Intermezzo

As Tony and Noctivigant have so graciously pointed out (And not incorrectly) in the comments, it’s been over a month since I’ve posted anything, and I apologize. I will now throw myself on a sword, which, thanks to our Supreme Court and Constitutional Convention, is still legal in Massachusetts.

My first excuse is that I’ve had a lot going on personally that’s been stressing me out. And while I have sat down to write new material, it becomes difficult when every time you sit down at the computer, the Clever Dick Jokes have to race against the Alcoholic Blackout. And sadly, as I get older, Alcoholic Blackout wins more and more often. It’s performing like Man O War in that particular horserace, only with fewer steroid injections and more outdoor distance pissing and giving fake names to police officers.

Second, to be blunt, the new American Jerk Home Office blows donkeys. Between battling back vermin and the leaky ceiling and the neighbors constantly yammering at me in pidgin English (“You can shriek at me all you want, Mr. Perez, but whether you like it or not, this is an apartment building. I can’t get off your fucking lawn!”).

So I don’t even like to be there, let alone spend a couple hours writing. So I spend most of my time at my girl’s place, and even though the idea that she might have a blog that she would have to spend a couple hours at writing is ridiculous, it is her computer, which means I have to wait my turn. Which means that, not only does the Web site suffer, but I’ve had to start masturbating using only my imagination, like some kind of common savage or Haitian. And by the time I sort through the involuntary mental images of old girlfriends I hate, fat chicks I’ve taken drunken handjobs off of, my second grade teacher and Mom to get to an acceptable porno memory and crank one out, it’s bedtime, I’m tired and my wrists hurt too much to type.

So despite what I said earlier this year, now that I have the Filthy Lucre, my girl and I have decided to try to buy a home. Prices had dropped pretty nicely here in Boston, so it seemed like a no-brainer; I mean, how hard could it be? Hell, every double-wide has a real estate deal behind it.

Well, the first step in negotiating a real estate sale is settling on a price. In any real estate negotiation, the seller wants enough money to settle the mortgage and make up their closing costs on the new place, with enough cash left over to allow them to make a few improvements in their lives, like being able to fuck on a pile of fresh hundreds and black market kidneys every day for the rest of their lives. Where as we, the buyers, want to only give them enough money to be able to call someone who gives a fuck after we have them dragged screaming from our new home.

When you actually agree on a price, then you have to settle on a mortgage company. Which I figured would be the easiest part of the deal. Hell, my spam traps are filled with entreaties from mortgage brokers who’ve promised me two points below prime and a rim job if I’ll agree to give them more than a million bucks over thirty years. But it’s been a learning experience. I learned that there are hidden penalties in those deals, and who the sellers would’ve been buying their kidneys from if they’d gotten their way.

And none of that includes closing costs. I didn’t even know what closing costs meant, but having spoken to a few mortgage brokers, it loosely translates to “Every fucking dime you have. Oh, you want to RETIRE someday? That’s CUTE. We recommend learning to relax your throat muscles and staking out a stall at the bus station men’s room.”

So now that we have those ugly little details locked down, we need to find someone to inspect the new place. I thought I already inspected the place when I walked through it, but it turns that that legally, I have to assume that I don’t know shit about real estate, and that the sellers are dead hookers behind the bedroom drywall and a meth lab in the attic. Which I would assume would make them charge more for the place, but again: apparently I don’t know shit.

So I have to find some professional, licensed stranger to walk through the place to find and tell me THE TRUTH, to the tune of another five hundred clams. Which is why I miss Whitey and the Winter Hill Gang. Back in the day here in Boston, getting the truth out of someone cost seventy bucks, a twelve pack of Narragansett beer and a couple of twenties to “go clean yourself up” afterwards.

So yeah; in short, things have been busy, and are likely to stay that way for the next couple, three weeks. And I’m sorry about it; I’m kicking myself over missing the entire midterm election, what with the congressmen and evangelicals sucking so much dick since I’ve been distracted. Had I been just a little less busy, I could have pounded my fist on the keyboard a couple times and come up with comedy gold on thse morons, and I am poorer for missing it.

I’ll do my best to keep checking in until all this is over. Feel free to use the comments section or the contact form to touch base. I’ll be happy to get a message that doesn’t tell me I have to write another fucking check.

Just don’t ask me for my bank account number. I get the sense that before this is over, I’ll be giving it to almost anyone who asks for it by pure, defeated reflex.

[tags]Real estate, Whitey Bulger, Winter Hill Gang, dark humor[/tags]