My Roommate, the Flim-Flam Artist
Let me tell you all a story about how Erin Hogan began and ended the evening with generosity, but in between lied through her filthy fucking teeth.
Today is Friday. On Friday, the guards at the museum are given (GIVEN) all the leftover food from the in-house cafe. Today, that added up to quite a bit. I had a turkey and avocado sandwich on rosemary focciacia, a turkey and pesto sandwich on wheat, and two (TWO) pieces of chocolate chip banana bread. On my way home from work, I was incredibly productive. I located Jessica's I-Card, reported a high-pitched beeping in the apartment next door, and brought in my dry-cleaning.
But none of this has anything to do with Erin's munificence or duplicity. When I returned home from my many travels and travails, Erin invited me to join her at the local bookshoppery (Barnes & Noble). I agreed, pending consumption of my turkey and avocado sandwich on rosemary focciacia. Erin agreed to wait; this action, combined with her invitation compose her first instance of magnanimity. It was all downhill from then on.
That's a lie of my own. She was actually a perfectly delightful reading companion, losing herself as fully in the tribulations of the rich and famous as I lost myself in the trials of Jason Bourne. Periodically, we engaged in light conversation. In one such exchange, Erin Hogan lied her fucking head off.
"At my library, we have to rent books. It costs a quarter for each book."
I challenged her. I am quite familiar with libraries and their inner-workings. I've been fired from employment at almost four of them. There's no renting, there's lending. And fees only kick in for lost or late items.
"It's true," Erin wailed unconvincingly, "ask my mom!"
So I did. I called that deceitful girl's mother. Her mother agreed that Erin was prone to tall tales and wild inventions...that is, until Erin got on the phone with her. Using the persuasive and treacherous abilities essential to flim-flam artists like herself, Erin poisoned her mother's mind. She poisoned it as skillfully and coldly as a master mind-poisoner might. The poor woman has probably rarely been free of Erin's nefarious clutches.
"Now that I think about it," her addled mother amended, "we did live out of district when we lived in Texas and there was a small charge for borrowing materials."
"Poor woman," I murmured.
After hanging up with Erin's mother, we drove by a McDonald's and Erin bought me a SnackWrap, presumably to buy my silence. I have integrity; I would not be swayed; after consuming the tortilla-wrapped chicken tender I turned to the Internet to faithfully report my experience.
Erin Hogan will have to learn that my silence costs a bit more than $1.29+tax. I might also require a beverage.
True Story.
Today is Friday. On Friday, the guards at the museum are given (GIVEN) all the leftover food from the in-house cafe. Today, that added up to quite a bit. I had a turkey and avocado sandwich on rosemary focciacia, a turkey and pesto sandwich on wheat, and two (TWO) pieces of chocolate chip banana bread. On my way home from work, I was incredibly productive. I located Jessica's I-Card, reported a high-pitched beeping in the apartment next door, and brought in my dry-cleaning.
But none of this has anything to do with Erin's munificence or duplicity. When I returned home from my many travels and travails, Erin invited me to join her at the local bookshoppery (Barnes & Noble). I agreed, pending consumption of my turkey and avocado sandwich on rosemary focciacia. Erin agreed to wait; this action, combined with her invitation compose her first instance of magnanimity. It was all downhill from then on.
That's a lie of my own. She was actually a perfectly delightful reading companion, losing herself as fully in the tribulations of the rich and famous as I lost myself in the trials of Jason Bourne. Periodically, we engaged in light conversation. In one such exchange, Erin Hogan lied her fucking head off.
"At my library, we have to rent books. It costs a quarter for each book."
I challenged her. I am quite familiar with libraries and their inner-workings. I've been fired from employment at almost four of them. There's no renting, there's lending. And fees only kick in for lost or late items.
"It's true," Erin wailed unconvincingly, "ask my mom!"
So I did. I called that deceitful girl's mother. Her mother agreed that Erin was prone to tall tales and wild inventions...that is, until Erin got on the phone with her. Using the persuasive and treacherous abilities essential to flim-flam artists like herself, Erin poisoned her mother's mind. She poisoned it as skillfully and coldly as a master mind-poisoner might. The poor woman has probably rarely been free of Erin's nefarious clutches.
"Now that I think about it," her addled mother amended, "we did live out of district when we lived in Texas and there was a small charge for borrowing materials."
"Poor woman," I murmured.
After hanging up with Erin's mother, we drove by a McDonald's and Erin bought me a SnackWrap, presumably to buy my silence. I have integrity; I would not be swayed; after consuming the tortilla-wrapped chicken tender I turned to the Internet to faithfully report my experience.
Erin Hogan will have to learn that my silence costs a bit more than $1.29+tax. I might also require a beverage.
True Story.
posted by jw at
9:50 PM
3 Comments:
You reported that beeping? To the police?? Landlord? Who?
That sounds foul.
read MY story about MY roommate. It'll stop your bitching.
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