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Friday, 20 February 2009

image for Saving for the American Dream and baby makes three

So as two pretty penniless med students in love but years away from any semblance of financial security with loans way up both our asses, we decided to take up my future mother in law's invitation to live as one of the boarders in her Boston rooming house so we could save enough money for a place of our own. Vanessa, my girlfriend's Chinese mother is the kind of person who delivers Reiki massages in restaurants to near strangers who complain of a little nech stiffness. she has made a million dollars and then lost it in a matter of a few years and is now trying to regain her fortune, thus the real estate venture with the side business of Chinese medicine and Reiki massage.

I guess I should have guessed that the rooming house was a bad idea when I met chicken boy on our first night in the house. I wandered into the communal kitchen to make myself a cup of hot cocoa when I bumped into the tenat we would dub chicken boy. This odd fellow had to be six and a half feet tall and weighed in at a generous ninety pounds. beside my small stocky frame an observer would have found us a sight gag. And had the imaginary onlooker stuck artound for the conversation he would have certainly gagged.

Hi I'm Raskolnikov, and all i eat is chicken. Now there isn't really much a sleepy hot chocolate seeking bleary eyed med student with four more hours of studying the kidney can say to that. But there was no need for a reply as Chicken boy had a ready prepared soliloquoy in launch mode. It's all any on needs to live! you've got ther eggs, the breast the dark meat. canned, creamed, cacciatoried, Chicken has become my life, my livelihood and my lust. Did you know feathers make the best pillows, quilt filling and sleeping bag stuffing?

Just then i heard the sound of a real live chicken coop coming from C-Boy's 10X10 bedroom. he must have seen my startled look as he was quick to explain that fresh killed was the secret to the healthful benefits of the all poultry diet. And that was just the beginning as we were treated nightly to the sound of chicken slaughtering and wthe whirring of the MeatMasher 12000 busily pulverizing poultry parts into a puree of chicken pudding that we were told is a combination skin moisturizer, machine grease and sexual lubricant. you really haven't understood living in Ma's boarding house until you've stood in the kitchen waiting for your water to boil for some hot cocoa as Chicken boy tells you that you haven't lived till you choked the chicken with some of this miracle chicken cream slathered on your cock. make sure you pick this sick fuck , all six and half feet, 90 pounds feathery shock of stand up straight feathered hair and eyes bugging out with dead featherless bipeds in each of his neanderthal fists.

But speaking of sick fucks and Ma's knack for renting to psychos, after chicken boy was taken away by the health department, vanessa rapidly replaced him with Brian. Young Brian arrived at our doorstep chauffered by his mother and equipped with tales of his unpaid internship at a Boston diaper company ready for his big city adventure. So relieved to be rid of the stench of chicken and the lovely silence left behind by the departure of the Meatmasher 12,000, Brian seemed to be a baby angel from the heavens, even to an atheist med student.

That is until the chicken stench was replaced by ritual placements of chewed tobacco throughout the boarding house. Brian was quick to explain as I stood in his doorway with a bagful of fifty tins of massicated tobacky.I'm trying to quit smoking and my smoking cessation councilor suggested that the ubiquitous presence of this grossness would help create a revulsion response. I, lifelong non smoker, immediately agreed and told him that my revulsion response was pretty darn near the upper back of my throat. Now did I fail to mention that little Brian, yes Ma had found a boarder who was the bizarro world parallel of chicken boy, was standing in his doorway in the most adorable powder blue feety pajamas... And the little fella apologized and retreated into his quarters.

My next encounter with the young lad involved a smoke alarm going off in the middle of the night during one of my late study sessions, this time the lungs. As we evacuated the rooming house and gathered shivering in the Boston winter, the lesbian couple from the basement, alcoholic Harry from the front room, my sweet lover and I wrapped in an asian rug, I noticed no Brian. before Boston's bravest had arrived I rushed into the building to see why the diaper company intern had not joined the fire drill.

As I hastened to Brian's cell. I saw the wisps of smoke rising from beneath his door and smelled a sweet scent reminiscent of my college days. The little fucker was hotboxing his feety pajama-ed, this time chicken - Ugh!- feather yellow self in a marijuana sauna. Fed up and frustrated tenant after boarder returned to their quarters cursing and muttering about their interruopted sleep, the fucking frigid night and the landlady who rents to rejects even worse than themselves.

The boarding house seemed to settle into a kind of calm until the smoke alarm screech once more. this time during our evacuation we saw real flames coming from beneath baby Brian's door. I shouldered the door open only to find the room ablaze with flames emanating from a garbage pail on fire. Boston's Bravest did their darndest to extinguish the fire and steal most of young Brian's not yet burnt pot.

One of the firefighters suggested that when I get a chance I should check out the diggs of baby Brian. All he said as he walked away sucking on a pilfered joint was: scary. The next night while Brian was out shopping I took the opportunity to follow the fireman's suggestion. Equipped with flashlight and wearing my winter robe and slippers, I slipped into the room. The smaell of old maryjane and wet chaw chewings was overwhelmed by a much more gross and unmistakeable odor. The "scary" was indeed all and in fact more than promised...around Baby Brian's headquarters were an array, in fact a panoply of pastel colored feety pyjamas with fullsized adult diapers tucked inside. These full sized portable lavatories were, let's just say, occupied with enough urine and feces and all different stages of dessication and evaporation that it could choke a horse and did inspire one weak stomached med student, now studying the gut to lose his lunch!

Well that did it! Fortunately we had saved enough money that in serendipidous combination with Obama's stimulus plan we got as far away from Ma's boarding house, Chicken Boy and baby Brian as possible. My love and I are safely tucked into a tiny condo in a high crime area of Beantown with a blessed event on the way. The snowflakes outside are falling like chicken feathers but the woodburning fireplace smells nothing like Bob Marley or baby Brian's odiferous aftermath. We're still studying to be healers with a mortgage now piled on top of the loans but it's our place, our lives and only little baby diapers spread across our future as far as the nose can smell.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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