You want me in a crisis, pt 2

7 Aug

So, I was trying to lift my legs over the balcony wondering how Doom ends…

OK, let’s back this up a bit.

I went out DVD shopping last night and picked me up some totally sweet things. As you’re obviously aware, my taste in movies is awesome. People are always calling me, offering me beaucoup de scratch for the top 20 films at the Palazzo del Polo Shirt but I just give them the hand, my friends, because I’m completely hardcore like that and would in no way sell out to the first person who offered me a jatz cracker and snifter of day old tea.

So, after a hard day of hectoring the Intoxicating Dubliner and donating my sweet blood to anyone requiring a transfusion of straight up neurosis, I retired to clean the Palazzo del Polo Shirt which was fast becoming seven scents of squalor. I was feeling so organised, watching Doom and sorting out the recycling before I headed out the door to trash them.

In yet another moment of my life that shows IQ testing is completely unreliable, I managed to lock the front door behind me. Without my keys. And no spare.

At that moment some neighbours walked by and offered help. Naturally, this is either due to their incredibly sweet nature or the Manchurian-Candidatesque mesmer-trigger quality of my blue doe eyes, but possibly also because they didn’t want me to start trying MacGyvering my way back in (I had a really cool plan of sneaking my jowls under the door). So we spent 30 minutes in increasingly Spinal Tap circles in the underground car park and internal staircases trying to find someone with a master key. Such a key possibly exists but is worn around the neck of a Unicorn. The Body Corporate Unicorn. What? You don’t have one? Hey, it’s East Melbourne, bitches, and we do things differently here*.

Eventually we decided on a plan to use a ladder. Naturally, there were none about. Do ladders roam naturally in the land, a-framing their way to those in need or are they strapped to the back of that Body Corporate Unicorn? Such mysteries were pondered while one of the Samaritans ran off to grab a ladder from their work.

It’s odd to sit in a neighbour’s apartment where, fittingly, they had an ivory tower. I rarely see my neighbours (though one sweetly puts my weekly box of fruit and veggies by my door from outside) and barely exchange more than a smile when I do. For all they know, I run a phone sex business from my wonderfully comfortable bed and answer to the name Spanksie Décolleté.

As it happens, yap at someone fast and long enough and they’ll agree to anything. Hence why the neighbour below me let me enter his apartment with nary a
hiiyamAmoirnIvelockedmyselfouttamyapartmentandallIwanna
doiswatchdoomsocanIpopaladderinyourpropertyandtrytoshimmy

myfatwhitearselikeitsneverbeenshimmiedbeforeandohmywhatlovely
armchairsyouhavekthxbai
?” to try and gain access with the ladder when it arrived.

Oh, there were offers from the gents to do the honours. To bravely clamber up the ladder like an alpha ape, swing onto the balcony and beat their chest with pride. Possibly fling some poo.

But such incursions to the Palazzo del Polo Shirt will not be tolerated. Especially when the place looks like it’s been ransacked by a bumbling intern and is only missing a crack or opium pipe to complete the look. Plus, Doom was on pause and hot damn if I want some person’s first impression of my delightful abode to be “Stuyvies! Demons! Crack Pipes! Oh my!”**

So, just to prove how damn awesome I am in a crisis, I climbed up the ladder in the howling wind and realised the top of the ladder fell way short of the balcony.

Concerned Neighbour: Amoir, are you sure you want to do this?”
Amoir’s thoughts:Stuyvies! Demons! Crack Pipes! Oh my!”**
Amoir: “Yup”
Concerned Neighbour: “We could call a locksmith.”
Amoir’s thoughts: Stuyvies! Demons! Crack Pipes! Oh my!”**
Amoir: “Oh…it’ll be….ugh…ok”

And this explains, dear reader, how I was hanging from my balcony above a man who thinks I possibly run a phone sex business from home, another man whose pants were growing browner by the moment and a lovely lass from Hong Kong who was struggling to hold the ladder while wearing customised jeans.

In a series of move that totally required a blistering guitar solo, I swung over the top and felt pretty damned cool. Then busted a move into my own door (unsurprising to some of them who had heard me ruminate on the recent lock picking findings via Boing Boing as they relate to single barrel locks). If I failed at all during this evening, it was the glaring omission to perform air guitar to my rapt audience below.

As for Doom, well, I can’t believe I bought a DVD for $10 when it was clearly only worth $6.95.

*Oh yeah, East Side, where the polo shirt collars are up if you’re representing.
** Naturally, Real Estate Landlord, this in no way indicates how I will treat the properties I’ve applied to rent. Nu-uh. I hide the crack pipe in a delightfully whimsical tureen.

p.s. did anyone notices I get a lil hyperactive a few hours after donating blood?

One Response to “You want me in a crisis, pt 2”

  1. Jenn August 12, 2007 at 9:55 am #

    totally worth $10… You’re not taking off that $3.05 for the Rock are you?

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