06 August, 2009

Northern Ireland invades!

There is nothing more aggravating than somebody thinking your house is a fucking tool shed of some sort. The Northern Irish chap staying with the landlady took the carriage house here to be the landlady's garage and thought that he could find the "rubbish bin" in here. Since I don't know any of this yet and he doesn't know that this is a residence, when he decides to walk right in it triggers my natural reaction to turn into this guy:

"Who the fuck are you coming into my goddamned house!?"
The difference being that I'm a lily-livered liberal so, after my initial question, I decided I needed to find out who this white-haired roly-poly with the indecipherable accent was so that a solution could be arrived at, whether it be telling him to get the fuck out of my yard or, well at the time I just wanted to tell him to get the fuck out of my yard. Naturally, because of the thickness of his North-Western European accent, the conversation devolves into the following format:
  1. Charlie asks new question.
  2. Roly-poly answers.
  3. Charlie says, "What?"
  4. Roly-poly answers.
  5. Charlie says, "What?"
  6. Roly-poly answers slowly.
  7. Charlie is satisfied with this answer.
  8. Repeat process.
After going through this process a few times, I gather that he's not some lost or homeless weirdo, he's one of the Protestants staying with the landlady. So OK, misunderstanding. The solution to your dilemma is simple, go through the gate and go around the house to the alley to find the trash can - sorry, "rubbish bin". No harm, no foul. By the way, welcome to the U.S., where if you look through a screen door and you see furniture arranged rather than stacked, that means it's a fucking living room, not somebody's garage. Also in the U.S., when you open the wrong door, expect to get an expletive-laced bark that would wake an elephant at 500 yards emitted from the six foot tall railroad tie with a buzz cut that just leapt from the couch to the door demanding to know your identity in under .2 seconds to make sure you get the point to absolutely not come the fuck in his goddamned house unless expressly told to do so. That's how the Yankees roll.
Full disclosure, though, I'm really a gigantic pussy but I make a good show of being intimidating. So, basically, I'm like one of those monarch butterflies. Emphasis on "butterfly".

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