Fresh Wes

My roommate and I are in our apartment drinking rum and cokes when we get a knock on the door. We open the door and see a man with grimy dreadlocks, a long nappy beard, and shabby clothes. “Hey you mind if I use your phone?” he says. Being the idealist that I am, I immediately say, “yea come on in, you want a beer?” Now the perfect outcome of this awkward situation I had created was for him to call the owner of whatever shelter he was able to scrounge up for the night, maybe have one beer, and then leave. It’s this type of naïve thinking that leads to bad situations.

Scott makes the call and does not get an answer. Then he makes himself at home on our couch and says those nine magic words: “you guys mind if I take my shirt off.” We both said ‘sure’ in the most insincere fashion. Due to the booze in our system and the overall absurdity of the situation, we were far too confused to utter the words ‘no Scott, you can’t take your fucking shirt off.’

He proceeds to peel off his disgusting hoodie, allowing his putrid body odor to immediately consume our apartment. It’s amazing how much of his stench was previously shielded from us by his hoodie. Perhaps it was made of lead, because his foul armpits were emitting some pretty raunchy rays.

My roommate, desperate to break the creepy silence, asked him if he could have a pinch of his chew. “Sure, I also have some homemade chew if you want.” My eyes lit up. Homemade chew? What does that even mean? I had to see it. He pulled out a baggy filled with some sort of substance that I couldn’t recognize. I smelled it and I can only describe the smell as some sort of fishy oil. I found out from some local who knew him (I know, our mutual acquaintance was a homeless person) that the secret ingredient in his homemade chew was nothing other than PCP.

Scott starts telling us about himself and how he used to work at Wal-Mart but quit because they “only paid him $8 an hour.” Let that sentence sink into your head for a second. A homeless person is trying to convince us he was overqualified and underpaid…for a job…that pays money…which he has none of. If this seems backward to you, don’t worry, you aren’t alone.

.It is now becoming quite apparent that the “friend” Scott came over here to call is probably nonexistent. As all three of being to realize this fact, Scott says, “you guys mind if I crash here?” Most of you think you would immediately say no and try to kick him out. But this guy was so pathetic that we couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. However, there was no way in hell he was going to be staying with us that night…or ever.

My roommate quickly says that my sister is coming within the hour and she didn’t want any of my friends to be staying there. It was a terrible lie that really made no sense, but luckily Scott was so brain-dead from all the substances his body has incurred over his “life” that he bought into it. Then he smiled at me, with his Indian corn teeth, and asked me how old my sister was. Yea Scott, you’re just her type. And don’t ask how old she is as if any number I throw out there is really going to sway your decision one way or the other.

So I go onto the computer to avoid having to talk to Scott as well as to find refuge from the Agent Orange that was steaming off his filthy, shirtless torso. I IM one of my friends and telling him to call my roommate to save him from Scott. It doesn’t matter what you say, just make that phone ring.

The phone rings, my roommate puts on a Oscar winning performance pretending to be talking to my sister. This ruse back up our lie, and Scott gets up to leave. He asks to use the phone one more time. This time the person who we thought was fictional picked up and said Scott could come over and crash both agreed on what we should do with this treasure. We placed it on top of our TV like the prize that it was, and every time we watched TV and looked up at it we would remember that fateful day a smelly bum showed up at our apartment door.

“If the misery of the poor be caused not by the laws of nature, but by our institutions, great is our sin.” - Charles Darwin

And it’s not a crotch rocket either.

This past weekend the weather was really awesome, and everyone and their mother went to the beach and/or the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica. And since I live near the beach, this meant getting to and finding parking at Baja Fresh was a nightmare. That got me thinking, I need to find an alternative method of transportation that is less gay than roller blading. Since Segways were never cool, I had to go with a bike.

Since everybody who owns a bike feels the need to shit-spew Bike propaganda , I feel the need to defend myself. These are not reasons I wanted to get a bike:

1. Commuting - Get sweaty before work? Doubtful!
   
2. Picking up ladies - Nothing says “playa” like spokes
3. Environment - For every mile I bike, I make sure I drive 5
4. Safety - I’ll pull a Ben Roethlisberger before I rock a helmet
5. Errands - They are not called errands, BUT called doing shit. On a bike, this requires a basket and a uterus
   

Those are are totally valid reasons for some people - just not for me. Here are my reason’s I got the bike:

1. Day Drinking - Nothing says fun like a BUI
2. Basketball - Played at a court near my house - everyone wondered why we drove. I didn’t wonder. We’re lazy.
3. Parking - Parking sucks in LA. Trying to get a validation after using an ATM is painful.
4. Gas - $4 a gallon? What is this Dom P?
5. Bike By Shootings - Nobody expects that shit. Especially not kids.

I bought a new beach cruiser from the XYZBikes.com website. They delivered it the next day and I built it myself (that’s manly right?). The color is gray, but I prefer to call it Gunmetal Gray.

So I went for my first ride last night, just to break it in.  It was pretty sweet and I think I’m starting a small gang with the kids down the street.  Let them know this is our hood and we got to represent hard.

The first of many hateresque posts from our newest contributor Darwinian Phenom. If you knew him, you would see how oxymoronic that name is. Enjoy!

For all of the wonderful things television has given us over the years, it has also brought one of the greatest plagues on our current society. The “as seen on TV” product. This epidemic of crappy merchandise has graced us with such memorable punch-line products as the chia pet, the egg wave, and the infamous clapper. But the other day I came across a perfectly normal item, a pair of binoculars for only one easy payment of $29.99 plus the cost of shipping and handling. A woman in the commercial testified that these binoculars were “just as good as the $1,000 pair her husband had bought.” First off, lady, did you perform a comprehensive experiment testing the performance of each pair of binoculars? Can you present documented evidence that these $30 binoculars can see at night, through my window, across the street, and into the window of my neighbor’s 14-year-old daughter at 9:37 p.m. when she gets undressed before her nightly shower? Didn’t think so.

Usually I would ignore a commercial like this, but then came the big “call now and we’ll throw in (insert some really shitty deal here) ABSOLUTELY FREE!” Along with receiving these “high quality” binoculars, the first 500 callers were also promised a pen-sized pocket “spy scope.” That’s right, at first glance what appears to be a completely ordinary pen is really a hand-sized, relatively undetectable telescope in disguise. This product is a worse idea than the Jump to Conclusions Mat from Office Space.

“Oh man, I’m like 50-50 on whether I’m going to buy those binoculars…but oh shit! I get a pen sized telescope with absolutely no practical use too? And they only give it to the first 500 callers?” (Dialing frantically) I hope they didn’t stock out of spy scopes yet! Think about the fact that someone who works for this company proposed this crappy idea, and then got it approved by their overpaid and clearly underachieving superior. Hey boss, I’m predicting a huge growth in demand for pen-sized telescopes designed to spy on people during highly covert operations. A product like this should only be found in one of those claw grabbing arcade games where some kid gets pissed off because he wanted the mood ring and got stuck with the spy scope.

I can’t think of one good reason to own this piece of shit. I could perhaps see someone buying it in order to cheat on a test (even though the scope would clearly have to resemble that of a number 2 pencil and not a pen), but think of the risk and consequences associated. I’m not talking about a failing grade and possible expulsion from the school. Instead, I’m saying if someone catches you then you will have to admit to owning this stupid thing and tell the embarrassing story of how you acquired such a device. Those first 500 callers that receive this item should have to register as spy scope owners and their place of residence should be made available to the public. If I can search for sex offenders living in my area, I also want to know if there are spy scope owners in my area. I trust someone with a spy scope about as much as I would trust Michael Jackson to babysit my kids, probably less. I can understand that there are people in the world who have a fetish for kids, but I can’t understand a person who believes a spy scope somehow enhances their quality of life.

The creators of this product are clearly lacking in attributes fit for survival. In an era in which we’ve seen such great innovations as the internet, social networking, cellular phones and GPS devices, these half-wits give us the spy scope. The next time you have what you think is a good idea and someone shoots it down as being the stupidest idea they ever heard, tell them about the spy scope.

“An American monkey, after getting drunk on brandy, would never touch it again, and thus is much wiser than most men.” - Charles Darwin