Stop! Twerking Thief!

If you go back a post or two, you'll see that a crack head went poo in a bucket in my backyard and tried to kick my landlord's door in.  And there is video of it.  A really gross video with zero wiping involved.

Mrs. Noisewater and I were just visiting her brother in Brooklyn, and it turns out he too had criminals caught on tape outside his building trying to steal and performing bodily functions - that is if tweaking is in fact a bodily function.



Apparently this duo sat outside the building robbing packages that arrived, and all the while the female thief shook her rump.  And you'll notice she is a tireless twerker.  As one resident noted:

"I'm not exaggerating when I say she did this for an hour...For an entire hour. Rest breaks were had, but she got right back up and dropped it like it was hot, often times on the lap of the man."

Now that's a good team member right there.  Thievery can be quite an ordeal, especially when you're waiting long stretches for the UPS guy.  That's when a quality crime buddy steps up and gives you a lap dance to help pass the time and keep your spirits up.  Hats off to her.

Of course, neither one of us is telling our parents because we don't want them thinking there are insane people everywhere pooing, robbing, and twerking everything they can get their hands and butts on.  But moms and dads, if you're reading, the hoodlums in both scenarios have all been caught.  And I hope the judge orders that their surveillance videos be aired on the hour in the mess hall.  

It's summer, and I was finally walking around on the streets outside my apartment at 1AM on a Thursday and not in my bed being woken up by the drunk Chicagoans like I usually am around that time.  What have I learned?  Well that's a lot of saying "Wooooo!" for a Thursday.  Thursday is also the night that the alley outside my bedroom window often becomes Drunk Fight Club.  As you may have seen in some previous posts, sometimes I will open up the window and get my two cents in, settle some arguments when I can . . .

The thing is, most people have to get to work Friday morning, but 22-year-olds don't care about any of that.  If they can stay out all night and maybe even scare up some ass, who cares if they're a little tired the next day?  And even if they are a little run down, they will just have a bloody mary right after work on Friday, and then they're right back in the game, perhaps a vodka Red Bull or two if that doesn't do the trick.  You can fight off hangovers so much easier at that age.

To be honest, I'm never mad when I wake up from the "wooooo's!"; I just wish I was 22 again . . .

These Thoughts Happened a Few Weeks Into Living With My Girlfriend . . .

What the heck is that thing on the couch?  Oh, a bra.  I guess she must have been lying on the couch watching television and thought she would slip off the bra before a nap.  It's not like there are bras all over the apartment so whatever.  If I were the woman around here there would be bras all over the damn place because those things have got to be uncomfortable.  They would be hanging from the lamp shades, the ceiling fan, out of the cupboards . . . Panties too.   Every day would look like an orgy broke out the night before.

The windows are not so good in my ancient Lincoln Park apartment, and sometimes I can hear every word people say when they are drunk and loud in the alley outside my bedroom.  My ladyfriend, LSD, is in town this weekend, and for whatever reason I decided to talk back to these idiots late last night.  The guy was in the alley on his phone, telling his friend, "I just hate electronic music."  So I opened the window and said, "What's wrong with electronic music?"  The guy told the person on the phone, "Someone just said what's wrong with electronic music?"  He didn't at all get the point that I was trying to tell him to shut the hell up and let me sleep.  I guess he just thought I was coming to the defense of electronic music.   He doesn't know me too well.  LSD and I had a good laugh at this exchange and were still laughing when we got up this morning; and stayed in bed laughing for as long as we could.

Okay, I Got One More . . .

. . . to add to the previous post's list of crappy things in my apartment.  I hate using ice cube trays.  They suck.  I'm always squeezing them to get the cubes to pop out, but then sometimes I miss them and they fall on the floor.

I really hope no third world bloggers read this page.  They might not empathize with me.

Hey, remember in "The Stoned Age" when they pee in the ice tray?  If not, skip to 29 minutes . . .

These Are the Shitty Things About My Apartment . . .

1. No garbage disposal.  That really grosses me out.  I've never lived somewhere without one.  It means all food items go into the garbage and make it stink faster.

2. Oh yeah.  That's another thing.  The landlord doesn't provide a recycling thingy in the alley, which is not legal in my city of residence if you have more than 6 tenants (he has way more of that).  So, my girlfriend (LSD) is living in sin with me for the summer, and we're killing the environment.  Baby Jesus and Mother Nature are conspiring on how they will rape us in hell. 

3. The landlord also didn't provide any hardware to open the glass kitchen cabinets, so LSD and I had to go to home depot and buy handle-jobbers and super glue them on there.  We didn't notice until we got them on that they look like flaccid syphilitic wangs, but at least we can open the cabinets without getting finger prints on the glass.

4. The good news is that there are laundry machines in the basement.  The bad news is that they are not in the building I live in, so I have to walk through the alley to another one.  I can't wait for those trips when it's below zero! 

5. No central air.  I have a window unit for the bedroom, but the rest of the place is a sweat-house this summer.  This means that I spend a lot of time either in the bedroom or leaving to . . . see number six.

6. It's very close to tons of bars.  This could also be a good thing, but usually it's very bad for me.

I had this dream where I was moving into a new apartment, and Brock Lesnar was going to be my new roommate. The realtor was showing him around, and when she introduced him to me, he didn't know who I was, which I thought was weird because I was his last roommate too, evidently. I remember shaking his hand, and what was incredibly realistic is that his hand engulfed mine completely, which it about would.

Midway through this realtor showing us around, it dawned on me that there is no way in hell I could afford this place unless Brock was paying 95% of the rent.

Then I woke up.