He was a quiet type, kept to himself, and I always knew he was an effing serial killer!
That's what I plan to tell Anderson Cooper about the creepy guy who lives in my apartment building. Right after I ask if Anderson Cooper might like to love me.
The creepy guy in my building is a Where's Waldo sort. The thing about the original Waldo is he's a serial killer. It's true. He's always there on the periphery, blending into the background, being creepy in his Freddy Krueger shirt, his big black spectacles hiding his murderous glare. Killers are notorious for returning to crime scenes to watch the investigation unfold and have a known fondness for horizontal stripes. Why do you think you rarely see people in stripes? The fashion magazines want you to believe it's because they're unflattering, but really it's because the liberal media is trying not to panic the unsuspecting public with the truth. They don't need mass hysteria every time some sweater-wearing killer decides to hit Dairy Queen for a cone between rampages. I could get into why serial killers are allowed to keep killing for the sake of the economy and prevention of Kim Cattrell exposing her breasts in the Sex and the City movie, but I'll save that for another blog.
Fella in my building is just like Where's Waldo. He's always standing around somewhere unexpected, like the laundry room or the parking garage. Before you go accusing me of overreacting, I'll point out that Waldo isn't doing anything when I come upon him. He's just standing there. Exactly like the original Waldo. This is at all hours of the day and night. I go to the gym at 4 AM and have seen Waldo in the garage at that hour, standing alone, hands in pockets. I've come home from happy hour at 11 PM and have seen him in the stairwell, standing alone, hands in pockets. I've seen him on my days off in the laundry room. Once I caught him abandoning a broken stereo cabinet in the laundry room. He asked if I needed a stereo cabinet. When I shook my head no he added as an incentive, "I could carry it to your apartment for you. Which one are you in?" I'm pretty tan, so at this point I just pretended I don't speak English and smiled and nodded and bravely semi-ran away. Who the hell is out and about at these crazy, unpredictable hours? (If you're feeling like a wiseass and would like to point out that I am out at those times, please refer to my blog about how I'm a hypocrite.)
Waldo is never walking to or from a vehicle or throwing away recycling or putting the garbage out or doing laundry. He's just standing in one spot like he's on a holodeck waiting to be beamed to a slaughterhouse for some rest and relaxation. He's bulbous and overweight and no matter what time of year is always wearing a non-distinct grayish/brownish nylon jacket zipped to the neck to hide his telltale striped sweater. Hands in pockets, glasses askew, standing and staring and inevitably mumbling something creepy like, "That's some traffic out there, isn't it?" He gets a rather desperate look in his eye if you try to limit the exchange to four words or less and starts mumbling more urgently and less distinctly. No doubt saying something like, "What size do you wear? I could make a lovely bathrobe out of you!"
You most likely think I'm exagerrating the creepiness factor of a lonely, unemployed guy. But everyone who knows me knows I'm only ever minding my own business and unless I'm working on my resume or match.com profile I don't ever stretch the truth to make things sound more interesting than they are. It's not the words he says, it's the way he says them. He says things exactly the way a kidnapper in a windowless van would call to a gaggle of Girl Scouts, "Hey, would you like to climb in and look through my candy and kitten head collection?" It's like he's counting on your manners to trick you into getting too close so he can gut you with a paring knife. I'm not fooled by these stripey shenanigans. I approach Waldo in much the same manner I approach surprise blind dates and fish products: by making up a sorry excuse and rapidly retreating. I'm just blessed with a natural survival instinct and strong sense of smell.
The creepy guy in my building is a Where's Waldo sort. The thing about the original Waldo is he's a serial killer. It's true. He's always there on the periphery, blending into the background, being creepy in his Freddy Krueger shirt, his big black spectacles hiding his murderous glare. Killers are notorious for returning to crime scenes to watch the investigation unfold and have a known fondness for horizontal stripes. Why do you think you rarely see people in stripes? The fashion magazines want you to believe it's because they're unflattering, but really it's because the liberal media is trying not to panic the unsuspecting public with the truth. They don't need mass hysteria every time some sweater-wearing killer decides to hit Dairy Queen for a cone between rampages. I could get into why serial killers are allowed to keep killing for the sake of the economy and prevention of Kim Cattrell exposing her breasts in the Sex and the City movie, but I'll save that for another blog.
Fella in my building is just like Where's Waldo. He's always standing around somewhere unexpected, like the laundry room or the parking garage. Before you go accusing me of overreacting, I'll point out that Waldo isn't doing anything when I come upon him. He's just standing there. Exactly like the original Waldo. This is at all hours of the day and night. I go to the gym at 4 AM and have seen Waldo in the garage at that hour, standing alone, hands in pockets. I've come home from happy hour at 11 PM and have seen him in the stairwell, standing alone, hands in pockets. I've seen him on my days off in the laundry room. Once I caught him abandoning a broken stereo cabinet in the laundry room. He asked if I needed a stereo cabinet. When I shook my head no he added as an incentive, "I could carry it to your apartment for you. Which one are you in?" I'm pretty tan, so at this point I just pretended I don't speak English and smiled and nodded and bravely semi-ran away. Who the hell is out and about at these crazy, unpredictable hours? (If you're feeling like a wiseass and would like to point out that I am out at those times, please refer to my blog about how I'm a hypocrite.)
Waldo is never walking to or from a vehicle or throwing away recycling or putting the garbage out or doing laundry. He's just standing in one spot like he's on a holodeck waiting to be beamed to a slaughterhouse for some rest and relaxation. He's bulbous and overweight and no matter what time of year is always wearing a non-distinct grayish/brownish nylon jacket zipped to the neck to hide his telltale striped sweater. Hands in pockets, glasses askew, standing and staring and inevitably mumbling something creepy like, "That's some traffic out there, isn't it?" He gets a rather desperate look in his eye if you try to limit the exchange to four words or less and starts mumbling more urgently and less distinctly. No doubt saying something like, "What size do you wear? I could make a lovely bathrobe out of you!"
You most likely think I'm exagerrating the creepiness factor of a lonely, unemployed guy. But everyone who knows me knows I'm only ever minding my own business and unless I'm working on my resume or match.com profile I don't ever stretch the truth to make things sound more interesting than they are. It's not the words he says, it's the way he says them. He says things exactly the way a kidnapper in a windowless van would call to a gaggle of Girl Scouts, "Hey, would you like to climb in and look through my candy and kitten head collection?" It's like he's counting on your manners to trick you into getting too close so he can gut you with a paring knife. I'm not fooled by these stripey shenanigans. I approach Waldo in much the same manner I approach surprise blind dates and fish products: by making up a sorry excuse and rapidly retreating. I'm just blessed with a natural survival instinct and strong sense of smell.
posted by Jen @ 7:37 AM
1 Comments:
At 2:08 AM,
Anonymous said…
Funny stuff. You should write more often and with just as much snark, or double servings if possible.
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