Twice, Moron Number Two

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SON OF A BITCH!!

I swear, I'm going to get some brains in a bag and hand them out at Christmas to the dumb motherfuckers in this building. I swear I am. There is nothing dumber than a building full of Skeks. One Skek in a building is bad, two Skeks are worse, three Skeks are grounds for dilapidation. I have a building full of the bitches, which means, now this is time for a thermo-nuclear detonation. I mean it. A complete extermination of New York city, with my building being ground zero. These mother fuckers have got to go.

Why do I say this? Because you can do nothing...I mean NOTHING to think for them. This is what I try to do on a daily basis, and I fail miserably all the time. There is nothing that you can do to help them to think because they even overlook the fucking obvious. Whatever they are using to think with, it is not a brain. Maybe ganglia, or torn synapses, but definitely not a collection of cells that make up gray matter. Shit, they barely have enough for human locomotion.

Let's go into my rant for today.

I'm tired of people ringing my doorbell and then when I open the door they look startled and say, "Ooops! Wrong door!" I can't blame them though. TWICE, I got off at the wrong floor and went to another door that looked like mine, stuck my key in the lock and worked to open the door until I looked about and noticed that I was on the wrong fucking floor. Good thing that the home was empty so that I wasn't further embarrassed by someone coming out and yelling at me to fucking pay attention. So I can't really crawl up someone's ass over getting the wrong door.

So to save myself and others the expense of looking stupid, I filled in the blanks on my doorbell. It has a space at the bell for the room number and name of tenant. So I painstakingly used my computer to print out tiny labels and place them in the little windows of the doorbell, with my room number and name. I was so proud of myself at how professional it looked. Now this ought to cut down on the mother fuckers ringing my doorbell. You'd think, right?

WRONG! Last night I had to deal with the antics of my crack addict next door neighbor. A crack burned out old man that can't think, neither talk straight. He sounds like he's half asleep when he speaks, and whatever he is talking about is always off topic. Last night, at around midnight, there is a loud, thunderous physical crash in his room, echoing off the walls, even in my room. It sounded as if he struck his head on the floor and splattered his skull. I waited for the sounds of activity from the other room, but none came. I wasn't concerned, even if he did crack his melon head on the floor. He is such a brain dead individual that no one, including he himself, would notice any further damage.

As I thought, he walked out of his room, closing the door behind himself, and locked himself out. As a cosmic joke, and as a further proof that he is a retard, he walks down the hall to my door and tries the handle. After a brief struggle, he goes to Paula's door and rings the bell. She comes out and tells him that my door is NOT his door and walks him by hand to his door and finds it locked. Then she calmly calls security to have them come up and let him into his room.

They open the door for him and he goes straight to my door and tries the handle again. Paula has to literally take him by the hand and lead him to his door, telling him good night.  Now that was moron number one.

The next day, there is a knock on my door. I'm laying naked in bed, watching television, climb out of bed, put on some clothes and open the door. On the other side is MORON NUMBER TWO. His eyes pop out of his head when he sees me, "Oh, I'm sorry!" NOW he looks at the name and number on the door. I don't respond. I just close the door. The second I lock it, there is a soft knock against it. After a tired sigh I open the door once again and there he still stands. "You wouldn't happen to know of a little old...." I shut the door on him in mid sentence. Now that's how you communicate with a skek. Don't try to talk to them, don't try to help them. Just slam doors in their faces when they get shit wrong. They're used to it by now.

Am I sick and tired of Skek? Dude, how long have you been reading this blog. I always have been.

Hobobob