The View From Scranton

Local Discolor

He's pint-sized. Bulging eyes and an I-don't-give-a-fuck stomach. His feet are the size of my hands. His mouth is bigger than my ego. He wears sandals. He bitches and moans and lies and cries. He's sneaky and sulky and stupid and crude. I think he "found" my "lost" money 'cause even though he says he's broke he never fails to have a box of Newports in his faded khaki pocket. I bought him bread. A Pepsi. Lent him bleach. He never paid me back.

His name is John and he is one of my rommates at the House and I don't like him a bit.

There's more. Or, I should say, others. Like the third John. He too is extremely vertically challanged. I should say short. He tries to compensate by horizontalizing. He overcompensates. He's got waist-sized biceps, Popeye forearms, and a head that resembles a shrew. No, I don't know what a shrew looks like. His clothes are tight, his wallet is tighter. And I can't understand a single word he says. I don't know if hillbillies are taught at birth to mumble vaguely, but he's an expert at it. Either that or he's got no teeth. I'd say both. 'Cause where he comes from mumbling through gums is a given.

Then there's Troy. Named for a fable he'll never be able to comprehend, Troy, in his own small town way, was once probably cool. Now he's just pathetic. With a scumbag junkie mentality, a Why-me? way of blame, a limp and a cane to go with it. He neeeds a crutch. He says he fell off his bunk upstate. I say he never should've been there in the second place. He's already had one shot. Now he's bitching 'cause they haven't tailor-made for him another. Like I said: Pathetic.

These are my roomies in the House and I am so damn glad I'm not them.

posted by John Hood. @ 8:58 PM