Living in a Nuclear Filled Zone

Envision a garbage dump at about 2 p.m. It’s 105 degrees. Tsetse flies buzz around your ear. Rotting bananas ooze green filth to the right and to your left a dead cat writhes with maggots. If you look straight ahead you just might see the remains of Uncle Joes colostomy bag. Ann a couch, a leaky fridge, shag carpet a foot deep, and a odor produced only in the filthy sweat shops of France and you should has a good mental image of my apartment.

Sitting in my living room and trying to think at the same time is a chore in itself. First, ignore the neighbor’s AC that beeps like a rabid dot matrix printer on crack. Now block out the couple in the apartment above mine mating like the gene pool is on the verge of extinction. With these distractions out of the way we can now listen in on the bizarre ritual that I like to call: My landlord hates me so he brought me a fridge that revs up like a Harley.

The funny thing is, my new fridge is the best thing about my apartment (aside from the lucrative meth-amphetamine lab running in my closet, but that’s another story). The real freaky thing about my apartment is the vortex to Hell in the outer hallway. It’s this mushroom infested black puddle probably brewed at Budweiser’s newest plant located in the nether world. Sure, the free shrooms are great, but at the expense of my soul? Needless to say I’ve conducted several successful field studies of the mating habits of infectious mosquitoes around the puddle.

I’m thinking of filing a complaint with the health authority, but I heard that the landlord sold the last tenant who tried to do that to the Unit 3 Dining Commons. I think he got three bucks for ’em. Rib-B-Que anyone?