UNDERWEAR MAN

Unbeknownst to me, at some point in my life I was electrically charged and polarized to attract weirdos. I'm reminded of an old tune by The Mosley's called, "Kook Magnet." That's me.

Sure, I've had my laundry list of n'er do wells, transients and krumbums that have pleged their love to me. I have had a man dance for me on the CTA. I've had a legally blind man check out my boobs. (don't ask - he could also name every track off every Beach Boys album. ever.) I've had a chromosomally challenged individual punch someone on my behalf becuase he wanted to "save the pretty lady." All of those stories are nice, but today's real story is one of neighborly love. Neighborly twilight-zoney goodness. (Mmmm....feel the warmth inside.)

Today, I'm writing to you with regard to my new favorite person in the world. Underwear Man!

Living in the city, it's understood that if you live in a building of 6 or more tennants, chances are one of them will be crazy. Case in point, my friend lives in a 6 flat, and one person is crazy. There are 24 units in my building, and I have 4 crazies. See? Math at it's finest. Never argue with math.

I was in our courtyard one day with Sophie Queen the Wonder Dog, throwing the stick around in order for her to fetch it. She had just pooped (sorry - dogs poop) and I picked it up, so I had a steamin' freshie in a baggie in my hands. On our way off to throw away said bag o' stank, Sophie decides to tinkle one more time. No big whoop, right? WRONG-O-LA!

"Hey! Hey! Hey! You...you...you better pick that up. Haw Haw. You better pick that up! Pick up that! Pick it up!"

I turn to see a man, a grown ass man, in his boxer shorts, and nothing else, shouting from his vestibule door.

"Oh, hi there!" I proclaim. "No worries there, sir. That was just pee. Her poop..."

Cutting me off, Mr. Underwear Man began to shake his finger at me and laugh again (as indicated by haw haw's) as he said, "I see what I see. You better...you better...haw haw...you better..."

Prior to this moment, I had only heard legend of the crazy Underwear Man, but not yet had such an encounter. "No, her poop is in this bag. That was just pee..."

Hahaha...please. Spare me your logic! Underwear Man continued, "You people. You people. Haw Haw. You people want a dog, but you don't clean it up. You don't clean it up. You don't. You don't. You better."

"Sir, the poop is here in my hand. I can't clean up pee. it sinks in to the ground."

He just laughed hysterically, and louder, "Haw Haw Haw Haw Haw Haw Haw You people. You people all the same. I'ma gonna come shit in your house. I'ma gonna."

I've never been one to have the best temper, and the cool started to wane. "THIS. IS. A. SACK. OF. SHIT. LOOK!!!" And I proceeded to open up the tied off baggie to show him what shit actually looks like. I mean, in all fairness, there is probably some disease that prevents people from shitting so there is a slim possibility he lives life with a colostomy bag.

He waved his hand back and forth as he backed away in to his place, shutting the door, laughing "Haw Haw Haw. You people. You lie. You know what you did. You left poop. You know it. You know it. Haw Haw."

It would take me a year to figure out the laughter wasn't because he thought he was a comedian.

This wasn't our last encounter. Another time, in his Underwear and nothing else, once again, Underwear Man came to yell at me about poop. Each time laughing about you people. Each time not letting me get a word in edgewise.

Picture if you will a grown woman, lying down in the grass, rolling from side to side, singing, "There's no poop. Only pee. Only pee will get on me." Now, stop imagining and start realizing, because I did that.

Picture if you will a grown woman, making a snow ball and throwing it at someone's window, screaming, "Come out here in to the snow in just your underwear and stop me, you psycho." Now stop imagining and start realizing, because I did that, too.

On the 4th time he came out to yell at me, I walked away from him, went inside, and began to construct a note, "Dear Underwear Man's Wife, do you realize your husband harrasses young women in his underwear when you are not home? Can you please explain to him, since he is incapable of listening, that I have picked up this dog's fecal matter for 10 years straight, that this is my lawn, too, and that he needs a hobby other than staring out the window to catch me something I would never do. Because I would never disrespect everyone's common area by leaving crap in the yard. Can you explain that to him, or will he 'haw haw' at you, too?"

When I went to deliver it to him, he was at the door. He knew I would be back. So I started to read it aloud to him...

I have to break for a second - who's crazier at this point? Anyway...

...and he just kept laughing and shouting louder and louder that if I didn't like the sight of him in his underwear, I could close my eyes.

And then it hit me. Like a bolt out of the crazy, crazy blue, and I stuck out my hand. I politely waited for the Haw Haw's to subside, and I said, "My name is Emily. I am your neighbor. I live right there. The one with the Christmas Tree in the window. You can come any time and tell me if you dislike how I am using the common space."

SILENCE. For the first time (in probably his entire life, he was silent.) he had nothing else to say to me. I took advantage.

"My name is Emily. I am your neighbor. I love our courtyard, too. I do not leave dog poop in our courtyard, or on a city street or in a park. I do not leave it anywhere. That disgusts me. And I haven't since I have had the dog."

He started to say I could be lying, and I pulled out the big guns. I could tell just by looking at him it would work, "Neighbor, I am a Christian Woman, and I swear to the Lord above I have never, nor will ever leave dog crap anywhere other than a dumpster. That is my promise to my neighbor, and to Jesus."

Yeah...I went there. I had to. I was out of ideas. It was my last ditch effort. I couldn't risk rolling in the grass again, lest I join the count of crazies in the building, thereby throwing off the Perfect Crazy Ratio of 1 to 6.

He held out is hand, shook mine, said his name, and that he was glad we were neighbors. He then implored me (my word, not his. I think he said, "Girl, I'm beggin' you.) to never swear to the Lord about dog crap. That he would believe me and wouldn't put me at risk with the Lord.

And, I smiled as I quite deviously finished, "I am not at risk with The Lord, neighbor. That is how strongly I feel about dog crap."

Yeah, all the while, I used the word crap.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Sorry. Crap is a funny word.

Anyway...I hadn't seen Underwear Man in months. I had honestly forgotten about him, but evidently he hadn't forgotten about me. Underwear Man is a train driver - and EL train driver, and I am an EL train patron. It was only a matter a time before....

"HEY, NEIHBOR! WHERE YOU GOIN'? WHERE YOU GOIN' HAW HAW? GIMME A HUG! GIMME A HUG!" No kiddin'...Underwear Man and I shared a hug as I got on the train. He insisted we hug, and then, after two stops, he got our of the engine room to hand me his phone, so I could say hello to his wife.

His wife and I shared an awkward, but lovely conversation, and as I got off the train to go drink myself stupid for the evening, he said, "don't worry about a thing, I'm driving the brown line all night. haw haw."

To this day, I am able to take my dog outside, and I'm able to ride home late at night on the brown line to get home safely. Who's the crazy person now?

Here's to you, Underwear Man...neighbor.

But to be fair, put some pants on, yo.

I DON'T WANT TO HEAR THE WORD RECESSION AGAIN

Oh, Hi there!

You were probably just sitting there thinking, "Know what, self? Know what I was just here thinking?" To which, you probably replied to yourself, "No, self. Do tell! What on earth were you thinking?" To which, you would cordially answer, "Oh, a great number of things. When do I, and do I not capitalize the 'e' in Earth? Probably just then, as I'm using it as the name of our planet, as opposed to the description of dirt. More importantly, I was thinking of this Great Recession we're in."

BITCH MUTHA GRUBBIN' SLAP.

Did you read the title to this post? I don't want to hear that word. For the remainder of this post, the RECESSION will be henceforth refered to as FLOWERY TWAT.

Is anyone else sick of hearing about Flowery Twat? I, for one, can't take it anymore! Every commercial I see is about a stimulus package for Flowery Twat* or how to get a good bargain because you don't have extra money due to the Flowery Twat. Sometimes you turn on the news and it's a story about how the Flowery Twat is leaving people homeless (which is a real bummer. thanks, The News. you're a real glass-half-emptier, The News. Dick.), or how it's the worst Flowery Twat since the Great Depression.

What I particularly love are Commercials Regarding the Flowery Twat. Wake up. The mere fact that there's a need for commericals proves commercialism is still rampant in America. Commericals that teach you how to 'save money' by 'having more meals at home.' If this were really the Greatest Flowery Twat since the Great Depression, then wouldn't you be eating at home anyway - or maybe you'd be in a bread line, because...you know...THERE'S NO MONEY TO EAT?

On that same note, the commercials that teach people how to shop sales. Excuse me? Who are these people that dined out every night in brand new clothes for which they paid full sticker price? If you can't figure out how to eat at your house and buy clothes on sale, you deserve to be broke. The reason these people are having to eat at home and buy clothes on sale, or from an outlet (perish the thought!) is because they filled up their credit cards and can't get more credit. I've not bought new clothes for myself in over a year and buy groceries with every paycheck to last two weeks. Eat my ass, Wal-Mart.

"Times are so tough out there!" Bitch bitch bitch. Moan moan moan. I hate my job. I need a bigger house. I want a new car. I went out drinking 4 times this week. I ordered out because I didn't feel like cooking. I need a new shirt to wear out Saturday night.

And here's the deal - the more we talk about The Flowery Twat, the longer it's going to hang around. My grandmother always said, "Don't let the bastards get you down." She was right. She was damn right. Look that Flowery Twat in the eye and say, "FUCK YOU, FLOWERY TWAT. I'M IGNORING YOU. I'M GOING TO WORK HARD, SCRAPE BY AND GET THROUGH THIS. TO SHOW YOU WHO'S BOSS, I'M GOING TO THINK ABOUT EXPENSIVE THINGS. KNOW WHY? BECAUSE I CAN. IT DOESN'T COST ANYTHING TO THINK ABOUT EXPENSIVE THINGS."

Good for you. I'm sure you could have come up with something else, but that's your first time facing your fears. You have to take that shit slowly.

Honestly, now. Wouldn't it be more fun to see commercials about spending money? Who wants to be depressed about the mediocre things you CAN purchase, when you can pump yourself up thinking about SAVING YOUR PENNIES UP IN ORDER TO GET THE THING YOU REALLY WANT. I know that isn't Good Old American Instant Gratification, but it's the way I've ALWAYS LIVED MY LIFE.

I should have racked up more credit card debt when I had the chance and bought that Prada purse. Oh, well.

* That's right - I said 'stimulus package for a flowery twat.' You're welcome.

NO NEED TO SHED SOME LIGHT

They replaced the light that has been out in the ladies room for the last 3 months.

Now it's easier to see the booger wiped on the back of the door of the stall.

Who wipes their boogers on the stall door? Think about it.