A new bed, some fleas, and a curse on Christian youth

My wonderful neighbor A gave me his almost new, very firm and comfortable, not-smelly queen-size bed. First he helped me get my old bed out of the apartment. We did it the lazy white trash way and threw it off the balcony. I don’t think I’ve ever thrown furniture off a balcony before—it was fun. Now my new bed is like a big barge of relaxation and comfort in the middle of my bedroom. And with the money I saved I can buy a new couch.

That’s the good news. The bad news—it has come to my attention that both Hank and Miss P have the fleas.

Also, jeez is it hot. Since I got rid of the Volkswagen I’ve been biking to work everyday it doesn’t rain, but not the last three days. Highs in the mid-90s, 378% humidity everyday. You’re coated with sweat the second you walk out the door. A thirty-minute bike ride is too much to contemplate. I’ve been taking the bus instead. Except last night I had some business on Maple Street after work, so I took the streetcar home.

Now I hate to be hateful and mean, but sometimes it can’t be helped. To the Christian youth group of about 20 or so who got on the streetcar last night—the ones who couldn’t figure out how to put their money in the farebox; who took 10 minutes just to get on the damn car; who screeched when the car started moving; who wore matching t-shirts with bible quotes on them; who were scared of sitting next to a stranger, especially a black one, and thus stood in the aisle making it difficult for anyone else to get on or off; who took pictures of every single house and building on St. Charles, even the ugly ones, and fussed about which house was the Real World house; who started loudly singing some kind of bible camp song for the enlightenment and enjoyment of the other passengers; who didn’t seem to realize the streetcar is not some slow, dull Disneyland ride, but rather a form of public transportation relied on by many locals to get to and from work, preferably with as little hassle as possible:

I don’t hope you get assaulted or killed, but I do kind of hope you get mugged at gunpoint. I hope that, looking for a bathroom, you wander into the backroom of the wrong bar in the quarter and accidentally witness an act of public sex so repugnant and vile that it burns itself into your brain and renders you incapable of normal sexual function for the rest of your life. I hope someone slips something into your soda-pop and you wake up on the sidewalk with dried vomit on your lips, crusted blood on your nose, the worst headache of your life, and no underwear or recollection of how you got there. I hope you take your cornfed ass and the tatters of your faith in your petty god and go back to the Midwest where you belong. And don’t come back.