Wednesday, October 6


Remember last year when I moved into the house that wound up being Amityville? Remember the toothless heroin addict with a penchant for adult toys and movies called "Anal Intruders IV?" Well, I do. As much time as I put into that hell hole I remember. And as the patron saint of Whatever & Ever Amen would say, I remember "the mud and the blood and the beer."

After surviving in the house for a year without a zombie attack, I began to understand my personal Michael Keaton a little bit. Dare I say, after paying almost $2,000 a year in propane, I began to agree with his camping out indoors lifestyle. Except for his preoccupation of all things anal.

When we moved in, we tried to track him down so he could pay the overdue rent and the cleaning of ground zero (I can't remember if we charged for the Hazmat suits or not), oh and picking his fucking teeth up off the ground. But no dice... he'd simply vanished, which is hard to do in a town this small.

After over a year, we finally found him and served him with papers. We spotted him the other day working with a back hoe, which you know, you always want a drug addict to be in charge of. There's nothing like nodding off when you're driving heavy equipment that could crush a car. With no regard to the public at large we thought, yea! wage garnishment! I think by this point it's just a grudge match because after the lawyer's fees we probably aren't going to see one dime, but damn it felt good. I heard that when he got served (and I mean that in the "oh snap, you got served-est way possible), his exact words were "oh shit." That's right mo-fo, you mess with the bull, you get the horns.

But you're still asking yourself, "wants the horribly ironic part," Well we found him working on new construction in a new neighborhood. Mine. Ergo, he probably worked on my house. Which is to say that somewhere luring between our walls may be "Anal Intruders V."