Drop The Bomb Motherfuckah

Grrrrr!

Those fucking mugwomps in the Mines of Moria get me so dissolved that I can't stand it. I head uptown to 34th street and stomp through the incredibly windy mid morning to the huge post office across from Madison Square Garden. This fucker is huge. I mean the sonofabitch is big. I enter in and I'm greeted and taken care of with a speed that I never knew existed in the New York Civil Servant System.

Things must be becoming more efficient in the Big App....

I reach around in my pants pockets, no key. I put my money order down on a counter and go through my jacket pockets. No key. I shove my hands down my ass pants pockets. No key. Holy Shit, where did I put it? I rummage through my backpack. No key. Fuck, I need this. Where did I misplace that damned key? I head off back to the Way and uptown to the apartment. Now I wonder just how much fun this will be in replacing the damn thing. I get through the mantrap and head directly for the office. Inside is John, seated near the door.

"Hobobob," he says with his calm, slow voice. "Can I help you?"
Yeah John, I lost my key.
"Oh, you've got to go and see Slick O if you want a new one. Go see him."
I nod. Thanks John.
I head down the long hall and into the rear offices where Slick O is, but he is busy. It's the more jovial, and I say that sarcastically, Roberto that comes out. "What do you need?"
I lost my key.
"Lost it or locked it in the room?"
Lost it.
He waves over a maintenance man moping the hall. "Make him another key, please."
The Maintenance man tiredly puts the head of his mop in the bucket and walks down, back to the mantrap where the security office is. "What's your room number?" I tell him. He disappears into the office only to return with my key on a fob. "I'll be right back," he says and is gone out the front door.

Then, it dawns on me. I left my key at the security checkpoint in Social Services. So hurried was I to get through it, that I tossed my key into the tupperware container, just before you stroll through the walk-thru scanner and the wand. What they're supposed to do is hand you your shit back from the tupperware, no? Well, I guess you're not supposed to forget your shit in the tupperware either. Fuck, that's where it went. I knew that I wasn't crazy.

I wait patiently, pacing back and forth, and true this word, he returns with a copy of my key. "Now don't lose this one," he chides. You got it, I tell him, and head back to the elevator and up to my floor. I thought that it would be a true trial to get upstairs and into my room, but it was relatively easy.

It's the fucking ONLINE FORM that for the birds. I'm looking at the scattered paperwork that I've pieced together and this online form from Social Services and it looks like something out of a murder mystery. A fucking Whodunnit when it comes to terminating my assistance. Hmmm, let me go over this shit calmly now. The form is straightforward until I get to this section about a notice. It appears that I'm supposed to put information about a notice in this space here. The fucked up thing is that I haven't gotten a notice from Social Services.

That's cool. I'm early. One will be in the mail soon enough, right?

DEAD WRONG.

I check the paperwork that the fucking limp dicks gave me at the NOI and I find that there is a date that was not in dispute by WECare, but SS is disputing. Jan 14th. I was supposed to have received an appointment notice for January 14th and February 12th. I didn't for either days. So what makes me think I'm going to get this termination notice? HUH?

These dumb fucks are going to terminate me because they have an incorrect address somewhere in their stupid machine. One error by someone and I pay the price. FUCK!! The machine is too big for a defensive strike along it's flank, I've got to hit it with everything I've got right between it's thirty eyes. This hearing will be held at Boerum Place in Brooklyn. I'm heading there tomorrow after my exam to beat them off at the pass. They want me to see the judge. I'll just have to see him early.

Or call. I can also do this by phone. They might happen to have a joe blow there that is worth a damn on the other end. I can do it by morning, go see Doc A. Mid morning, go to my therapy that afternoon, and then out to dinner with the gang from my old job, Coudert Brothers, by evening.

Well, at least that's a better game plan than sitting in this room shitting all over myself.

It's time to go nuclear. It's time to press that big red button. It's time to drop the bomb.

HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2009/02/drop-bomb-motherfuckah.html
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