Monday, July 12, 2004

Revenge is mine, spoke Kevin.

Some of you may recall one of the first entries when I told you the tale of my friend Kevin the slug.
I haven't seen Kevin since, but once in a while there are sightings of his marks telling me he has been around to say hello.

This is just too good for words.

One of my house mates, Steve, has turned into a right anal hypocritical anti-social semi-psychopathic knobjockey towards the end of the year. He is so grouchy he makes Emo and the Grinch look like the love child of Richard Simmons and Dale Carnegie. I seriously don't know what his problem is. He used to work for Lilly (the pharmaceutical company that invented Prozac) and he is pretty much the worst advertising they could get. I mean, if he worked there, he could have pinched some, because he sure as hell needs it more than I do.
He seriously got issues, cos he is of teutonic humor (meaning, he has none) and he has the constant urge to belittle others to feel better about himself. It's like an effin kindergarten sometimes, I tell ya.

I have kinda ignored him for the past months cos I was so sick of his behaviour. He is just constantly complaining. If he ever speaks to anyone, it is in complaint form.
And I really really really started disliking/disrespecting him when he started getting abusive to Ziggy and her sister. He takes absolute joy in scaring animals... I mean, what kind of loser tries to feel better about himself by scaring a cat?

Anyways, today Steve spoke to me on his own accord for the first time in weeks.
And yes, it was a complaint.
He opened the door to the lounge where I was watching "Encino Man" and sorting through my uni stuff, and said "We're having a fuckin slug problem in this house!"
You know, in Steve talk that translates as a command to me to ring the landlords. Which pisses me right off cos I am not his mother, and if there is a problem, he can ring them himself. I am right sick of being expected to take care of everything.
So I just looked at him and said "What am I supposed to do about it, Steve?"
He just looked at me a bit sheepishly and then said "Now I have to wash my clothes again!"
I didn't respond, and he closed the door, muttering to himself.

Later this evening, Dom (whom I had told about this) called me into the kitchen. "Seems like we do have a slug problem!", he said. "Steve's clothes are covered in slug trails!"
That's when I realised that the cool glittery design I had seen on Steve's undies, which were drying on the rack by the heater, was actually not meant to be there.
Kevin had been back alright, and he had done a thorough job.
Every single clothes item of Steve had slug trails on them, and not just a tiny spot here and there, but criss-crossed all over them, like modern art. (It is even funnier because it is only Steve's clothes that got them!) It looks really cool. Dude, I think Kevin should be hired by the fashion industry. He should have his own effin exhibition.

Well done Kevin! You go tell him! Tell it as it is, bro!
Steve got what he deserved, and he was told off by a slug. The irony of this is as sweet as nectar and ambrosia to me.

Today, I am very proud of my little slug friend.

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