Monday, July 14, 2008

Knock, knock?

My building has those intercom-buzzer entrances, which I find vaguely creepy (The wall is talking! The wall is talking!).

However, it provided a fair bit of hilarity yesterday night, when the dulcet tones of "BABY.....BABY. LET ME IN. Baby....? Please?" (Rinse. Repeat.) wafted in through the window.

Suffice it to say, I am not this man's baby. Moreover, neither I (nor his baby) are letting him in. I am not letting him in because he looks like the sleazy love child of Weird Al Yankovich and K-Fed (but with groovin' high-tops, natch). She is not letting him in because of something about "Baby Momma" and "broke-ass mutha" and "Aww HELL no."

I'm pretty sure she means it. I mean it, too. I can't hear much, because of the garbling that the intercoms will do, but the beauty of having a window right next to the front door is that you get the audio and the visual of all the strange comings and goings. Its the neighbors in stereo!

The upside of this? I've got dinner...and a show! Jealous? I'll send him your way, if you've got a BABY...BABY to spare, or a little shampoo he can use.


All rights reserved to my snotty and generally self-deprecating writing. And if your comments bother me, I'll delete them. That's right, pumpkin.
...How dreary—to be—Somebody!
How public—like a Frog—
To tell one's name—the livelong June—
To an admiring Bog!
-- Emily Dickinson