So here I am, back from Chicago, looking for an apartment. I'm thinking of moving to Chicago. Of course, I usually want to move to the places I visit. If I was in the Army, I'd probably be checking out the Iraq section of craigslist for a studio or a one bedroom in Baghdad. "1 BR on a tree-lined (for now) street in downtown Baghdad. Must see now! Might not be available tomorrow! Because of the bombs! But you can't beat the location!"

Some of the postings on craigslist are so funny. I saw this at the end of one listing.

AVAILABLE NOW
I HAVE KEYS

Well, thank goodness they have the keys. I hate when you read a posting that ends with, "It really is a great apartment and available right now, but unfortunately, I don't have the keys." Actually, that posting doesn't even make it clear that they have the keys to the apartment. They might just be making a simple statement for some reason.

AVAILABLE NOW
I LIKE COLE SLAW

I just found this one. Basically, this chick is offering to help you find an apartment. She doesn't seem to be a broker, but just wants to help. But then in the middle of her blurb about how she will help, it says, "Best of luck! I will screw you just like everyone else!!" Um, OK, thanks for being honest.

This one is fantastic. Just go look at the photos.

"High ceilings, nice space, safe neighborhood, a pigeon in a flower pot."



Notice it's a white pigeon. This neighborhood has become so gentrified.

I will be in Chicago for the week. So while I'm out, here are some pictures you can look at over the next week.

This is a photo of a sign at a Tae Kwon Do place down the street from me. I don't think we even needed the drawn on penis to make it a funny picture, but it doesn't hurt. RESPECT!



Here is a job I am glad I don't have. Subway scrubber. No matter how much you clean, it will always be dirty. It's a losing battle. Especially the E train at the World Trade Center. Holy God, the smell of urine is unbearable. This is 49th St. Not nearly as bad. Although I did almost once step in a pile of homeless shit. Well, not homeless shit, although I guess the shit was technically homeless, but this particular pile of shit was most likely from a homeless person.



This weekend I went to the wedding of my good pal, Jodie. Here she is looking all beautiful (and dancing by herself).



Here she is dancing with an awesome uncle of hers. He was pretty nuts. You know when a guy wears a baseball cap to a wedding, he is there to have a good time. Her smile says, "This is fun!" but her eyes say "Help me!"



This is a photo I took a while ago, last year I think. I was driving back from DC when I saw a bus with the word DONG on it, so I had to take a photo.



Ten minutes later, my car did this. The DONG bus was the highlight of my trip.



This is from my most recent trip to DC where I saw the Mets beat the Nationals, or the Nats for short. Terrible name for a team.



This is Rich. He took a bunch those sanitary toilet seat things from a restroom for some reason and kept asking people if they needed a lobster bib.



This is from the winter, obviously. Snowflakes the size of rats were falling.



And this is from when I crapped in the sink.



Have a good week without me. I know it will be rough, but we are going to get through it.

This morning, at around 8:00, which is like 4 in the morning for normal people, I was disturbed from my sleep by banging. It sounded like the banging was coming from Doug's room, so I wanted to yell, "Yeah Doug! Way to bang!" But it was actually just some guys right outside hammering something to the side of my building. But they must have been right outside of Doug's room, because I definitely thought they were in my apartment.

Anyway, I thought they'd eventually stop, but they just kept going. For hours, just banging on what seemed to be the same spot, over and over again. I felt like they weren't really doing anything productive. It sounded like a bunch of construction workers decided to get together for a little hammer practice.

I realized this was pretty much the first time that my slumber was bothered since I've lived in Queens. Which, to be honest, is kind of boring. When I lived in Brooklyn, there was always something. Which made me blog more often. And here in Queens, I often have to find things to blog about, instead of Brooklyn, where things practically shouted, "Blog this, motherfucker!"

So anyway, I have to move again after June. I'm thinking I'll move to somewhere very dangerous. I want to start more blog entries with the sentence, "So last night I was in another knife fight." This borough they call Queens is way too safe.

All those who contributed part of the 23.1 million dollars given to Monster-In-Law this past weekend, raise your hand. OK, very good. Put your hands down. Now, I want you to raise your hands again, but this time, put a gun in your hand. Got it? OK. Now point it at your head. Squeeze trigger go boom now!

I just yawned and accidentally gleeked all over my keyboard. I gleeked!

I went to the Mets game on Saturday. They lost. Booooo! Good game, though. The best non-baseball part was in between one of the innings, this went out over the PA system:

"The owner of the vehicle with license plate XXXXXX, your keys are in the ignition. And it is running."

The PA announcer had good delivery. He purposely paused between the two sentences for ultimate funny. Everyone laughed and I heard these two nuggets:

Dick!

Have another drink!

I was at the bank earlier today and this guy walked out and he was wearing a t-shirt. It had two pictures on it, side by side. The one on the left was of a monkey with a finger up its butt. Beneath it said "Scratch." Then on the right, there was a picture (artist's rendering, not actual photographs) of the monkey now smelling his finger, and beneath that, it read - you guessed it - "Sniff."

There are many questions I have about this shirt. Why would anyone make it? Why would anyone buy it? Why wouldn't the friends and family of the person wearing it say something?

Oh wait. I know why. Because it's a monkey picking its butt and then smelling it. That is brilliant.

This story about the little plane flying too close for comfort to the White House was very uninteresting to me. But because my commute is long and I read the entire paper now, I read the article today. It was interesting how they talked about Cheney being whisked away to a secure location and Nancy Pelosi literally being lifted out of her shoes. What was even better was the next paragraph:

President Bush, biking with a high school friend at the Patuxent Wildlife Research Center in Beltsville, Md., was unaware of the midday, 15-minute scare as it was occurring.

This guy is still our fucking president! He was biking with a high school friend! Unaware that DC was on a Code Red. Unaware.

He probably got back to the White House, all out of breath from riding his bike and was like, "Hey Dick. What's up? You shoulda seen me out there on Air Force 6, heh heh heh, that's what I call my bike. Anyway, it was awesome. I popped this wheelie and then later got some huge air? What'd you do today?"

It's such a fantastic sentence. Read it again.

President Bush, biking with a high school friend at the Patuxent Wildlife Research Center in Beltsville, Md., was unaware of the midday, 15-minute scare as it was occurring.

His daily briefings must be fun.

"OK, how we doin'? Iraq, we winnin'? ... Kind of? Good enough for me. Anyone needs me, I'll be at Six Flags."

Do me a favor. If I ever die in a car accident, please make sure that my family doesn't start one of those side of the road memorials. You know, with the cross, the teddy bears, probably my Mets hat. Shit like that. It's fucking gay. Yes, it is gay to die in a car accident.

I thought of this as I was driving down to my mom's for Mother's Day. It was a nice day. Went to breakfast, then lazied up the house for a while. My parents watched Office Space on Comedy Central. I haven't heard my mom laugh like that at a movie since we saw the Three Amigos. She also really liked Fletch.

My mom is bad at watching movies. She usually falls asleep or talks on the phone. I remember one time I was making her watch a movie, I forget what, but for the first 25 minutes she was talking to my sister. Then she watched for two minutes and said, "I don't know. I just can't get into this movie."

My dad fucking loves Spaceballs. It's the only DVD he ever bought. I saw it with him in the theater and he laughed from the beginning to end. He also laughed during the Three Amigos. I remember seeing that movie in a packed theater with my parents and my friend Brian McManus (I think he was Irish), and we were the only ones laughing. We all agreed after the movie that everyone else in the theater were idiots. I've got that one on DVD. Acutally, I think it's Doug's. Well, either way, I'm taking it when I move out.

Here's what I did last weekend in Washington D.C.



I know the last time I did this, I said it would be the last, but you put some rum in me, stick your hand up my butt, and I'm your puppet. This time, the one with the hand up my butt was my friend Rick, who took this picture. Here is Rick taking a photo of himself right before he took the photo of me.



Just like last time, the cab driver got out and chased me. I ran like hell. I thought I lost him, but a bit after I stopped, this guy came up to me and said, "You run over my car?" I played dumb, but he wasn't buying it. He said, "Come on, I show you." I guess I left a footprint or maybe a little dent in his hood. So I said, "I'll look at it, but it wasn't me." Must have been someone else wearing incredibly white Adidas sneakers.

He also had a witness with him. So we all start walking back to the car, I let them walk in front of me and get ahead of me a little bit, then I turned around and ran. This time I was smart and ran up some side street. Then I hid behind a bush. Then Rick called me to ask me where I was, and apparently I said to him, "I can't tell you where I am."

I don't know why I did that. Either I didn't trust Rick and thought that he was working with the cab driver, or maybe I thought my phone was tapped by the FBI. I don't know. But anyway, I got away.

I think this time, though, was really my last. Really. Until the next time.