Fatale Abstraction

OK. I don't know how much of this will get typed tonight as I am rassling with husband's bajillion dollar laptop with the keyboard I bloody hate. I'm feeling frequent trips to Kinko's in my future, considering we can't keep a machine running at the house for me.

This was not going to be my post today. I took photos of an egg frying on the pavement outside today with a happy surprise ending (the chick lived! Just kidding) but the universe conspires to prevent you from seeing it for the time being. Perhaps tomorrow.

A couple weeks ago I had an appointment to show apartments, and they said on the phone "we want to see everything you've got available for rent," which is the first tip-off that you're not looking seriously, fyi.

I saw these two older guys pull up in a brand new Porsche (sorry 'bout your dick, dude) and the forty something guy was the passenger and the 60ish heavy smoker was the driver. The younger guy was the one looking for a space.

First of all, they made a very negative impression by pulling right up to the door of my office (AS IF they had the finest car on the lot) and made a big production of inventing a parking space where there wasn't one. At this point they are pegging the asshole meter, but wait! There's more...

I take them to the first of 4 apartments I mean to show them, all above $1200/month. We schlep all over the property and meanwhile, the older guy - I'll call him Gimpy - was limping something fierce. We walk down the hill to the lowest possible point on property and I notice a squeak each time he takes a step. I'm trying to be discreet while ogling his jeans-leg for evidence of one of those fake titanium legs. I refrain from telling him he needs to oil the old joint there.

The younger guy - a King of Queens sort - sorta turns up his nose while Gimpy makes shitty cracks about the apartments. Shit like "Wayull, hayull, a thaousund a munth don't saound saow bayud nayow, duz it?"

After showing the second space, we emerge from the hallway into the heat of the day, and I've vowed to waste no more time on these cheap out-of-their-league bastards. I turned to them flashing my best megawatt smile (fake as shit) and said "It's been a real pleasure showing you boys around and you are welcome to walk over and see the pool or check out the party deck on the roof, but I have an old sprained ankle that's bothering me so I'm going to have to cut this short."

Showing no evidence of injury and not awaiting a response, I turned and marched double-time up the hill like nobody's business. I heard the squeak and knew they were behind me, but I noticed they couldn't keep up.

In the office today, I heard that squeak again and turned quickly only to find myself alone. The squeak was one of the sandal-clog thingies I was wearing. Too bad for Gimpy - for 10 minutes he was slightly more interesting, stupid hick.