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Sep. 29th, 2005 08:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
which_chickI spent the better part of the workday today packing up Scott's apartment and storing his dark materials in the basement of that building in case he wants to claim his stuff at some undefined time in the future. I think it's pretty unlikely, but one never knows. The reason that I was packing up Scott's apartment was that Scott was supposed to go to jail on Monday and, therefore, would no longer be being a tenant. According to reports from other tenants in the building (Verna not only listens to the grapevine but also feeds it Miracle Gro), Scott failed to report for incarceration in a timely fashion and is now being sought by the authorities. I don't know why the tenants pay for cable... their own lives are just as interesting and cheaper.
In the exceedingly unlikely event that any of my Dear Readers are ever convicted of attempted involuntary deviate sexual intercourse, it's a good idea to spend some of the time between sentencing and the start of your jail term cleaning up your apartment and arranging for the storage of your stuff. If you don't, your landlord and/or his hirelings have to sort through and box up all your shit to get it the fuck out of the apartment. If you leave this task to them, they will have ample opportunities to shred what remains of your dignity. :)
Scott, while a worthless specimen of humanity, has been our tenant for a while, and he's been a reasonably non-annoying tenant. His mother pays his rent in a timely fashion. He gets food stamps, or at least the snazzy ATM-like card that people get nowadays instead of food stamps. He gets assorted types of public assistance but the powers that be are intelligent enough not to give Scott actual cash because I think even they know he'll blow it on demon rum or that succubus Vicodin or whatever the hell he takes these days. In his apartment, his social security number was all over the place. If I wanted to pretend to be him so that the college loan people and assorted collection agencies (he owes like a five hundred dollar phone bill, among other things) could come after me, I'd be all kinds of able to do that. No huhu at all, there.
Anyway, one of the interesting pieces of paper lying around the place was the Police Criminal Complaint thingie that they (apparently) mail to you when you've been arrested for something. Since our glorious newspaper does not cover these things, here are the (verbatim, though I did not use ALL CAPS like the official one did) details of the charge: On the appproximate above listed time and date the above mentioned def. did according to the victim grab the victim and drag the victim into the def. bedroom. once inside the def. bedroom the defendant pulled down his pants and grabbed the victim by his head and shove the victims head down towards the defendants penis. according to the victim he told the def. to stop that he did not like what he was doing. according to the victim the def. did not stop until the victim struggled and got away from him.
Well, that's enlightening, isn't it? For this, Scott was supposed to do six months in jail. Since he failed to report for jail, however, it's likely that he will wind up doing more jail for not going to jail when he was supposed to. Scott is making some very bad choices, here. The charge gets funnier (if attempted involuntary deviate sexual intercourse can ever be funny) when you realize that Scott's something like forty-four (he graduated from high school in 1979) and the victim (whose name and birthdate were on the paperwork) was fifteen. It's a piss-poor forty year old who can't overpower a fifteen year old for some involuntary cock-sucking. It's also a damn stupid person who wants unwilling teeth near his prick, but that's a whole other can of worms. What the fuck was he thinking?
Along with his massive collection of westerns (VHS tapes, the lot) and his huge selection of disco-era 45s (vinyl things called records, what held music before we got CDs and .mp3 format), I also cleaned up Scott's fairly minimal collection of porn, which was pretty damn sorry. Okay, it is pre-internet porn. Strike one. Since the advent of the internet, we have standards for porn. Porn should be better than real. This isn't. It's low-budget enough to not have photo retouching for butt zits and stuff. Computers, digital photography, and photoshop are now commonplace enough that everyone retouches porn so that it's better than real. The stuff from back when people didn't is now rather distracting to look at because OMG, butt zits! razor burn! Kind of spoils the mood. This porn is from before everyone who showed his privates to people for money underwent a substantial amount of pubic grooming. I have nothing against bears but I expect a certain amount of neatness from everyone, hirsute or otherwise. (Porn stars are granted a bye on pubic fur because a lot of them shave for general neatness and a healthier workplace environment. I don't undertake that level of pubic grooming, but I'm also not flashing my snatch for money.) Anyway, it's pretty pathetic fucking porn. I paged through it just the same because I'm the sort of girl who suffers for her art. (Please. Do not roll your eyes until we get to the money shot. Thank you.)
How pathetic is Scott's porn? It's this pathetic: "You are now immune to Martian cock-poison."
Page 15, October 1992 issue of HotShots
In the exceedingly unlikely event that any of my Dear Readers are ever convicted of attempted involuntary deviate sexual intercourse, it's a good idea to spend some of the time between sentencing and the start of your jail term cleaning up your apartment and arranging for the storage of your stuff. If you don't, your landlord and/or his hirelings have to sort through and box up all your shit to get it the fuck out of the apartment. If you leave this task to them, they will have ample opportunities to shred what remains of your dignity. :)
Scott, while a worthless specimen of humanity, has been our tenant for a while, and he's been a reasonably non-annoying tenant. His mother pays his rent in a timely fashion. He gets food stamps, or at least the snazzy ATM-like card that people get nowadays instead of food stamps. He gets assorted types of public assistance but the powers that be are intelligent enough not to give Scott actual cash because I think even they know he'll blow it on demon rum or that succubus Vicodin or whatever the hell he takes these days. In his apartment, his social security number was all over the place. If I wanted to pretend to be him so that the college loan people and assorted collection agencies (he owes like a five hundred dollar phone bill, among other things) could come after me, I'd be all kinds of able to do that. No huhu at all, there.
Anyway, one of the interesting pieces of paper lying around the place was the Police Criminal Complaint thingie that they (apparently) mail to you when you've been arrested for something. Since our glorious newspaper does not cover these things, here are the (verbatim, though I did not use ALL CAPS like the official one did) details of the charge: On the appproximate above listed time and date the above mentioned def. did according to the victim grab the victim and drag the victim into the def. bedroom. once inside the def. bedroom the defendant pulled down his pants and grabbed the victim by his head and shove the victims head down towards the defendants penis. according to the victim he told the def. to stop that he did not like what he was doing. according to the victim the def. did not stop until the victim struggled and got away from him.
Well, that's enlightening, isn't it? For this, Scott was supposed to do six months in jail. Since he failed to report for jail, however, it's likely that he will wind up doing more jail for not going to jail when he was supposed to. Scott is making some very bad choices, here. The charge gets funnier (if attempted involuntary deviate sexual intercourse can ever be funny) when you realize that Scott's something like forty-four (he graduated from high school in 1979) and the victim (whose name and birthdate were on the paperwork) was fifteen. It's a piss-poor forty year old who can't overpower a fifteen year old for some involuntary cock-sucking. It's also a damn stupid person who wants unwilling teeth near his prick, but that's a whole other can of worms. What the fuck was he thinking?
Along with his massive collection of westerns (VHS tapes, the lot) and his huge selection of disco-era 45s (vinyl things called records, what held music before we got CDs and .mp3 format), I also cleaned up Scott's fairly minimal collection of porn, which was pretty damn sorry. Okay, it is pre-internet porn. Strike one. Since the advent of the internet, we have standards for porn. Porn should be better than real. This isn't. It's low-budget enough to not have photo retouching for butt zits and stuff. Computers, digital photography, and photoshop are now commonplace enough that everyone retouches porn so that it's better than real. The stuff from back when people didn't is now rather distracting to look at because OMG, butt zits! razor burn! Kind of spoils the mood. This porn is from before everyone who showed his privates to people for money underwent a substantial amount of pubic grooming. I have nothing against bears but I expect a certain amount of neatness from everyone, hirsute or otherwise. (Porn stars are granted a bye on pubic fur because a lot of them shave for general neatness and a healthier workplace environment. I don't undertake that level of pubic grooming, but I'm also not flashing my snatch for money.) Anyway, it's pretty pathetic fucking porn. I paged through it just the same because I'm the sort of girl who suffers for her art. (Please. Do not roll your eyes until we get to the money shot. Thank you.)
How pathetic is Scott's porn? It's this pathetic: "You are now immune to Martian cock-poison."
Page 15, October 1992 issue of HotShots
