Now He's Literally Trying to Kill Me

I woke up at 5 o'clock yesterday morning to the smell of smoke and the sound of a blaring smoke alarm. I jumped out of bed, turned on the light, headed to the kitchen, pulled a coat on over my PJs, pulled on my boots, headed for the door, and realized ....... wait a minute. While I could smell smoke, there was no visible smoke in my apartment, and while I could hear a smoke alarm, it was not my smoke alarm.


At first I figured that one of the guys in the building had stayed up late, gotten drunk, put a TV dinner in the oven, and then passed out, until the TV dinner incinerated itself to a smoky, smelly crisp. When you live in a building full of guys, that scenario is a familiar one.


I decided to head downstairs, just to make sure it wasn't something more serious, only to discover that Jabba the Hutt, that fat fucking bastard, had dumped his ashtray into his bedroom garbage can and then passed out. Turns out there was a still-burning cigarette in the ashtray, which then caught the contents of the garbage can on fire. And when the smoke and the smoke alarm finally woke the fucktard up, instead of calling 911, he tried to put the fire out himself. And when he could not do this, instead of calling 911, he yelled to the people in the next apartment for help. P., who lives in the apartment next to Jabba's, heard him, ran over, and put out the fire. And then Jabba bitched out P. for not getting there fast enough (!), then settled onto his couch for some quality TV time.


You know, I have been hoping for quite some time that Jabba drops dead soon. I just don't want him taking the rest of us with him.



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