pawn brokering...a can of gas and a match wanted...you're not greek, your just an asshole...goalll!!!!!!!!!!!
So after about the nine-millionth time I saw the commercial for the pawn shop up the street, it dawned on me: I still have Shane’s stereo. I mean, lets face it, if he wanted me to give it back, he’s had something like two or three years to ask—and actually he forfeited that right the night at the Tiki Bar when he offered me a hundred bucks to yell “show me you tits for a beer!” at some girls going to their car in the parking lot. So I did it, of course, and he welshed, of course…ipso facto the stereo is mine. But the point is that I don’t need it any more, and I could always use an extra fifty bucks so I went off to do the old “I didn’t steal this, it belongs to me, truly” dance with the pawn shop man. But apparently here in Texas, or at least San Marcos, they want the stereo to be hooked up so they know it works. Because I am certain that every body in Texas drives right up to the pawn man and yanks the stereo out of the dash and runs inside for extra dip-money. But alas, I am still burdened with a stereo I don’t need, so I guess that’s that. Although I was tempted to say that they should be ashamed of themselves for denying the drug addicts and alcoholics of the area their god given right to sell off every possession possible to feed the monkey—surely that’s how Jesus himself intended it to be! He might as well get married to a man and kill a fetus for the wedding reception meal! But the wall that contains “100’s” of guns preempted any such shenanigans.
Normally I wouldn’t go into a pawn shop any how; no reason to. But the Charles Reinhart Co. has decided that despite its Ann Arbor address, they are in fact just another Ypsilanti slum-lord. I mean, most property owners would be tickled by their tenants putting a multi-thousand dollar paint job on the interior of their house. More still would rejoice in the fact that after four years of rent paid in full, and a now usable basement complete with painted walls (walls formerly known as “bare cinder blocks”) and carpeted floors(don’t forget the floor that was built over the worn mortar-mix floor of the past). But not this management company. No, they want to do things like take two-thirds of our security deposit from us. They charged us for the graffiti in the basement—the same basement that was unusable when we moved in. They charged us for “trash removal” not once, but twice. Justin went in and cleaned the house after he and Bruce were all moved out…so the amount they sent me (in Texas) was about the amount I was owed for my share. But as for Justin and Bruce (in Michigan), they don’t get a phone call. Mind you, that I told, and Justin told, the sketchy bitch that took over our account, mysteriously, just weeks before the end of lease, that she should address anything to Justin (in Michigan) because I, am in FUCKING TEXAS!!!!!! Disappointing. Truly. Now I am currently rolling around a crazy idea that falls under contract law in the “quasi contract” area where in there is protection against unethical enrichment at the expense of the contractor. I bet an invoice for 4 to 6 thousand dollars worth of services rendered would illustrate to the wonder Reinhart Realty CO. exactly why you don’t put a person who knows nothing about the situation to settle an account that has been built into a relationship between the tenant, property manager, and even Dick Pierce, the property owner.
I talked to Shell this afternoon, apparently there had been some concern about me dating sorority girls or something. Although the thought has crossed my mind, “dating” isn’t the verb I would use to describe it. Have you every noticed that for the most part, and there is very few exceptions to speak of, my experience with speaking to so-hoe’s is that I try to make the language colloquial enough to emulate their frat-like counter-parts without having to drink enough lead paint to actually make the transformation complete. All the while, their strange preternatural commitment toward unrealistic politeness keeps them engaged with me in conversation long enough for them to figure out: “did he say he was a Sig Tau, or Sig Ep? I hope he’s not a Teke.” I usually lose them when I tell them I’m a member of the Fraternal Order of the Kindergarten Crew…like a led zeppelin, that’s how it goes over.
In fact, I don’t even know where the Greeks live around here. I mean, it seems to me that from coast to coast, there is always a row full big house's, falling into disrepair, held together by only caulk and dried beer with giant letters on the façade. But not so much around here, not that I can see any way. But they probably do exist; there are so damn many people rocking carbon copied Greek-T’s on campus that I can only conclude that they must live here or else they wouldn’t bother with the major commute. Honestly, you know if they are coming in from out of town, they all live in the same place outside of town.
Bizarre things go through my mind in the one-man show that I call “my apartment.” Things like: if they’re so proud of their cowboy image down here, why am I the only one wearing a big cowboy hat around here? Must be the fact that I’m not in touch with my hair follicles…they packed their shit and left town when they found out I had committed to my beard back in high school.
What the hell happened to Michigan football? 3-3? Honestly, I leave town and all hell breaks loose. I was operating the score board at the Women’s Soccer game last Sunday, and part of the job entails counting shots on goal. As the ref was calling a bad game (and he was) the Louisiana-Monroe fans were a bit restless. One of them, probably in his mid sixties, turned to me and commented that he thought I wasn’t keeping track of the shots correctly. “Home cooking” is what he said. Shots on goal? I told him not to worry about some kind of rivalry, “I’m from Michigan” I said. “Your Wolverines are sucking corral water!” was the strange Louisiana response. My boss was stabbing me in the side from behind; “those aren’t the official stats sir” is what my boss said. I was ready to say something more along the lines of: “when you are the most winning team in division 1A history, you don’t sweat a bad season” or “you should talk about drinking corral water, you would be the foremost expert—hello? Katrina? God hates Louisiana as much as I do!” But I think that would likely have resulted in my losing my job…and having to beat the mortal shit out of an old man and many other people at a Women’s Soccer game. What football has to do with soccer I don’t know; why drive from Louisiana to Texas to talk about football, in a division that your school is not a part of is beyond me. The Bobcat Women’s Soccer team won the game in the first overtime…I know you were wondering.
Normally I wouldn’t go into a pawn shop any how; no reason to. But the Charles Reinhart Co. has decided that despite its Ann Arbor address, they are in fact just another Ypsilanti slum-lord. I mean, most property owners would be tickled by their tenants putting a multi-thousand dollar paint job on the interior of their house. More still would rejoice in the fact that after four years of rent paid in full, and a now usable basement complete with painted walls (walls formerly known as “bare cinder blocks”) and carpeted floors(don’t forget the floor that was built over the worn mortar-mix floor of the past). But not this management company. No, they want to do things like take two-thirds of our security deposit from us. They charged us for the graffiti in the basement—the same basement that was unusable when we moved in. They charged us for “trash removal” not once, but twice. Justin went in and cleaned the house after he and Bruce were all moved out…so the amount they sent me (in Texas) was about the amount I was owed for my share. But as for Justin and Bruce (in Michigan), they don’t get a phone call. Mind you, that I told, and Justin told, the sketchy bitch that took over our account, mysteriously, just weeks before the end of lease, that she should address anything to Justin (in Michigan) because I, am in FUCKING TEXAS!!!!!! Disappointing. Truly. Now I am currently rolling around a crazy idea that falls under contract law in the “quasi contract” area where in there is protection against unethical enrichment at the expense of the contractor. I bet an invoice for 4 to 6 thousand dollars worth of services rendered would illustrate to the wonder Reinhart Realty CO. exactly why you don’t put a person who knows nothing about the situation to settle an account that has been built into a relationship between the tenant, property manager, and even Dick Pierce, the property owner.
I talked to Shell this afternoon, apparently there had been some concern about me dating sorority girls or something. Although the thought has crossed my mind, “dating” isn’t the verb I would use to describe it. Have you every noticed that for the most part, and there is very few exceptions to speak of, my experience with speaking to so-hoe’s is that I try to make the language colloquial enough to emulate their frat-like counter-parts without having to drink enough lead paint to actually make the transformation complete. All the while, their strange preternatural commitment toward unrealistic politeness keeps them engaged with me in conversation long enough for them to figure out: “did he say he was a Sig Tau, or Sig Ep? I hope he’s not a Teke.” I usually lose them when I tell them I’m a member of the Fraternal Order of the Kindergarten Crew…like a led zeppelin, that’s how it goes over.
In fact, I don’t even know where the Greeks live around here. I mean, it seems to me that from coast to coast, there is always a row full big house's, falling into disrepair, held together by only caulk and dried beer with giant letters on the façade. But not so much around here, not that I can see any way. But they probably do exist; there are so damn many people rocking carbon copied Greek-T’s on campus that I can only conclude that they must live here or else they wouldn’t bother with the major commute. Honestly, you know if they are coming in from out of town, they all live in the same place outside of town.
Bizarre things go through my mind in the one-man show that I call “my apartment.” Things like: if they’re so proud of their cowboy image down here, why am I the only one wearing a big cowboy hat around here? Must be the fact that I’m not in touch with my hair follicles…they packed their shit and left town when they found out I had committed to my beard back in high school.
What the hell happened to Michigan football? 3-3? Honestly, I leave town and all hell breaks loose. I was operating the score board at the Women’s Soccer game last Sunday, and part of the job entails counting shots on goal. As the ref was calling a bad game (and he was) the Louisiana-Monroe fans were a bit restless. One of them, probably in his mid sixties, turned to me and commented that he thought I wasn’t keeping track of the shots correctly. “Home cooking” is what he said. Shots on goal? I told him not to worry about some kind of rivalry, “I’m from Michigan” I said. “Your Wolverines are sucking corral water!” was the strange Louisiana response. My boss was stabbing me in the side from behind; “those aren’t the official stats sir” is what my boss said. I was ready to say something more along the lines of: “when you are the most winning team in division 1A history, you don’t sweat a bad season” or “you should talk about drinking corral water, you would be the foremost expert—hello? Katrina? God hates Louisiana as much as I do!” But I think that would likely have resulted in my losing my job…and having to beat the mortal shit out of an old man and many other people at a Women’s Soccer game. What football has to do with soccer I don’t know; why drive from Louisiana to Texas to talk about football, in a division that your school is not a part of is beyond me. The Bobcat Women’s Soccer team won the game in the first overtime…I know you were wondering.
posted by texas_wolverine at 5:28 PM
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