mud and even their pre-school vocabulary was mispronounced. I have no problem with ignorance, but these two slap-heads are shouting at each other, less than half a foot apart. It was like the both of them were talking into cell phones about their pathetic lives. Their voices drove me more nuts than the witches outside my door. The line moved swiftly, and before I knew it, I had entered the church, taken my tray of food and entered the great dining Hall, where tables full of the homeless sat and ate.
I stood for a hot second. There was a table with a single chair tightly packed within a circle of Skeks leaning over their trays of food, pounding down turkey. I look about but even though there are about fifty huge, circular tables, there is very little room to sit down. I could sit down at the table in front of me, but the proximity to the other two homeless was just a little unsettling. There is the problem of lice, fleas and bedbugs that seethe in and on clothing. Many you can't even begin to see. But if I was going to do this, I had to sit down. So fuck it then. Somewhat like jumping into a thirty body orgy of unprotected sex. If an STD is in the mix, it's in the mix. Hopefully your dick goes somewhere that it specifically isn't for the rest of the night. Just go for it. So I did.
As soon as I sat down, I unloaded my bag of Glad Containers to the floor, and one at a time, scooped an item of food into each of them. Then I would rise, toss the tray and out the door to get back on the end of the line and go through again and again. Soon, my bag of containers was completely filled. While scooping out my last bit of turkey I hear a familiar voice. I look up and lo and behold, sitting across from the table from me was my old homeless friend, John, from my first year of being homeless. I have long forgotten his nick name that we had for him, but I knew it was him. He had lost weight, and looked almost like he did years ago. I looked down, both ashamed and alarmed. I didn't want to be seen here by him for a moment, then I stood up, finishing packing my containers and no longer cared. What the fuck? I'm a hobo. I've given up my pride the first day my throbbing stomach missed two days of McDonald's. I had ran out of cash on the streets, which forced me to stand on a line of shabby men next to the Port Authority in the middle of the night. This was the 'Drive By', where you picked up a soup and piece of bread from a soup van.
It was then that I called myself Hobobob. Hobo, because that's what I was forced to become, and Bob, a generic, nothing name. A bit of trivia. It was to be Doe, like John Doe. So my name would have been HoboDoe. Or even HoboJoe. But Bob won out, and now it's a constant reminder of what I am. I'm not even a man. I have no job, cannot support myself, have no pride, no shame. I grub from the grains of the earth, and if not for Churches, I would be shabby and stained. So why the fuck am I ashamed to let John see me? What? Have I moved up the social ladder so much that now I can't be seen by him or anyone else that knew me on the streets? When did i become something or anything more than nothing? I stood up in full view before him, staring down for a moment....
And he looked down and away. He
did see me earlier. For some reason, he was ashamed of us also. My heart sank. There would be no joyous embraces and long catch up conversations, with well wishes and email exchanges. No. We were still where we were three years ago. This life, like flypaper, had claimed us along with the other pests, and will never let us go.
Hobobob
"You're kidding me, right?" I ask the little Black fuck. The gawky White dude sees that I'm incensed, "Hey, I've never seen you here in the building before. Are you new?" No, I've lived here for two years, I reply, grateful for his deflection. The elevator stops at the First floor and I scowl at Aunt Jemimah as I walk out the door. This is what I call caught in a 'Skeksie Ride". If you have one or two Skeks doing this shit you'll have a severely debilitated elevator reaction time.
Finally, Skeks hate to wait. So these fuckers, especially the ones on the Second and Third floor will always go to the elevator, press both buttons, wait for half a minute, and then trot their bowlegged asses downstairs. Meaning, your chances of stopping on the Second and Third floor are pretty much guaranteed. So an elevator ride that should have taken two minutes, now takes five. It's annoying and will bring tears to your eyes when you watch the elevator stop on nearly every floor, and wait for longer than two minutes on two of the floors, only to open it's door on the First floor and an elevator full of these fucking walking murder victims come wobbling out like penguins in a zoo.
Well, if I hate Skeks so much, then why did I go to the 28th street Church of the Holy Apostles for Thanksgiving? Well, the honest two most answers are, 1) my cupboards were empty and 2) they serve great grub. Oh, and a third reason, 3) they let you take in a Glad container as much as you want. This made dealing with Skeks somewhat tolerable. I hopped onto the train in Penn Station, and I have to swear to you, the station was so packed with commuters heading out or in to see their loved ones that it was shoulder to shoulder human madness. It's times like these that I hate being outside. All you need is one terrorist with one grenade, or some fucking nut yell fire, and you'll instantly have a whole lot of dead people. That entire fucking area would turn into a massive meat grinder.
Behind me, two Skeksies got into a conversation. Their diction was as if they both had a mouthful of mud and even their pre-school vocabulary was mispronounced. I have no problem with ignorance, but these two slap-heads are shouting at each other, less than half a foot apart. It was like the both of them were talking into cell phones about their pathetic lives. Their voices drove me more nuts than the witches outside my door. The line moved swiftly, and before I knew it, I had entered the church, taken my tray of food and entered the great dining Hall, where tables full of the homeless sat and ate.
As soon as I sat down, I unloaded my bag of Glad Containers to the floor, and one at a time, scooped an item of food into each of them. Then I would rise, toss the tray and out the door to get back on the end of the line and go through again and again. Soon, my bag of containers was completely filled. While scooping out my last bit of turkey I hear a familiar voice. I look up and lo and behold, sitting across from the table from me was my old homeless friend, John, from my first year of being homeless. I have long forgotten his nick name that we had for him, but I knew it was him. He had lost weight, and looked almost like he did years ago. I looked down, both ashamed and alarmed. I didn't want to be seen here by him for a moment, then I stood up, finishing packing my containers and no longer cared. What the fuck? I'm a hobo. I've given up my pride the first day my throbbing stomach missed two days of McDonald's. I had ran out of cash on the streets, which forced me to stand on a line of shabby men next to the Port Authority in the middle of the night. This was the 'Drive By', where you picked up a soup and piece of bread from a soup van.
And he looked down and away. He did see me earlier. For some reason, he was ashamed of us also. My heart sank. There would be no joyous embraces and long catch up conversations, with well wishes and email exchanges. No. We were still where we were three years ago. This life, like flypaper, had claimed us along with the other pests, and will never let us go.
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