Tuesday, May 02, 2006

Not In My House Ya Won't

So here's me: moved into a fresh pad, remodeled townhouse, new appliances the whole nine and them some. I've been feeling real good about this place until last night that is, I found a scout.

Now originally being from New York I am no stranger to roaches. There is a saying in NY: If your neighbor has 'em - you have 'em. It has been years since I've seen one of those things. In California we had to deal with ants - in New York, you know, ants ain't shit - roaches are some mother fuckers though. They will survive any act of terrorism. Nuclear fallout. Global warming all of it works in their favor. Those mother fuckers will adapt.

So back to the scene. I'm in my bathroom last night and happen to look up at the ceiling. "Is that what I think it is?' I thought to myself. "Oh hell no", I said, "not in my new pad!"

Now remember I'm from New York I know how to deal with these bastards.

I got my shoe out and creeped real slow into the bathroom - those little fucks can see ya know. I stepped real lightly onto the tub, and slowly - but gently, put my hand on the shower rod.

That little fuck moved quicker than moonshine through an alcoholics stomach.

But remember: I'm used to dealing with these fuckas.

He ran to the wall as I raised my hand - just as I was about to hit him - he did a back flip off the wall down to the tub.

"You think your slick" I said.

I give him credit he was quick - but not slick.

He hit the tub and was using the momentum of his fall to catapult himself upward so that he'd be able to fly away.

That was until my shoe landed on him BAM.

It was a red one. In New York those fucks used to come out of the walls and jump all over the place. You'd chase those things and they would run up your refrigerator and jump off the top of it and after it landed on the floor it would look up at you and say "Asta la vista" and be gone. Thank God it was a red one and not one of these countrified mother fuckers. Roaches here in the south are as long as your finger. If my wife would've seen one of them, she would've started packing right then and there.

But the south is different from New York. In NY if you have roaches you could call your super all day and he'd look at you and shrug his shoulders and say in his Puerto Rican accent, "So whadda ya wan me to do? You have a roach, I have a roach, we all have roaches."

I called my property management and told them: "Oh so sorry sir, we will have someone out immediately to take care of the problem."

Which makes me feel better, because just as I was killing that scout I told him: "Not in my house ya won't!"

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