While Streetsville is quite nice in many ways, bearing infinitely more character than the average template suburban tile on the Mississauga gridworks, there are in fact three ghastly monsters lurking at its underbelly, of which I've previously hinted at to various degrees. But let me expand:
1. Youth and Their Automobiles
They pause at the intersection under our living room window, stereos blasting vulgar stereo noise that they sadly mistake for music.
They cruise back and forth down the street sadly mistaking large groups of pederastrians for envious admirers of their spleen-shivering injurious ultra bass weapons of mass-vibration, not realizing how loathsome they are and how sincerely wished they are to die and painfully so.
They park in our private lot and return from the bars at two or three in the morning, laughing idiotically, hollering moronic things to one another, making asinine threats, arguing, fighting, slamming doors, gunning engines and keeping other, potentially useful, human beings - we residents - awake, sleep-deprived, and thus somewhat less useful the following day.
And though, yes, I frequently wish them dead, during fits of selfish despair, I do fully realize that none of this is particularly their own fault.
That this is only to be expected.
That this is merely one of the more pathetic symptoms of this wildly illogical, illusory society; this thorough alienation of youth stemming from our flat denial of their nature and our bizarre insistence that we infantilize them, treacherously disconnecting them from their own reality.
And that we were entrenched in this fantasy existence long before they were born.
Oops, sorry. 'Nuff preaching.
WARNING: THE FOLLOWING DISERTATION IS BOUND TO CONTAIN THE F-WORD IN EXCESS OF FIFTY TIMES. IT IS HEREBY RECOMMENDED YOU SKIP RIGHT OVER TO PART THREE.
2. I Got the Power! (Now and Then)
Here is the scene from 12:45 PM today at the grotto:
FWG stares at the black computer screen, utterly stunned, his eyes wide as frying pans.
"FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCK!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!" He stumbles out of his chair and stomps down the stairs. "FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUUUUUUUCK!!"
"Hey Rich, the power went out," says Steve-o. He's standing at the living room window, looking down at the main intersection of Streetsville.
"NO SHIT EINSTEIN! I was writing all morning and I've lost it all! ALL OF IT!! AAAAAAARRRRRRGH!!!"
"Come look at this. There's gonna be an accident."
"I'm going out to find the nearest hydro worker and kill him. You in?"
"The stop lights are out and they don't understand."
"I think I'll strangle him with barbed wire."
"They don't get it. They're supposed to treat it like a four-way stop."
"It's a three-way intersection."
"Yeah but they're supposed to treat it like a four-way stop."
"Why not a three-way stop?"
"Yeah, whatever. At least the barbecue 'll work. I'm making double-baked potatoes tonight."
"No you're not. We're having hydro workers for dinner."
"Giddy-up."
"And we're eating them raw. I want to taste the blood."
"Oh come on. It's not that bad. Come and watch the accidents with me."
"Fuck off."
Steve-o starts to sing and to dance. "Gray skies are gonna clear up!"
FWG turns, sulking, and slinks back up the stairs.
"Put on a happy face!"
Our hydro fleebs on us twice a month minimum. Minimum. It's unbearable.
3. The Queen of Freaks
I think you got the idea from the previous Welcome to Streetsville post but here's an update. There's not too too much to report on account of her being absent a few days this week. Where did she go, you ask? We don't know exactly. The nut-house perhaps. But she's back. Perhaps she was just too nutty to fit into their program Perhaps she was over-qualified.
We returned from work Monday, first day of the recent heat-wave and were told by another neighbor that we would not see crazy Jolee for awhile on account of her being picked up by authorities after running through the streets half-naked and causing quite a fuss. She's very good at stirring up screaming matches with strangers, you see. To the point that some of the local merchants below us have taken to offering to escort their customers to their cars for their protection against the screaming local lunatic.
Now here's a funny coincidence. A friend of Steve-o's called to tell him about a bizarre experience while visiting our neighborhood that Monday afternoon. He and his girlfriend bought a couple iced Cappuccinos from the local Tim Hortons and climbed back into the car when suddenly a woman wearing bra and panties jumped into their back seat and said, "Stick-em up! Give me your ice-caps!" They yelled at her to get the hell out of their car. She did, whipped off the bra and went running down the street drawing jeers from a crowd of onlookers. There's an O.P.P (provincial) police station on the same block so we can piece together the rest.
She's back now and claiming to have left the local police force and been hired by the O.P.P. She says that they haven't given her her guns yet and won't until things are straightened out regarding her medications but upon that time - she will be armed. I guess she spends so much time in the company of police officers she's taken to thinking she's one of them.
We've discovered she refers to herself in the third person. And not as Jolee but as Barbie. Steve-o hadn't been informed of this and learned of it the hard way. She coaxed him into her apartment to look at her plumbing - um - her kitchen faucets that is.
"You'd have sex with Barbie, wouldn't you?" she said.
"No," replied Steve. "I wouldn't."
I trust him when he says he didn't.
She leaves her back door open when she's home and I see that the interior side of it has been painted brown. Or rather - two thirds of it has been painted brown. And not by brush or roller. No. By finger. She has clearly finger-painted her door. Also on the door are two writings in black marker. In one place it reads, PAint mE and in another, SCREWS. You can clearly see these words through the smearings of brown paint. At least I assume it's paint.
Oh god.
Oh god oh jesus oh jesus oh god. Please. Let it be paint.
1. Youth and Their Automobiles
They pause at the intersection under our living room window, stereos blasting vulgar stereo noise that they sadly mistake for music.
They cruise back and forth down the street sadly mistaking large groups of pederastrians for envious admirers of their spleen-shivering injurious ultra bass weapons of mass-vibration, not realizing how loathsome they are and how sincerely wished they are to die and painfully so.
They park in our private lot and return from the bars at two or three in the morning, laughing idiotically, hollering moronic things to one another, making asinine threats, arguing, fighting, slamming doors, gunning engines and keeping other, potentially useful, human beings - we residents - awake, sleep-deprived, and thus somewhat less useful the following day.
And though, yes, I frequently wish them dead, during fits of selfish despair, I do fully realize that none of this is particularly their own fault.
That this is only to be expected.
That this is merely one of the more pathetic symptoms of this wildly illogical, illusory society; this thorough alienation of youth stemming from our flat denial of their nature and our bizarre insistence that we infantilize them, treacherously disconnecting them from their own reality.
And that we were entrenched in this fantasy existence long before they were born.
Oops, sorry. 'Nuff preaching.
WARNING: THE FOLLOWING DISERTATION IS BOUND TO CONTAIN THE F-WORD IN EXCESS OF FIFTY TIMES. IT IS HEREBY RECOMMENDED YOU SKIP RIGHT OVER TO PART THREE.
2. I Got the Power! (Now and Then)
Here is the scene from 12:45 PM today at the grotto:
FWG stares at the black computer screen, utterly stunned, his eyes wide as frying pans.
"FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCK!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!" He stumbles out of his chair and stomps down the stairs. "FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUUUUUUUCK!!"
"Hey Rich, the power went out," says Steve-o. He's standing at the living room window, looking down at the main intersection of Streetsville.
"NO SHIT EINSTEIN! I was writing all morning and I've lost it all! ALL OF IT!! AAAAAAARRRRRRGH!!!"
"Come look at this. There's gonna be an accident."
"I'm going out to find the nearest hydro worker and kill him. You in?"
"The stop lights are out and they don't understand."
"I think I'll strangle him with barbed wire."
"They don't get it. They're supposed to treat it like a four-way stop."
"It's a three-way intersection."
"Yeah but they're supposed to treat it like a four-way stop."
"Why not a three-way stop?"
"Yeah, whatever. At least the barbecue 'll work. I'm making double-baked potatoes tonight."
"No you're not. We're having hydro workers for dinner."
"Giddy-up."
"And we're eating them raw. I want to taste the blood."
"Oh come on. It's not that bad. Come and watch the accidents with me."
"Fuck off."
Steve-o starts to sing and to dance. "Gray skies are gonna clear up!"
FWG turns, sulking, and slinks back up the stairs.
"Put on a happy face!"
Our hydro fleebs on us twice a month minimum. Minimum. It's unbearable.
3. The Queen of Freaks
I think you got the idea from the previous Welcome to Streetsville post but here's an update. There's not too too much to report on account of her being absent a few days this week. Where did she go, you ask? We don't know exactly. The nut-house perhaps. But she's back. Perhaps she was just too nutty to fit into their program Perhaps she was over-qualified.
We returned from work Monday, first day of the recent heat-wave and were told by another neighbor that we would not see crazy Jolee for awhile on account of her being picked up by authorities after running through the streets half-naked and causing quite a fuss. She's very good at stirring up screaming matches with strangers, you see. To the point that some of the local merchants below us have taken to offering to escort their customers to their cars for their protection against the screaming local lunatic.
Now here's a funny coincidence. A friend of Steve-o's called to tell him about a bizarre experience while visiting our neighborhood that Monday afternoon. He and his girlfriend bought a couple iced Cappuccinos from the local Tim Hortons and climbed back into the car when suddenly a woman wearing bra and panties jumped into their back seat and said, "Stick-em up! Give me your ice-caps!" They yelled at her to get the hell out of their car. She did, whipped off the bra and went running down the street drawing jeers from a crowd of onlookers. There's an O.P.P (provincial) police station on the same block so we can piece together the rest.
She's back now and claiming to have left the local police force and been hired by the O.P.P. She says that they haven't given her her guns yet and won't until things are straightened out regarding her medications but upon that time - she will be armed. I guess she spends so much time in the company of police officers she's taken to thinking she's one of them.
We've discovered she refers to herself in the third person. And not as Jolee but as Barbie. Steve-o hadn't been informed of this and learned of it the hard way. She coaxed him into her apartment to look at her plumbing - um - her kitchen faucets that is.
"You'd have sex with Barbie, wouldn't you?" she said.
"No," replied Steve. "I wouldn't."
I trust him when he says he didn't.
She leaves her back door open when she's home and I see that the interior side of it has been painted brown. Or rather - two thirds of it has been painted brown. And not by brush or roller. No. By finger. She has clearly finger-painted her door. Also on the door are two writings in black marker. In one place it reads, PAint mE and in another, SCREWS. You can clearly see these words through the smearings of brown paint. At least I assume it's paint.
Oh god.
Oh god oh jesus oh jesus oh god. Please. Let it be paint.
FWG
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2 comments:
Sweet Jesus on a stick, Barbie is nutso. I wish she lived here. Or at least someone like her. I do know a pathological liar, but he doesn't live here. He calls me occassionally to tell me what current line of work is. Right now he's a jailer and will soon be a cop. Maybe we should get him and Barbie together.
Wow, Jolee/Barbie is seriously crazy. Why is she allowed out in public? How can she possibly afford to live in the same place as you - you know, employed, hard-working, knowledgeable about acceptable behavior?
Maybe she's a vamvmta...
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