ONLY IN AMERICA ……CAN WE SPEND BILLIONS BECAUSE WE CAN’T LET GM AND CHRYSLER GO BANKRUPT, AND THEN, LET GM and CHRYSLER GO BANKRUPT.

ONLY IN AMERICA …..CAN CONGRESS FORCE FANNIE AND FREDDIE TO BUY SUBPRIME LOANS, AND THEN BLAME FANNIE AND FREDDIE FOR BUYING SUBPRIME LOANS. THEN FIRE THE CEO’s WITH GIANT SEVERENCE PACKAGES AND NATIONALIZE THE COMPANIES SO THE TAX PAYERS CAN PAY OFF ALL THE DEBT!!

ONLY IN AMERICA …..DOES A FINANCIAL CRISIS REQUIRE SWIFT ACTION BY CONGRESS TO PASS A BILL WITHOUT READING IT, THEN THEY GO ON VACATION FOR THREE DAYS BEFORE THE PRESIDENT FINDS THE TIME TO SIGN IT.

ONLY IN AMERICA …..CAN YOU BE LEGALLY, ILLEGAL.

ONLY IN AMERICA …..CAN CONGRESS MAKE LAWS THAT THEY DON’T HAVE TO, OR INTEND TO, FOLLOW.

ONLY IN AMERICA ……DOES VICE PRESIDENT DECLARE ‘JOBS’ A 3 LETTER WORD.

ONLY IN AMERICA ….. CAN YOU GET A TAX REFUND FOR TAXES YOU DIDN’T PAY.

ONLY IN AMERICA ….. CAN POLITICIANS BLAME OTHERS FOR THEIR OWN FAILURES.

ONLY IN AMERICA ….. CAN YOU HAVE MORE RIGHTS BEING ILLEGAL, THAN YOU DO IF YOU’RE LEGAL

ONLY IN AMERICA ….. CAN YOU BE 13 AND HAVE AN ABORTION WITHOUT TELLING YOUR PARENTS, BUT YOU MUST HAVE A WRITTEN NOTE FROM YOUR PARENT EXPLAINING WHY YOU MISSED SCHOOL.

ONLY IN AMERICA …..DO WE WORRY ABOUT 3 GUYS THAT GET WATER UP THEIR NOSES, WHILE THEIR ASSOCIATES ARE BEHEADING CAPTIVES AND BLOWING UP CROWDS OF PEOPLE WITH SUICIDE BOMBERS.

ONLY IN AMERICA …..YOU CAN BE PRESIDENT WITHOUT HAVING A BIRTH CERTIFICATE.

ONLY IN AMERICA ….. WHATEVER GOES WRONG WILL ALWAYS BE PRESIDENT BUSH’S FAULT.

A novel

Chapter IV.

The transvestite and the clown.

Imagine a two bedroom two bath apartment, converted into a one bedroom one bath and a bachelor. The obvious reason for the split was of course, to collect more rent. The closet of the bachelor served as a kitchenette, furnished with a small refrigerator and a hot plate on top of it. It had an aging AC unit, just like the rest of the apartments. Oh, no ! You got me all wrong on this one. The apartments were in pristine condition ! The AC units were from the ’70′s and the old hack of the owner didn’t want to replace any of them. It would make the building look bad. They ALL had to be the same, otherwise, if he’d replace one, it would be an eyesore ! Replacing ALL of them at the same time, was out of the question. Anyway, the room was barely enough for one person. Imagine a clown and a transvestite living together in such close proximity.

The one bedroom, now “next door”, has been rented for a long time by an old lady, his son, and his girlfriend, all originary from the Balkans. The son was in his forties, and still living home with mommy. Old traditions are hard to break. You see, in the Balkan countries, children live at home with their parents until they either get married or get thrown out of the house. In some instances, they bring the spouse to their parent’s home to live there, like one big happy family. But not always. Fights frequently break out between the parties. After all, it’s all about saving a buck, for the newlyweds to start a family. That new family usually starts right away by popping a child within the first year of marriage, if it lasts that long. And there are a lot of bastards roaming around those places. Here in the US too, as 40% of the mothers are single mothers. There, it’s more like 60%, and I am being generous (on the lower side), when I am working with numbers. It’s all done in a fashionable, Eastern European way of doing things the wrong way, because there is no other way that they know of.

The old lady has been living in the States for 25 years; however her English language was reminding me to call my father and thank him for screaming at me every time I was getting bad grades.

She also swore that the guy across the hall in 202 was Indian, because she saw a poster of an Indian actor (dot, not feather) on his living room wall. The renter in 202 was just gay, with a fetish for Indian male actors. He was working as a professional masseuse around the West Hollywood gay community. Not that I’ve asked, but it was very obvious by his nasal voice, and by the fact that the bastard could cook.

Billy the clown, as it said on his application for rent, moved in when the closet became available (again) in June of 1995, available by very simple means. I had to evict a hard working guy who was running a Hollywood Touring and Maps to the Stars enterprise out of his beat up, repossessed twice in seven months, 1987 Ford Aerostar.  Every first of the month, like clockwork, since the day he took possession of the apartment, the entrepreneur  was knocking on my door to tell me that he does not have the rent money, but with the help of the Good Almighty from upstairs, he’ll pay in small installments. By the end of the sixth month, he still owed me eight weeks rent.

I never told him that “upstairs” lived a blonde chick with her musician boyfriend. She was good looking, he was a deadbeat, and none of them “almighty”. I had no idea what he was talking about.

Billy was 48 at the time, short and burly, clean cut, neatly dressed, with polished black shoes that looked three sizes too big, although they were not clown shoes. He was also working part time as a ticket salesman in the booth of a porn theatre on Hollywood Boulevard.

This fact probably impressed the 82 years old landlord, since he approved Billy’s application without too much fuss. I was fine with it, since I did not have to spend the weekends at home, waiting for applicants to show up.

Billy didn’t have a car, so he moved in on a Thursday, with the help of a friend. I didn’t ask what job the friend was holding at the moment, but judging by the beat up car he was driving and the not so clean attire, I’d rather not know.

Billy didn’t bring much stuff. At first, he didn’t even bring a bed. A bed, you know, to sleep on. That came a few weeks later.

I was standing on my balcony, watching the buffoon moving in a slow motion that would drive a turtle crazy. He was pulling out his vast belongings, composed of a big wooden box, a few suits and a few pairs of shoes, all three sizes too big for his feet. Again, not clown shoes. I didn’t know any other clowns at that time, other than my friends, so I thought that bigger shoes must be chic in Clown land.

It turned out that Billy was a quiet as a clown, at the beginning. Never one to complain. Except for a month into his stay, when he decided to flash some ubiquitous piece of undergarment down the toilet, hence the little flood that he involuntarily created.

Luckily, the Armenian plumber, who died of cancer a few months later, was only 10 minutes away and pulled the I-don’t-know-what-it-was from the debts of the crapper tunnel.

One torrid summer day, not that we have any other kind here in Los Angeles, I look out the dinning window and I see Billy. Billy wasn’t moving. He was standing, staring at an abandoned bicycle on the yellow patch of grass that constituted the division between the street and the safety of the sidewalk.

I didn’t know that Billy likes bikes, I thought to myself. Nor that he can fix them, since it was missing the chain and a pedal. His stare looked so determined as if he was onto something. Maybe he holds such a passion for bikes he collects them.

That’s when it hit me! You know how some people like to tweak and soup up their cars? Like those youngsters that buy Dodge Neon or Chevy Prism and turn them into blenders? You know what I’m talking about, right? I call them “blenders” because after they get converted, they sound like they are coughing shit.

Maybe Billy wants to pick up this broken bike and convert it into one of them clown bikes, the ones with one wheel!

Clown circus music started to sound in my head.

The microwave beep stopped me from staring at the starer.

I went to get my food and watch some TV while I eat.  It turned out that there was nothing good on all 14 stations. No cable TV for me. I was the proud administrator / manager of one pristine, 16 units building. That’s one apartment too short, for a manager to qualify for free cable. Who the fuck came up with that number? What the hell does number 17 represent to those assholes at the Cable Company? Life sucks.

I got bored of flipping channels and after I finished my meal, I took the dishes to the kitchen. On my way there, my eyesight focused out the window again. I almost dropped the dishes as I halted like a cartoon character while chased and hit by another violent cartoon character. Think Wiley Coyote.

Billy was still there, still in the same standing position, still staring with that same determination in his eyes, at the same broken abandoned bicycle. It must’ve been what? 10 or 15 minutes, right? The word “weird” came to mind as I decide to ask Billy what’s up.

“Hey, Billy! What’s up?” I said, as I can’t quite contain a smile. No reaction. I ask again. Nothing.

What a clown! I knew that only horses sleep standing, but it seems that some humans share this feat.

“YO! Billy! I scream again, louder this time, with my radio presenter’s voice. Slower than a leach, he turned his head, looked at me with droopy, bovine eyes and said:

“I was wondering, could I …

This is a fragment from the book I am working on. I am playing with the title, but I like “Memoires of an Apartment Manager.” Please let me know what you think. All critique is welcome. If you think it’s funny, would you pay $ 6,99 for it on paperback, or you’d rather wait for a used copy on Amazon and buy it for 99 cents plus $ 5,99 shipping and handling?

Contact: barosanescu@gmail.com

Or just drop me a line here, on this sublime blogspot.

Thank you for your support, you clowns !!!

Am ieshit de pe autostrada bine, dar in loc de stinga, am facut dreapta. Sun un prieten, nu raspunde. O fi deja acolo, zic eu. Sun alt prieten, raspunde. Fac un 180 ca in filme, si gasesc drumul bun. Daca stateam acasa, era mai bine.

11:20 ajungem. Tocmai la fix, loc de parcare. Bag o bucata de copil in carutz, celalalt in cîrca. Am ajuns exact in acelash timp cu prietenul pe care l-am sunat.

11:25. Cel din carutz, sforaie. Cel din cîrca, sforaie. Eu, ma chinui.

Romãnii veneau ca valu’. Incep sa filez.

Sumar :

Cel putzin 600 de romãni, printre care 15 tzigani cu tot cu 10 copii, care vorbeau tare si unul era shchiop.

Trei romãnce bune, dar daca se dezbracau cred ca ma scuzam frumos ( nevasta nu se pune ).

Multe blonde vopsite care au ramas inca in anii ’80 cu moda, una buna rau de tot, dar care cred ca se da virgina daca o intrebi unde se duce “dupã”, citziva prieteni cu care am rîs in timpul slujbei ( ca numai de glume se tzineau credincioshii ashtia ce sint ).

O gramada de babe shi moshi, o gramada de adolescente cu ochi sticloshi in cautare de aventuri nocturne. Babele shi moshii erau acolo din alte motive.

O tipa pe la 45+ cu tzîtze puse, sholduri late si inel in limba care incerca sa faca competitzie adolescentelor. Cind a luat pasca, i-a curs pe degete si a TREBUIT sa le linga. O fi fost un semnal ?

Un bou care a parcat Mercedesul jumate pe trotuar jumate in strada, ca se credea in Romania.

12:30 dimineatza. Dupa 100 de pupaturi si 300 la revederi, urc plozii in mashina in timp ce ma simt filat de foshtii concetatzeni si actuali cocalari.

1:10 ajung acasa si ma intreb:

Oare de ce am plecat ? Duios, iau sticla de whiskey si pe plaiuri Internetice am patinat…

So, now that I have all of YOUR undivided attention, I want to thank YOU all for writing a book about ME. It came to be the most read book in the history, and it is called, as YOU all know, The Bible. No YOU geek, not THAT Bible ! I’ll take that Windows Bible and slap you all the way into the Hell’s Gates ( not Bill ) and above, into the Eternal Pit of Sarlaac until you lie dead awake into Hell and Damnation !

I never read the damn thing because at MY old age, it blinds my eyes after a few pages. But I bet it’s better than fiction !

Now, some of YOU wrote another book, this being the second most read book in the whole 2000 and some years of YOUR pathetic history. It’s called The Qur’an.

I haven’t had time to check if a book about that fat guy, whatchama call it, Buddha was written, but I promise you that I will be back with a follow up.

All nice, YOU opinionated bastards ! I said to myself. So most of YOU cherish ME, some of YOU think that MY friend Mohamed here is better than ME, another group of YOU think that a fat guy is the way to go, and the Atheists all cry that I am all a big bull crap !

Make up your mind YOU SAPIENS! Which one of us is better ? Would YOU like to see a match between ME and Mohamed ? I can arrange that ! Oh, wouldn’t YOU like it ! Ha ha !

I was just having breakfast the other day with Mohamed, as we were talking over the latest Heavenly Daily Routines. We were both watching the latest CNN news on my newly acquired Heaven LTD, a 65″ LCD HDTV, and WE both noticed an advanced hatred among YOU, over problems that were never a concern to US.

A war in HIS name this time. That really means that I’ve become Number 2. A call to jihad, as I noticed on TV !
A HELL heated discussion started among both of US:

“Mohamed !” I said. “Do you see THOSE fools down there ? What in the wild, wild world of sports is going on ?”

“Don’t know,” said Mohamed gnawing on a piece of pork chop. “My take is that THEY got bored, THEY are jobless, or THEY are plain and simply stupid”.

“Well then ! It’s time for US to do something about THEM fools !” I answered angry, a piece of camel curry spitting out of my mouth, while a battle plan was forming in MY head. “Saint Augustin !” I called my humble servant, more curry dropping outta MY divine mouth. “Come bring the latest innovations in Thunder Striking, Bolt Lightning Catapults, Divine Influence Artillery and the latest in Holly Water Blasting !”

“No, no !” Mohamed said. “I have too many stocks in the Turban Oil Inc., in AK-47 Industries, and besides, THEY are too many. Let THEM fight it out, they are just kids after all”.

“Are you malade ?” I asked increduously in half French. “This is no Cowboys and Indians ( feather, not dot ) game ! This is about to blow outta proportions ! Look at the ASSirians. They want a nucular bomb in their hands by yesterday NOW !”

“Neah”. Mohamed answered prophetically while wiping his forehead from too much perspiration. Pork vindaloo does that to you sometimes. “They’ll come to their senses once you, dear GOD, release the new and improved version of “Gimme, gimme, gimme all your money, for the Church is such a honey”, and I release the latest “Ishketebake na himia, eta haftana haftana hushky” version of MY prophetic rhimes.”

“Tempting. Very tempting…” I said.

A visionary, this Mohamed, as YOU’ve noticed.

Stay tuned for part troix. OK, TROIS. GOD DAMMED FRENCH ! Can’t do ANYTHING right !

The other day, someone compared me to Santa. We both have long white beard, we both have helpers, and no one ever saw us.

Firstly, let me tell ya, I personally know Santa, and he’s nothing like me. He’s a cheap drunk ( hence the red nose ), living on The Tormented Alley, behind Devil’s Bistro, therefor he is null and void.

I, on the other hand, am the exact opposite. There is no room for comparison between the two of us, as you will soon see, proof that I am as real as Pamela Anderson’s boobs.

How shall I start ? With the beginning, of course.

Well, here I am one day, in the middle of NOWHERE, bored to death. No wife to bitch at me, no cars to drive anywhere, no HDTV to watch some UFC, zilch, nada. So I came up with this great idea ! To create a species who looks like me, so I won’t be so lonely.

My next stop was at The Big Bang University. There, I invented chemistry, all by MYSELF. I mixed in some hydrogen, oxygen, added some helium to the mix, slapped them all in a bowl, set them into MY second invention ( the acceleration tunnel ), and BOOM ! An explosion so vast was created, I shit MY pants ! I almost called the firefighters but I remembered that I would not invent them for another few million years.

After the explosion I went to one of MY favorite planets, which you called Terra. Nice name, by the way. Thanks for not screwing that one up !

There, I played some more. I created something absurd ( you called them dinosaurs ), I called them nothing, because I forgot the rule – they have to look like me. I called in for The Ice Age and killed them all bastards. You found them, didn’t you ? Of course, you had to dig into the past, just like a nagging woman crying that you are no good for nothin’.

After the dinosaurs, I finally came up with something better, but not quite. You called them Neanderthals and I left it at that. They were OK, but not good enough to acknowledge ME as their FATHER. They were plain dumb. Oh yea ? Seen that commercial lately ? “It’s so easy, a caveman can do it !” Well, it’s not true, trust me on this one.

After I killed the Neanderthals, I finally came to the realization that I am making one big mistake: I am not giving enough brain power to MY subjects, not big enough to make ME proud. Stupid ME, blame it on the Intelligent design.

As my final stage, I created YOU, the Homo Sapiens. I called my first prototype Adam, broke his rib and created his whore, Eve. Why whore ? The tramp could not listen too well, she absolutely had to bite from the Apple of Knowledge.

I had them multiply by the thousands ( if you can believe that ). That is one reason why most of you, sapiens, are imbeciles, cretins, morons. It’s called genes, and inbreeding is not so good, huh ?

I don’t know who came up with the idea that I had a son with some chick in Jerusalem called Jesus. The story is that I had him sacrificed for YOU. Are you mad ? Which INTELLIGENT parent sacrifices his child ?

Anyway, I had fun for a while. I had these creatures fight in MY name, kill in MY name, torture in MY name. I was not bored anymore. On Sundays, when I was off work, I had them pray to me. Life was good.

One day, in the mid 1850′s, this dude, Charles Darwin had to spoil it for me. He invented The Evolution Theory. Down the drain all my work went, as an increasing number of sapiens invented a new church – The No Church of Atheists. I promise YOU, I took good care of Mr. Darwin – I send him straight to MY brothers’, a place called Lucifer’s Hot Steam and Spa.

So you see how things are now, YOU puny insects ? Do you believe ME now ?

Back to the future. 1976.

Eram în clasa a III-a cînd mama m-a dus la biserica unde bunicul facea… ce fac bunicii la bisericã.
Imi aduc aminte cã aveam ca temã de scris tabla inmulţirii. De zece ori fiecare tablã, cã eu in clasa a III-a nu aveam calculator, nu aveam nici mãcar compasul acela din video clip ( cel din 100 B.C. ), compas cu care grecii mãsurau distanţele între planete, acum 2000 de ani.

In timp ce ascultam ce predica individul, eu, copil la 9 ani, ce m-am gîndit ?

” Dacã ar exista un Dumnezeu, oare nu vroia sã stau acasã sã imi fac lecţiile, în loc sã ascult la ce spune un necunoscut ? “