2.12. Since I Lost My Baby

Just teasing with that title, folks. Balki and I didn't lose ANOTHER baby this week. At least, not as far as I know. The title refers to our attempts to reunite a lovesick Mr. Twinkacetti with his wife, which he definitely did not deserve.

We were opening shop for the day at the Ritz, and before I had the "OPEN" sign flipped around Balki was already annoying the shit out of me. I was trying mightily to be the bigger man and ignore him, when we heard rattling around in Twinkie's office. A burglar! It had to be! I grabbed a baseball bat by the front door, crouched into an extra-lethal ninja pose and stalked toward the office. I handed Balki a sheet, and all black-ops style silently instructed him to throw it over the intruder's head so I could beat him to death with my bat.

It would be our first murder. 

We closed in on the office and took positions on either side of the door. I raised my bat. Balki raised his sheet. The office door opened, and Mr. Twinkacetti stumbled out in pajamas. Balki threw the sheet over his head and Twinkie just stood there letting whatever was happening play out (the man really does have the patience of a saint).

Although he owns the store and is almost always there before Balki and I decide to wander in, we never considered it might be Twinkie. I thought about bashing his head in anyway; I'd been storing up bloodlust since Balki arrived and I finally had an outlet for it. But Balki set him free.

 Apparently he's been sleeping in the office because he forgot his anniversary for the sixteenth year in a row, and Mrs. Twinkacetti got sick of his bullshit and threw his ass out. Speak of the devil, she strolled in right at that moment, and Balki immediately wished her a happy anniversary in front of the old man - which I thought was downright diabolical. Balki is at his absolute worst and most vicious around Twinkie, and I kind of love it. 

So Mrs. T demanded a divorce right in front of us, running through a litany of offenses from gambling to wild nights out with the boys, and then smirked and told him the magic is gone. She waved her fancy chinchilla scarf in his face and stormed off, leaving Twinkie miserable and contemplating suicide - so I told him to go screw basically, and Balki invited him into our home. 

Clearly Balki and I were not on the same page with the whole "take Twinkacetti in, or hope he dies alone" debate; so I pulled him aside for a quick sidebar while Twinkie looked on, all vulnerable and lost puppy dog at Balki's offer, which I found disgusting. 

I told Balki I drew the line at letting Twinkie sleep under my roof and Balki told me I had to break the news to him then. This was, of course, much more difficult to do since Balki put the offer on the table without consulting me, but que sera sera, right? I approached the shell of a man who we rely on for money and shelter, and tried to let him down easy - but he broke down into a sobbing puddle, and I broke, God help me. Twinkacetti would be living with us until he figured his own shit out. 

Later that evening, Balki and I were speculating on what kind of wild hijinks might be in store for us with Twinkie living here, when he burst in all fidgety and weird with a sixpack, calling us "great guy pals." He basically said he was done with Mrs. T, and down to party. I tried to tell Balki we should just leave him alone for a couple of days and he and Edwina would figure it out, but Balki insisted on prying deep into the man's psyche until he could break him. Twinkie had no interest; he just wanted to watch porno on our TV. Together. With beers.

But Balki wouldn't let up. He hammered away at Twinkie with themes of loneliness and misery until the guy collapsed again, and committed to getting Edwina back - even if it took months - then stormed off to my bedroom to cry himself to sleep. I committed to saving the Twinkacettis marriage then and there, just to get rid of him; but as you all know, I don't have a lot of luck chasing off unwanted houseguests. The next morning we called Edwina while Twinkie was doing God-knows-what in my bedroom, and we basically lied to her until she agreed to see him for five minutes. Twinkie emerged from my room looking like garbage. He declared that he had read my diary, and that I'm "a sick man." So yeah fair enough, probably, I'm busted there. I assume he's talking about this journal, but it's also possible he found the secret one.

Anyway, Balki told him we'd bought him five minutes with Mrs. T. Twinkie started making a master plan to take her to a rib joint so she could watch him eat, and we weren't having that. We decided to playact the Twinkacettis' reunion at Tony's Mambo Room for him, so he could see how it's done. As the best actor in the house I would, of course, play Mrs. Twinkacetti. I slipped effortlessly into character, softening my features and draping a shawl around my neck. Balki launched into a surprisingly charming soliloquy about my beauty, and the performance was so raw and real that Twinkie got uncomfortable and tried to leave. But we wouldn't let him; we were pretty dialed into the scene by then, and he was going to sit and watch Goddammit. 

We went pretty deep with it. Balki seduced me expertly; I have to admit I was caught up in the moment. 

"Take me," I heaved, and was kind of willing to just see what happened next. Balki finally broke character - I think my performance creeped out even him. Excuse me, my phone's ringing. It's the Academy. Thanks but no thanks. The Oscars are too commercial, jokers.

Twinkie confessed that he could never pull off that kind of heat. This is true, but then he started whining that he would just live with us forever, and Balki and I both kind of panicked. Realistically I would think after a week or two, if things weren't playing out he'd just get his own place. But in the moment it seemed real. We spent the rest of the day prepping him.

---

Cut to Tony's. We were both counseling Mr. Twinkacetti, who was a nervous wreck. I was telling him to just play it cool and smooth, just talk his way back in no matter what it took; but Balki told him he had to actually commit to change, and be willing to be a better husband. Twinkie went with the sweet talk, because I am always right and everyone else can go to Hell, forever. 

Edwina showed up, and her body language was screaming "not a chance." He launched into the smooth lines about her eyes that I fed him, but she wouldn't even let him start. 

I'm not counting this as a loss in my column because he never got to drop the winning pickup line that I had cooked up. She wanted him to shoot straight with her about why she should give him another chance. Twinkacetti went on to bury himself pretty deep by describing a date he had at Tony's with some other woman that he cheated on her with while they were engaged. I actually really do think she should divorce him and take all his money. Twinkie ran back to where we were hiding to regroup, and she busted him and stormed away. 

So Twinkie went to walk it off, and said we didn't have to wait up because he made a key. I actually think he's forgotten that he is our landlord.

The next morning we checked into work and discovered the Twinkacettis in his office, fresh off an all night bone-sesh. Turns out he remembered how he'd won her over in the first place, and used the manipulative power of that memory to bait her back to his office.

He told us to take the day off and we were surprised, because usually we just do that anyway without getting his approval or even telling him. 

The Twinkacettis went back into his office to pound some more, leaving Balki and I with a day off to think about how we really need to move and get new jobs.

2.11. A Christmas Story.

Sorry I didn't make it home for the holidays this year, everyone. The weather conspired against me. I was really hoping to make it, and that you'd all get to meet Balki; if for no other reason to prove that he is, in fact, real. Believe me, I was hella depressed about it. Here's what happened:

It was Christmas Eve. A disparate group of people were gathered around a banquet table in the Ritz singing the Twelve Days of Christmas, which Balki ruined by pretending to not know the words. Mrs. Twinkacetti was leading the chorus, but Mr. Twinkacetti refused to participate.

This makes some amount of sense; since most of the attendees at the Ritz Christmas Party were the same renters who - just a week ago - he had tried to freeze to death after they refused to pay rent, and eventually blackmailed him by putting his life on the line with the mob. I think we all understood why he wasn't exactly in the mood, but good for him for putting on a nice suit and tie and attending the party. Twinkie tossed everyone's asses out the second the song ended, then got in a really traumatic fight with his entire family that ended with him chasing his children out into a busy street. Mrs. Twinkacetti took the opportunity to slip Balki and I the Christmas bonuses we supposedly earned for being great employees (God, she's out of the loop) and headed for the door, leaving Balki and I with unexpected cash. Mine looked like about seven dollars.

I barely even cared though, because I was so excited to get back to Madison for Christmas that I couldn't really think of anything else. I've had a rough year, to say the least. Roughly 100 percent of everything that has gone wrong in my life can be attributed to Balki; beginning with his first day in Chicago when he almost got me fired and put me at odds with my employer/landlord for time eternal. On the plus side, I seem to be slithering a little closer each week to something like a relationship with Jennifer Lyons, who I never would have met without Balki's Boner-Compass steering him into the gym where she worked; so I can't say it has all been bad. 

But no matter what the circumstances, I really need this trip. Christmas in Wisconsin is just what you think it is. Apple cider cooking on the fireplace. the whole family standing around the piano signing carols. And me, festooned in a festive sweater and drunk on eggnog, talking shit about Balki while he's definitely in earshot. 

Probably.

Right, Balki was planning to come with me. I don't have a clear concept of how they celebrate Christmas in his Godless, stick-fighting sheep-loving homeland at all - Balki's sense of religion seems to be a confused mishmash of outdated superstitions and Madonna lyrics. So whether he cared about the American version or not was unclear; but I sure as hell wasn't leaving him alone in the apartment. At least all of you at home would finally see what I've been living with first hand.

So anyway, we cleaned up the store and headed upstairs. We were packing our shit and enjoying cocoa in the apartment, feeling festive as all getout, when the snow began to fall. Yes, that is foreshadowing. It was in this overdose of holiday merriment that I decided to confide in Balki why I was so excited to get back to Madison for Christmas: as always, there's more to it than just visiting with family and enjoying the spirit of the season. See, there was something special about this Christmas in particular.

This is Larry's year.

As you may have noticed, there's a pretty consistent thread of competition for dominance in the Appleton blood, and as one of nine children I really get off on any opportunity to have the spotlight on me. This year I was going to be the Christmas Boy, which means I get to hand out the presents. We each take turns, so my chance won't come around again until 1995 - and I'll surely be dead by Balki's hand long before that. So yeah, 1986 is a Big Christmas.

Balki confirmed that Christmas is at least some kind of thing on Mypos, but it's... different there. They eat Baklava instead of pork pie, and instead of setting up a Christmas tree they capture a sea turtle and torture it for 24 hours. I am not making this up. But he was sad about it and I feel bad for anyone who's going to miss their family on Christmas, so I offered him expert comfort. We were in full-blown, heart to heart best friends zone, so you just know that disaster was looming. Just then Jennifer and Mary Anne showed up to say goodbye - they were going skiing together for Christmas, and spoke really forebodingly about the gathering snow that Balki and I continued to ignore as a potential travel problem.

Here's how badass I am - I physically blocked them from leaving the apartment and pointed out that we were all standing under the mistletoe. Everyone got all bashful and shit, but I had this planned out. I kissed Mary Anne first - on the mouth, right in front of Jennifer and Balki - then pounced on Jennifer like a spider monkey and we made out HARD. This answers the question you've all been asking, my faithful readers: yes, I've finally broken through Jennifer's icy exterior and am now porking her on the reg. 

So I sent Balki in to follow my lead and kiss both of them (oh, right, we're all perverts, I might not have mentioned that), and he kissed Jennifer on the cheek but she was still literally shaking from the release. Then Mary Anne grabbed him, threw him violently down and jammed her tongue down his throat. Then they both ran away. These girls are freaks. Balki asked how I made that happen, but the answer is obvious: I'm a million feet tall! Nothing's gonna stop me now!

Everything in my life was going perfectly for once. I couldn't be stopped. I called the airline to make sure our flight was on time, and discovered that the airport was snowed in. Of course it was. We were stuck in Chicago. 

I refused to buy it though; I'VE BEEN WAITING NINE YEARS TO BE THE CHRISTMAS BOY. Balki and I started plowing through bus companies, looking for the next chance of scoring two seats to Madison. I learned that what was happening outside our window was in fact a blizzard and the roads were closed. I probably should have been putting in the absolute bare minimum effort to monitor the weather over the past week. Usually the media outlets go out of their way to give you a heads-up that a blizzard is coming on one of the biggest travel days of the year. 

But there hadn't been time! I'd been planning that mistletoe mauling for WEEKS! 

I still wasn't giving up. I'M THE CHRISTMAS BOY! Let's be honest here folks, it's the only reason I was bothering to go home! Balki suggested we just take the 'Stang, which I think was meant in jest but I was willing to try anything. We piled our stuff in the car and headed for the highway.

We didn't make it far.

I benched the 'Stang on the sidewalk within a few feet of our apartment. Balki, who had given up on our fruitless mission hours before, was way ahead of me emotionally. He launched into a new effort to bring Christmas back to the apartment with us, and try to make the best of a bad situation. We walked over to the Christmas Tree lot, and he knocked on the door of the crappy half-trailer where you would normally pay for your tree. To our surprise, a man emerged. He said that he was out of trees, and we'd interrupted his dinner. 

HOW FUCKING SAD IS THAT? He LIVES there? And his old lady started hassling him for leaving the door open. The checkout trailer is the home he's provided for his family! Is there even heat in there? Is this the same as being homeless? We need to have a serious conversation about the way we treat tree dealers in this country. So the guy said he didn't have any trees for sale, and Balki found a dead one in a dumpster that he talked the guy into giving us for free. 

I know that while you're reading this Balki sounds downright heroic, and in retrospect he probably was; but the last thing that someone wants when they're in a depressive funk is a relentlessly positive person in their face trying to solve all their problems. I stormed off to clear my head and sulk.

---

When I got back to the apartment, Balki had done a surprisingly decent job decorating it. There was a roaring fire in the fireplace, and a nice sign and garland draped over the foyer, and he'd done his best with the tree. I have to admit, the Turnip has come a long way since "Happy birthday Cousin Lary." I went to put my coat in the closet and he pounced out of it wearing a Santa suit and started screaming that he's Balki Claus in my face. 

Naturally, I asked him where he got a Santa suit and all of the decorations on Christmas Eve in a blizzard; and naturally, he stole it all from the Ritz without thinking twice. 

I was way down in the dumps, but Balki refused to give up on me. He had scoured the streets of Chicago until he found a Jewish food store and bought a bunch of food, and offered to do whatever I wanted that reminds me of Madison. I told him all I wanted was to be left alone.

And that's when Balki turned on me.

He slowly pulled his Santa hat down, and told me that now I was "making Balki mad." He'd spent all day trying to make a nice Christmas for me, and I was being a brat about it. Fair enough. He started whining about all the weird shit he was missing on Mypos right now, and how I had told him he needs to adjust to changes in his life and move on, and I could take my own advice. 

He's come a long way from "what the matter with you is?"

Balki suggested we open presents, and I told him we always open presents Christmas morning. That's when our other roommate, "good old physical violence and intimidation" finally showed up for the party. Balki grabbed me by the throat and told me he was making the rules. Whatever happened to "we can do whatever you're used to doing in Madison" from a couple seconds ago?

I fearfully acquiesced, and Balki showed me mercy. He let me be the Christmas boy, so I handed out our presents. I gave Balki a sweet boombox, complete with a Wayne Newton tape. He gave me a really impressive, hand made ornate blanket.

Apparently he's been working on it for me all year. He has stitched and sewed away at this blanket for an hour every night after I go to sleep, since the day he moved here. 

Hold on a sec. Got something in my eye.

The gift had reminded me of something super nice I did one time. When I was a kid I decided buying presents for my mom wasn't enough, so I made her a potholder that she went nuts over. I had thought at the time that it was pretty shoddy craftsmanship but my mom said it was the best gift she ever got. So yeah, I get it Balki, we're both really thoughtful guys.

I finally understood why the gift had been such a big deal to my mom - it was a gift from the heart, not from a store. I told Balki that the blanket was the nicest present anyone had ever given me. I felt the Christmas feeling surge through my heart. The Christmas lights on Balki's fire hazard of a tree came on, powered by the pure electricity of my holiday spirit/unrelenting machismo. Balki and I hugged as a chorus of children collected outside our window to sing Christmas carols (through the blizzard) and all was right with the world. Merry Christmas from Larry and Balki, everyone. 

Quick recap: I'm totally porking Jennifer.

2.10. The Rent Strike.

Heroes never get the credit they deserve. It's part of what makes them heroes. In my 24 years of life I've learned a sad and universal truth; the guy who does all the hard and thoughtful work behind the scenes gets the pleasure of knowing he did the right thing, and the guy who waits until the 11th hour then makes a bunch of noise and screams and shouts the loudest gets laid. I saved everyone in our apartment building from freezing to death this week, and Balki scooped up all the credit once it became advantageous for him to do so. 

Rewind a few days. I started the morning on the wrong side of the bed. 

I had cut myself shaving a dangerous number of times; Our slumlord, Mr. Twinkacetti, has been ignoring my pleas to repair the hot water heater. As a result, I lost all control of my razor and buried it into my skin more than a dozen times. For you young readers and womenfolk out there, it's IMPOSSIBLE to shave without constantly cutting yourself open if the water isn't scalding hot. It's science. I went off to Balki about how Twinkacetti has been ignoring problems with the building, even ones that I put in writing.

That's when he decided to tell me the sink doesn't work. I have no idea how long this has been the case. It wasn't draining, so I told him to flick on the garbage disposal. Balki launched into a series of hems and haws and buts, until I just demanded he turn it on; my reward for taking charge of the situation was dirty sink water shooting up into my face and seeping into my lacerations. Hey Balki, how about next time instead of the sound effects you just say "It doesn't work?" We all loved Police Academy but a guy who speaks in beeps and boops in Larry Appleton's Chicago gets his head caved in. 

So our apartment is falling all to shit, and it's Twinkacetti's fault. Balki got out a toolkit and set about to fix the sink, and that's when I found out he's been quietly fixing things around the apartment for weeks because Twinkie won't bother. Balki is of the opinion that he pays rent for the privilege of sleeping inside and without livestock, and if there's something broken in the apartment that he knows how to fix he might as well just fix it instead of dragging Twinkie up here every time.

What an asshole.

The doorbell rings, and Jennifer enters in nothing but a towel. Balki gets all creepy and horny, like enough where I think Jennifer would feel a responsibility to report it back to Mary Anne if she and Balki are still a thing. It appears Jennifer's shower is broken again so WAIT A MINUTE JENNIFER LIVES IN THIS BUILDING? SINCE WHEN? We first met her a few months ago when she tricked Balki into joining the gym she worked for; did she move in the building after that? Has she been here all along? How big is this building? Is there a world outside of it? Is this purgatory? 

So I point Jennifer toward the bathroom but I tell her we only have cold water, and she gets all pissed off and worked up, which gets me all pissed off and worked up. I launch into another classic Larry For President motivational speech: "we can ban together! If enough people want to change something, they can! We stopped the war! We got women the vote! We came that close to getting daylight savings time all year round!" I have to say that life with Balki has dramatically improved my oratory and plan making skills. I need to come into every situation life throws at me these days prepared to bargain for my life. Keeps me fresh.

Balki, who has clearly lived under some oppressive circumstances in his third world upbringing, warns me that Twinkacetti is a landowner and as lowly peasants, we have no power. I tell him we live in a Democracy, and make a plan to get the tenants together to compile a list of complaints. I can feel the heat coming off Jennifer; women can't resist medium sized, curly-haired men of power when they're on a mission. If Balki wasn't here I guarantee that towel would have dropped right on the living room floor and Cousin Larry would've gone jackrabbit wild on a whole mess of blonde until the building caught on fire.

Later that day I'd collected the tenants in a creepy basement room of the building where Twinkacetti wouldn't find us. We're in a large, four story apartment building with at least thirty apartments by the look of it, but only a dozen people showed up to my organizing party. Two of them were Balki and me, two were Jennifer and Mary Anne, and one was Susan, who even I had forgotten about. This wasn't a good start. We plowed through a list of complaints - holes in ceilings, tilted floors, and so on - all of which have been completely ignored by Mr. Twinkacetti. Within seconds, the group had unanimously elected me their leader, and I was a little reluctant (I'm already basically getting away with murder as Twinkacetti's employee, maybe not a good idea to rock the boat here) until Susan and Jennifer started eye-screwing me and telling me what a natural leader I am. 

I stood - and was it just me, or was I four inches taller, all of a sudden? - and declared that I would be the leader. I would type a letter to Twinkie and send it to him. And as I described the contents of the letter I discovered that Twinkacetti had sniffed out our little Union rally and came down to break it up. So I had no choice but to sack up and tell him we had grievances. After a brief, failed attempt to lie his way out of the jam he's in, Twinkacetti lost his shit and called us ingrates. He tore up our list of grievances, laughing like some kind of cartoon villain. 

Things escalated rapidly. The tenants charged to kill him, with hate and malice in their eyes. I chilled everyone out while Twinkie hid behind me. No one murders anyone in this building, unless that victim is Balki Bartokomous and that murderer is Larry Appleton - and Larry Appleton alone. 

Here's how Balki "helped" - he gave the crowd a history lesson on the Boston Tea Party and asked what it would mean if we decided to stop paying rent until our demands are met. I answered his question, telling him it's called a "rent strike" and Balki declared that COUSIN LARRY is calling a rent strike. See that move? He put it entirely on me. Our mobbed up landlord and employer threatened me personally while everyone else started partying.

Balki is such an evil, manipulative little shit I can't even stand it. He tricked me into taking ownership over all of this, made me Twinkie's sole target, and went on to dance around like the emptyheaded idiot he is with the other tenants, while I was left to wonder which one of Twinkie's nephews would come looking for me with a tire iron later that night. Screw you, Balki.

Needless to say, Twinkacetti cut off the heat, water and electricity seconds later. Considering the rent strike was only a few hours old and no one had missed any payments yet, this seems a little premature; but what do you expect, based on everything he knows about us he has no reason to believe we'll just come to our senses on our own. The next morning Balki and I sat shivering (I couldn't help but appreciate how impressively well lit the living room was in the predawn hours, without any electricity), while Balki cooked an egg over a candle. I hope he gets salmonella. I complained about how dirty Twinkacetti was playing this. Balki, meanwhile, didn't really give a shit about the conditions because his life in Mypos was apparently a series of one miserable poverty stricken hardship after another. So great, he caused all of this, and he is the only one not suffering. 

That is actually the perfect inscription for Balki's headstone someday. 

Balki and I stormed into the Ritz - where I honestly don't know if we work anymore or not - to confront Twinkacetti. There was a fresh pot of coffee on, and Twinkie charged me ten dollars for a cup; which I gladly paid. Then I told him off pretty hard and said we weren't giving in until he fixed the whole list. Needless to say this is a complicated and dangerous field to play on: Twinkie and I are both saying things to each other that we can't ever take back, and somehow "you're fired" never becomes one of them. Did we check in for work after? I honestly don't know anymore.  What I did though - gangster move - is I used my keys to the Ritz to let all of the tenants in and sleep on the floor that night so they wouldn't freeze to death. 

---

The next morning I was busily plowing through Twinkie's coffee when he showed up early and caught us all hiding in a tent in the store. This is trespassing, which he was impressively cool about. He was probably breaking the law too, freezing us out like that in the dead of winter, so we're all sort of in this soupy melange of criminal behavior together, I guess. He surprised us all by apologizing, which I was hella suspicious about. Twinkie said he'd make a few repairs if we paid the rent today, just as his bookie called and told Balki that if Twinkie didn't pay up he would literally take him out on a boat and murder him.

Gotcha.

So it comes as no surprise that Twinkie has overextended himself gambling with the mob, and  he needed money within hours or his kids would grow up without a father. We finally had some leverage on him to get our shit fixed, so we told him our most pressing demands and he agreed to them. This was enough for most of us, but now that Balki had the old man by his short hairs he immediately became drunk with power and decided to bleed him out for everything he has. 

We've seen this behavior out of Balki before. He plays all sweet and innocent until he has a chance to put the screws to Twinkacetti, and then he burrows into the little porker like a groundhog on methamphetamines. He plowed through the whole list, making Twinkie agree to each demand one at a time. He actually threatened to call the bookie back and tell him to kill him. Is that conspiracy to commit murder, or just criminal threatening? Has anyone even been keeping track of the number of felonies stacking up this week?

Literally everyone in the building was happy, but not Balki. He started making exorbitant demands as the rest of our neighbors just kind of wandered away.

Now Balki was despondent. When we returned to our apartment he sat inside the fireplace and moped and whined that he had made a fool of himself, just begging for me to validate him and shower him with positive attention, and I actually don't even know why this time. He said we'd lost because we didn't get everything on the list. Remember, two days ago Balki was happy to fix little things around the apartment himself. Now he's all butthurt because he couldn't coerce Twinkie into remodeling the rec room. So was he manipulating me to do his dirty work all along, or is he just this susceptible to mob fever? Either way, I told him this is how negotiating works and he did a good job, and then since he doesn't view me as a person with feelings he rubbed in how he got more out of Twinkie than I did. Just then Mary Anne showed up and backed up Balki's assertion that this was all his doing and I had nothing to do with it, and said "you've got guts. I like that in a refugee."

WHAT THE HOLY HELL DOES THAT MEAN?

She invited him up to her place for "breakfast," and they took off without saying goodbye. 

I wonder what work is going to be like today. 

2.9. Two Men and a Cradle.

Whooooa boy. Balki and I screwed up big time this week. The stakes keep getting higher in the Windy City, and lives continue to hang in the balance of Balki's increasingly reckless behavior. Last week our lives were at risk; this week we've moved on putting innocent children in mortal peril. We're tap dancing on the razor's edge, dear readers, and it's only a matter of time before we fall into the abyss.

This is a shorter entry, because basically only one thing happened this week; we left an infant in the park to fend for himself. I'll give you two guesses whose fault this is, and I'll even give you a hint: He's from Mypos, and dresses like he's playing one of the Lost Boys in the dinner theater performance of Peter Pan in a Greek insane asylum.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Deep breaths, Cousin Larry. 

So.

For the first time since I started writing this journal (or as I'm sure it will be referred to in the future, "Prosecution Evidence, Item #1") one of the countless victims of Balki and my misadventures came back for seconds. Remember Gina, the perfect stranger with the suspiciously unreliable "Italian" accent who Balki took into our apartment, and who eventually gave birth in the backseat of the 'Stang (that's where babies are supposed to be MADE, lady)? She showed up at the Ritz during one of the rare and fleeting moments Balki checked in for work, asking if he would babysit that very baby, Frankie, this weekend. He said yes without even thinking about running it past me, as is his custom. 

This agreement was worked out seconds before I sauntered in, rocking my rebel brown leather jacket and a longer haircut than usual. Translation: it's the 80s, baby, and I'm the center of the Goddamn universe.

I barely had time to say hello to Gina before she started whining about how she never gets laid anymore; I'm noticing that most of the people I know don't understand how to have conversations like human beings. "How are you, Larry," followed by some warm-up chit chat is typically the format, Gina. Anyway she and Balki launched into this half-assed, probably rehearsed back and forth about how Gina and her husband, Steve, could use a weekend away from the baby so they can pound for a couple nights, and tried to backdoor me into volunteering to babysit.

Well you can call me Bloodhound Larry, cause I'm sniffing out mischief by the hour these days. I saw where they were steering me immediately, and made Balki just be honest with me for one time in his life. He said he thought it would be nice if we babysat Frankie sometime and I was like "of course we can, we're nice people, how about we plan it out around our mutual schedules so it's fair to everyone," and Balki said "how about now" and Gina sprinted for the door.

So now we had a baby at work with us, since we literally cannot put in one single shift without pulling some crap like this. Twinkacetti came in and saw us babysitting while he was paying us to work in his store, and had a look on his face like he was convinced we kidnapped a kid, then just basically said "I don't want to know," and went away.

Twinkacetti. What a jerk, right?

Later on at home, Balki was acting like a stressed out housewife because he's doing laundry and making a bottle at the same time. I'd refused to help him since he lied through his teeth and manipulated me into babysitting, but he parked the kid in front of me long enough for the little rugrat to win me over and make me Balki's accomplice.

Hey, get this; apparently they don't have disposable diapers in Mypos, and Balki doesn't know what they are; so he's been washing them in the community laundry down in the basement. I should get some kind of word out to the super that at least one laundry machine must be either broken or filthy with shredded plastic and baby shit. This pushed me over the edge; I mean, he doesn't know about disposable diapers, fine, I get it, Mypos sucks; but he knows enough about laundry. The fact that someone who didn't recognize that a cheap plastic wrapper with an absorbent pad full of human waste is garbage - and doesn't belong in a washing machine we share with our neighbors - could be solely responsible for a baby all weekend seems criminal. 

I scolded him - hard - about how he basically took the baby no-questions-asked and takes responsibility way too lightly. He even admitted it - Cousin Larry for the win, that's never happened! - then he and the baby both started gently sobbing. I finally agreed to give him childcare advice, which I have a wealth of since I have like 200 younger siblings. The baby proceeded to keep both of us up all night; every few minutes he would wake up and cry, and we took turns trying to chill him out; come three-am we were both on the verge of insanity. 

I've always believed that inspiration rides on the unstable line between sanity and madness; and it was in that moment I remembered I'm an amazing singer, and I could soothe the little rascal to sleep with the power of melody. I sang rockabye baby, which caused Balki to freak out about the baby-in-peril lyrics (FORESHADOWING) so he started singing the Brady Bunch theme song, and Frankie seemed to really dig it. I joined in, because Balki needed a low to harmonize with his high or the jam would've sounded like garbage, and not in my house bro. My apartment is a sonic temple. Baby giggles himself to sleep. Babysitting job nailed. 

So that was pretty much our adventure in babysitting, kind of crazy at first but we got the hang of it. Short entry this week.

---

Oh, right, somehow we managed to switch babies at the park.

The next day we were both pretty sleep deprived when we took Frankie to the park, and somehow swapped him out with a little girl. I don't remember how this happened and it's not entirely important. We went into an insane panic, having kidnapped a child and abandoned another one hours before his mother returned for him. We rushed back to the park with the kid we stole, and scoured the place; but Frankie was gone. It didn't make sense that another parent wasn't doing the same thing, until Balki helpfully mentioned that there was a country-crossing couple in a Winnebago with a baby, and they probably drove off with Frankie. 

Even if that's the case, unless these were criminally negligent parents I couldn't imagine they got much further than the parking lot before realizing the mistake that took us literally several hours to discover; I mean, do they leave the baby in its stroller in a moving Winnebago? 

So Gina showed up right on cue, and I felt my bloodstream produce some kind of adrenaline rush that mimicked the effects of a dinner plate-sized dose of cocaine. My eyes bugged out. My hair stood on end. I did not speak; I screamed. I did not walk; I scurried. I kept cutting Balki off before he could explain what happened (and I could tell that he was lining up his excuse to put the blame squarely on me) by screaming over him that we wanted to keep Frankie around a little longer, then told Gina she looked like garbage and threw her in the bathroom so I could think. 

So so smooth.

Another knock came at the door. We assumed it must have been her truck-driving husband Steve and feared that he would murder us, but instead it was the mother of the kid we kidnapped. She had Frankie with her, thank God. This chick Linda Richards - yeah, it was the Winnebago lady - was weirdly cool about the whole thing, enough so that I suspect it was actually her fault and she was trying to get away with something. 

Wanna hear something screwed up? We weren't sure by looking at the baby's face that it was Frankie, so we took off his diaper and got a look at his wang to confirm it. I'm not making this up and I'm not sure why I'm telling you about it, but I'm sure it has something to do with the complicated psychology of guilt. Anyway yeah, it was Frankie's wang all right - which I should mention is impressive - and apparently we've spent more time looking at it than his face because we're sick people. 

We let Gina out of the bathroom, and per usual, got off Scot-free for our shenanigans after several close calls. We had a heart to heart about how much we appreciate our moms now, because having kids is tough. I turned on the TV, and guess what: the Brady Bunch was on. As we finally relaxed, watched the opening credits and sang along to the theme song, there was only one thought on my mind:

I'd like to get a look at those Brady kids' wangs. You know. Just to know.

2.8. Can I Get a Witness.

Ummmmm..... holy shit.

Look, I joke around a lot in this space, right? I'm frequently known to toss out, in a casual fashion, my expectation that Balki will someday kill me or be directly responsible for my early death. I do sincerely believe it, but most of the time I'm being a little glib about the chances of it happening during one of our garden variety adventures. Until today. This week Balki very nearly got us both killed. 

We'll start in simpler times. I was at home, cleaning up after another one of Balki's messes. I had discovered that the Turnip, while listening to my records, was unsurprisingly careless with other people's property and had returned them all to the wrong sleeves. I've pointed out that Balki can't really read plenty of times, but come on. You take a record out of the sleeve. You put it on the player. You put it back in the sleeve. I know that turntable technology is akin to rocket science where he's from on Moron Island; but they have pictures of the artists on the sleeves for God's sake, there's no excuse, be a decent human being for once in your life Balki. 

So my patience level for Balki's bullshit was already set at two minutes to midnight when he came breezing in on top of the world, claiming something wonderful had happened to him on the way home. 

I braced myself. These "wonderful" things that happen to him on the unforgiving streets of Chicago never end well for me, and rarely end well for Balki, either. It turns out that he had stopped at the newsstand for a comic book, and the guy at the newsstand offered him a job.

This is weird behavior. Was the newsstand guy just so desperate for staff that he was asking anyone who came by the store? Or had they had some conversation during which Balki intimated that he's basically a tireless, empty shell, hardened by farm work and willing to do almost anything for a handful of spare change or magic beans? How did this job offer come about? I can't imagine Balki asked for a job; he already has one, at the Ritz, and he barely bothers to show up for it.

Anyway he took the job and I was vaguely encouraging because hey, less Balki around the apartment! Adding to the shiftiness of this whole thing, he'd already earned his "first day's pay" - he's paid daily? - and he had used it to buy me a potato powered clock (so, garbage).

I told him he shouldn't be blowing money on me like that, but he bragged about being loaded now and said someone named Vince gave him fifty bucks. It turns out there was more nuance to Balki's job "at the newsstand" than he originally let on; Vince, apparently, sits in a limo OUTSIDE the newsstand with a couple of hoes and throws money at Balki for running mysterious packages across town and shit. So Balki is a drug mule now. 

The whole "random job offer" thing suddenly made complete sense. You can smell "rube" on Balki from Sputnik. I wasn't remotely surprised - this was always the tragic end that Balki's epic American poem was going to take him toward. But needless to say I was a little worried about the mobbed up element Balki might start bringing around the house before his inevitable murder, so I tried to explain to him what he'd gotten himself into.

*Sidebar - "trying to explain to Balki what he'd gotten himself into" is like doing three sit-ups. You can do it every single day, but all it's going to do is give you discomfort and it won't have any practical effect on anything.

So I told him Vince is obviously a criminal who's using Balki to move contraband. I scolded him for never looking before he leaps, which is why he gets in these messes and I have to bail him out. He got all offended, but agreed to let me come with him for his next big drug run anyway. 

Read that last paragraph again. Did you guys notice the stakes have gone way the hell up out here all of a sudden?

So we went to the drop; and by then old Bal-kapone had either completely forgotten everything I'd told him or just decided to be a reliable hired goon, because when I dragged him into the Ritz and told him we had to open the package he got all worked up about how Vince had told him not to, and he had to deliver it on time.

We started to struggle over the package. I had Balki pinned down in an expert Larry Appleton choke hold as Twinkacetti walked past us and declared that he was on his way to lunch. 

I can only deduce from that behavior that he thought we were there to work a shift while we were actually out being bag men for the mob; which means we probably really were supposed to be on the clock, since there was no one else in the store. Who cares. If we're salaried employees at the Ritz, then we're the real criminals. 

So we ripped the package open and stacks of cash poured out. I told Balki that Vince was running numbers and had dragged Balki into an illegal gambling ring. Balki got all freaked out that he wouldn't be allowed to be a citizen if he got arrested (rooting for you here to do your job, INS). As we tried to seal the package back up and figure out what to do, two women came into the store and I told Balki we had to help the customers, so I guess we had been - once again - off doing our own shit when there was no one else to run the store, and this time probably implicating Twinkie in the whole mess by bringing the dirty cash back to his business. Twinkacetti, what a jerk, right?

Well it turns out the "customers" were actually cops. They'd been tailing us doing our run all afternoon. We were off to jail, a feeling that I suspect I'll grow a certain callus toward over the next several years.

Jennifer and Mary Anne bailed us out of jail eventually, so I guess they're back in the picture. I was trying to put a good face on it all and Balki IMMEDIATELY sold me out to Jennifer that I'd fainted under interrogation (it was hot under those lights, all right?) even though he'd dragged me into this mess. As if the criminal conspiracy wasn't enough, now he's screwing with my game for no reason!

We told them that after spending a couple of hours working on Balki, the police realized he actually was stupid enough to not realize what he'd gotten involved in; so they cut us loose and arrested Vince, who is now being tried under RICO for gambling among a bunch of other OC activities. They begged us to testify at his arraignment and we were like "sure, no chance that will backfire!" 

Then Jennifer heard the name "Vince Lucas" and said something really cryptic: "you know, I think that's the same jerk that was bothering Mary Anne and me." 

That's a pretty bold declaration that neither Balki nor I asked any follow-up questions about. Two beautiful twenty-something women we're maybe dating have been getting "bothered" by a reputed mob boss, and we weren't even curious what that means? What circles do Jennifer and Mary Anne run in? Neither of us even batted an eye at it! In retrospect I probably should have prodded for details there, but I was too busy bragging about how brave Balki and I were for taking the stand. 

*Relationship update: Mary Anne still looks at Balki like she's about to tear his clothes off and devour him at any second. She kissed him on the cheek. Jennifer continues to seem physically repulsed by me. But you know what they say about breaking through a rock, friends. It just takes pressure and time.

I put my deep sexy voice on, and Jennifer made a frantic run for it. Mary Anne followed her reluctantly. Take that, Balki. For once I'm the one putting the ice on.

So a knock came at the door about two seconds after they left, and it was Vince. I slammed the door in his face and he kicked it down. 

Question: he's been "bothering" Mary Anne and Jennifer for a while, apparently. They just passed each other outside our door; I mean, it was literally seconds between when they left and he arrived. Did anything happen there? There's no way he missed them. WHAT IS THE BACKSTORY WITH VINCE, JENNIFER AND MARY ANNE?  Anyway as you might expect, Vince made it very clear that if we testified against him he was going to murder us. Confident that he'd done his job, he left for the evening. 

We showed up to court the next morning, I don't know, planning to just go ahead and testify anyway. The prosecutor told us that seven of the other witnesses "suddenly got amnesia" and the eighth was missing. All of a sudden I remembered the credible death threat we'd been issued 12 hours earlier and got scared again, but Balki, as is his custom, continued to just kind of grin and wander around the courthouse, fearing nothing because he's never suffered consequences for any of his actions.

Jennifer and Mary Anne showed up to root us on, and they were dressed suspiciously nice for sitting in a courtroom all day. Every single element of their behavior around this Vince situation is really suspect. I pulled Balki aside and told him we can't testify, and he gave me a guilt trip but I overrode it and told the prosecutor we were out. The prosecutor told the judge he didn't have any witnesses, and the judge just sort of casually started to toss off the case without much thought before Balki interrupted him and said he'd testify.

I tried to talk him down, but he wouldn't have it. And then he told me what this was really about: Vince had tricked him, and Balki's "honor" was at stake. 

Balki testifying wasn't about cleaning up the streets and putting a violent criminal in jail at all; it was just another selfish personal thing about his "honor" because he was too dumb to recognize that he was getting sucked into running numbers, which I think Vince might have even told him he was doing in the first place. What honor is that, exactly, Balki? He's a physically abusive, self-centered, childish asshole who doesn't show up for work with one employer and testifies against the other. Where's the honor in putting your cousin's life at risk just to make a point against the mobster who paid you - frankly, pretty well - for running a stack of cash across town? I kind of feel bad for Vince. 

Balki. What a dick. 

So Balki tells his story. Then the defense attorney IMMEDIATELY tries to tap into the constant undercurrent of xenophobia that is America's dirty secret by pointing out that Balki is an immigrant. He then accused him of coming to America just to get rich, and asked Balki if his name is Russian, then called him a lazy immigrant who didn't want to work for a living so he took to a life of crime because it's easier. (Not for nothing: Balki WAS running numbers while he was supposed to be at work). He tried to pin the whole criminal enterprise on Balki. I'd heard enough of that shit - no one accuses Balki of being smart enough to run an enterprise on my watch - and kept objecting until the judge threatened to lock me up.

The Judge, meanwhile, kind of got on board with the prosecutor's argument that someone else had to corroborate Balki's story or else it doesn't count and Vince can just walk. It was becoming very clear where this was headed. It would be up to good old Cousin Larry - like always - to get Balki out of a jam and risk my life doing it.

I stood up and gave an eloquent soliloquy to the courtroom, telling everyone how brave Balki was and that I'd back up everything he said. I took the stand, did my thing, badda boom, badda bing. Vince was headed to jail.

We went home, and had a big heart to heart about how badass I am. I felt the power of my courage surge through my body as I cracked open a cold one. The phone rang. It was the airline that I'd booked two tickets to Buenos Aires through under the name Jose Vasquez, in case things hadn't gone our way in the courtroom.

So yeah, that's fraud; but in my defense, what isn't when you really think about it, right? I canceled the tickets, since we'd successfully put the mob boss in jail and had absolutely nothing to be afraid of anymore.

I hope, in his big criminal enterprise, Vince doesn't have any other employees who might seek revenge on his behalf. 

2.7. Falling in Love Is...

I'm on top of the world, y'all! You might see the headline of this entry and assume I finally locked down Susan or Jennifer or some other piece of Chicago strange, but no; this story isn't really about me finding love at all. It's about me getting to watch Balki cry.

The setting: The Ritz. Mid-afternoon. Your boy Cousin L scopes out a megafox and closes in. I'm feeling good, looking good. I roll up to the babe in question and smile charmingly, lower my voice a few registers and ask if there's anything I can do for her. She laughs in my face, rolls her eyes and says "no, I don't think so," then struts off all empowered and smug.

Aaaaaand scene.

What the hell was that? You'd think I called her toots and tried to rub my crotch all over her, I was just trying to do my job. I can only guess she's shopped here before and was "helped" by Balki, and so her guard is naturally up for sexual predators in disguise as helpful sales clerks.

Anyway the fox leaves just as Balki comes running in from his lunch break declaring that it was the best day of his life, because today he fell in love.

Saddle up pardners, this one's not going to end well.

So he's taking an American History class, which - in all fairness - good for him, right? And since he's Balki, he's been using this class to perv pretty intensely on a woman named Carol Mosley, who sits on the other side of class. Carol's been cold to Balki all this time, most certainly because she can feel him glaring at her from a dark corner of the classroom like a cartoon wolf with his tongue hanging out. But the teacher put them together on a project, and Balki said she "started opening up like a little flower." That's a pretty specific metaphor. Did Balki have sex in the middle of his Adult Ed American History class?

So they went to lunch today to talk about their upcoming term paper, and she apparently told Balki she's into him. We harmonized a pretty frigging flawless session of "When you Wish Upon a Star" together and hugged. This seemed like it could be good for me. I'm in debt to anyone willing to take the turnip off my hands for any stretch of time, and if this ends up being the real thing I might be rid of him for good eventually.

Balki asked if it was okay if Carol came over to study that night and I was like sure, whatever she wants, she can use my toothbrush for all I care. I'll just say "what's up" and peace out of there so he could put the moves on. Also my curiosity was getting the better of me. What exactly was going to be Carol's "deal," you know? Was she even a human? I didn't care.

So it's later that night. Balki's prepping the apartment for his date. He had prepared a snack tray of individually wrapped Little Debbie white trash desert treats and candy, proving that he's functionally a giant seven year old and Carol was wading into a legal gray area if she gets his pants off.

I ran through the plan with him. I'd head out to a movie, and if I got back to the neighborhood about eleven pm and saw the curtains drawn, I'd know Balki was getting after it. I'd give him a one-ringer from the coffee shop to let him know he had twenty minutes to finish up doing... whatever he planned to do to her, and hopefully clean up a little before I got back.

The doorbell rings. Balki swings it open dramatically to reveal Carol, a tall, stunning blonde dressed in some kind of silk teddy and matching shawl, with big sparkly earrings and her hair done up all fancy. She kind of looks like a prostitute who tried to dress up for a night at the opera without enough guidance.

*Note to self: movie idea. Prostitute with a heart of gold becomes romantically involved with busy millionaire, and hijinks ensue.

Anyway, so Carol is a stunner as advertised, but I can't figure out for the life of me why she's dressed like that to come over and study unless OH MY LORD BALKI HIRED A PROSTITUTE WITHOUT KNOWING IT. He's had some close calls before - did it finally happen? She starts crawling all over him right in front of me, and says all the girls at school are crazy about him.

I tried to make a little small talk with Carol, who pretty much told me straight up that she's a gold digger within four seconds. She deflected any talk about Balki at all and said "let's talk about you," all naughty-like. She said she had heard I was a photographer - and since I own a camera, I just rolled with it - and she asked if I could get her into a modeling agency. Then she made it extra clear that "nudity is no problem" and winked.

Balki came back from the kitchen right before I found out how far Carol was willing to take this. She got up off the couch and said she had to go; her mother was in the hospital. Balki offered to compile their notes for her, so she kissed him on the cheek and was out the door in a blur.

A ha.

It all came into clear focus. Carol came by long enough to put Balki to work for her and see if I might be into a little hump-for-connections arrangement (the answer is yes), then take off to whatever slightly higher class date she was all tramped up for.

I tried to put it delicately to Balki that Carol is working him over. This life lesson served as an opportunity for me to dredge up more buried trauma from my life in Madison, so I told him about how a girl named Misty figured out I was really good in algebra back in high school and ran the same game on me. Everyone in school was laughing behind my back because they knew she was using me to get a good grade. At the end of the semester she dumped me and broke my heart.

I should mention Misty's commitment to a good grade in algebra was pretty over the top. I mean, I probably would have helped her if she'd just been nice and flirted with me a little, but she engaged in a semester long, monogamous romantic relationship purely for a good grade in math. I can't even really get that mad about it.

While I'm on the subject, I have a question: what is this full grown woman's motivation for taking an adult ed American History class that she doesn't seem interested in in the first place? She said she needs to take it to get her high school diploma, but nothing about what I just learned suggests Carol is pursuing honest employment that requires a base level of education.  Also she pretty much offered to do me if I could get her into a modeling agency, so why does she care so much about getting her diploma if she really wants to be a model? What are the stakes for Carol here? None of this makes any sense to me. I can only guess that she's just one of those people who just spreads it around, and tries to keep as many options open as possible.

And another thing: can you imagine what kind of free-for-all, hopeless, anarchic monkey shit-fight this class must be for BALKI to be the smart one? We're witnessing the end of the American Empire, my friends.

Anyway.

Balki didn't get the hint, so I got more direct with him and told him Carol is using him, and he got all pissed off at me and rubbed in my personal cold streak with the females. He got right in my face and said I was jealous, and called me "Mr. Lonely Guy." I felt that strange wave of euphoric anger wash over me; that feeling you get when you know you're about to let go of your manners and let 'er rip, that you're going to stop being polite and start getting real (*note to self: great tagline for a TV show). I threw up my hands and told him he was on his own, and to remember my warning when she breaks his heart, then stormed off to my room.

Two weeks later this little side-show was still playing out. Carol was now habitually telling Balki that she loved him. But I had reason to feel good, because I knew it was the last night of their history class and they had to turn in their term papers; so Balki was just a few hours away from having his heart shattered into a million pieces, and I'd be there to soak up his misery, to drink his tears and to spit "I told you so" into his face until my voice quit on me.

So Balki told me after class he was going to ask Carol to go steady with him, and he was going to give her his great grandmother's priceless emerald broach. For more than 200 years, every first-born Bartokomous son gives the broach to the woman who steals his heart.

I couldn't let that happen. I knew for sure that Carol would take the pin and pawn it in a heartbeat, and that was MY plan once Balki inevitably died! Or for the version I'd put in the press release, "I couldn't let him give up a family heirloom to a sociopathic gold digger blah blah blah, best friend blah blah blah."

I tricked Balki into handing over the broach and ran away with it. He chased me around the house, and I finally convinced him to let me hold onto the pin for 24 hours. If Carol said she would go steady with him, I'd give him the pin and my blessing.

Jennifer came over later that night, out of nowhere. Since Balki had recently rubbed my nose in my lack of any dates whatsoever in more than a month, I'm not sure what my status with her is right now? So I was preparing a "feel better, little guy" ice cream sundae for when Balki got home after being dumped, and waiting for him to trudge in the door knowing I had been right all along.

Jennifer got all hot and bothered and said I'm a great friend. I told her I can be more than a friend, and she physically recoiled in fear.

Friend zone, got it, message received.

Balki burst in, singing and dancing up a storm and stomping around the room shouting. Jennifer just kind of walked out of the apartment without saying hello or good bye to him, and left me with the potentially coked up Mypsosian Romeo. He told me I was all wrong and Carol said she would go steady with him. Although I was a little disappointed in seemingly being wrong, I was legitimately happy for Balki. I  apologized for being wrong and gave him his grandmother's broach and my blessing.

Then Balki talked more, and I realized a fundamental misunderstanding had taken place.

It turns out Carol had laughed in his face when he asked her to go steady. Balki didn't get the hint so she gave him some standard blowoff lines about how she was going to be super busy and was changing her phone number and he should just sit tight until she calls him.

I tried to explain to Balki that she was putting him off, and as you'd probably expect he lit me up again. I told him to call her, and he did, and she must have had more important shit to do because she cut him loose pretty quick.

Being unquestionably right in an argument with Balki is quite possibly the most enjoyable sensation I can have.

Balki slumped against the wall sobbing, and told me I was right all along, and oh my goodness gracious it felt amazing. I was the bigger man of course, and offered him comfort. He sat on the couch seething, and declared he would never fall in love again, then he started REALLY wailing and moaning. I mean this was a two week thing, let's turn down the drama a little bit Tennessee Williams. I told him to keep his chin up basically, and we hugged it out. We ended our night by wolfing down ice cream by a roaring fireplace.

But anyway, do you guys think old Carol would still put out for some free photog work though?

2.6. Babes in Babylon.

Let's talk about drugs.

They come in all forms. Addictions don't have to be reserved for a chemical, or tobacco, or alcohol. They can attach themselves to all kinds of things. Food, sex, exercise, gambling.

Friends, I left Wisconsin and moved to the big city on my own to figure out who I am, and I've learned a lot about myself since Balki's arrival - almost all of it terrible. This week I learned that gambling is a very potent and addictive drug for me. As you might expect, the way I came to learn this is 100 percent Balki's fault.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. It's a long and sordid tale, during which Balki and I each hit several new personal lows. We'll get there, but first I have to set the scene for you. It begins - like many of my stories - with a Myposian idiot yelling at the television.

Balki was on the couch in the apartment, watching Gilligan's Island and fruitlessly trying to encourage Gilligan to change his behavior. I burst in, bedecked in my bomb-ass new leather jacket and full of mirth and vigor. I'd received an exciting letter from the management at Shop and Spend grocery stores, which I shoved into Balki's hands.

He attempted to read the letter, sounding out each syllable so agonizingly slow that I lost patience with him immediately. Can I point out that Balki seems pretty well conversant in English, and so it's not a language barrier that is causing him to read so slowly? Balki can't read. Anyway, the letter informed me that I was the lucky winner of a state of the art double door refrigerator!

That was enough to get my motor running. I get so few wins in my column around here; I'm a college educated, certified bull-stud earning minimum wage at a piecemeal department store owned by a shady asshole. I don't have a girlfriend. And I spend all of my waking hours babysitting an illiterate walking hurricane, living in constant fear that he'll eventually get either bored or self-sufficient enough to murder me. So when I get a win, you're damn right I'm going to celebrate.

There is, of course, a catch: as Balki continued to stumble through the rest of the letter he discovered that instead of the refrigerator I could choose a trip for two to Las Vegas. He went apeshit and demanded a Dance of Joy, which I'm proud to say we NAILED. We had enjoyed a full sixty seconds of pure and mutual celebration, which was a record in our apartment; because immediately after the Dance of Joy, the conflict began.

Balki apparently has always dreamed of going to Vegas, which comes as no surprise to me; the overstimulating and exaggerated melange of flashing lights, loud noises, trampy women and people in costume probably lines up pretty identically with Balki's Dr.-Seuss-meets-Hunter-Thompson lens on the world.

Like always, one of us needed to be a sensible adult; and like always, it would not be Balki.

Point one: we could actually use a new fridge. Balki eats some seriously deranged foodstuffs, and if I can't change his diet the least I can do is reasonably expect that it will be kept refrigerated. And we had won the world's greatest refrigerator! It TALKS to you. It monitors your eggs.

Point two, as I laid out clearly to Balki: Vegas is a moral wasteland that goes against everything I was ever told I believe in. I've never been there. I never wanted to go. Balki, however, launched into one of his standard guilt trips about how everything we do should be designed to satisfy his every want and need of the American Experience, and if I don't cave to his completely selfish personal desires then I'm a bad guy. Then he decided to let some twisted Myposian hand game reminiscent of paper rock scissors decide which prize we'd take, without explaining the rules to me and using the "game" as an excuse to slap me across the face several times. The constant physical abuse continues.

I told him we'd decide which prize we'll take with a classic coin toss, which guess what? I lost. I always lose. Larry and Balki were going to Vegas. Cue the mood swing; I'd gone from experiencing one of my rare windows of pure joy to misery and fear, just because Balki wanted something. I told Balki I'd go, but I wouldn't have any fun.

His answer: "Well of course not. I wouldn't expect you to."

Fuck you, Balki.

- - -

Cut to Las Vegas, Nevada. We arrived in a garishly decorated, hot pink hotel room with porno on the walls, which Balki of course went nuts over and I immediately noticed there was only one bed. He pounced on the complimentary champagne, but I warned him off of it because "they want you to get drunk so you'll gamble more." What would Balki do without me?

So I learned a character trait: Balki's obsessed with Wayne Newton. While I was getting cleaned up in the bathroom Balki revved up the coin-operated Magic Fingers on the bed of our super-classy hotel room and thumbed through a flyer, in which he discovered Wayne Newton was playing and he flipped the hell out. In the spirit of compromise I said going to Wayne Newton would be fine, even though I'm not a fan.

Any adult would recognize that we were engaged in the push and pull of two people with different interests agreeing on an agenda that would satisfy both of them. Especially, I might add, since I had already agreed to use our prize winnings on a trip that I desperately didn't want to take in the first place. I said yes to Wayne Newton, and then pitched a diverse list of ideas that included a trip to the Hoover Dam, hitting up the Liberace Museum and a nice evening walk in the desert. Balki basically pretended he didn't hear me and said he just wanted to go to the casino.

It's times like these that I struggle to reconcile myself with the duality of Balki; he's somehow a vulnerable simpleton and at the exact same time a terrible person. Not easy to pull off. So that's when I decided it was time to tell Balki the real reason I was so worried about going to Vegas: we have a history of gambling addiction in our family. Our Uncle Pete ruined his life gambling. He gambled away his house, his car, everything he owned. We never did find Aunt Susan. It's in our blood - and that's why we can't go into casinos.

So that asshole just started to cry, because he wanted to go into the casino. Even though I had just explained to him that an Appleton going into a casino is like a recovering drug addict going to a party at Jerry Garcia's house, he whined so hard I agreed that we could walk through the casino but not stop. Then he had the nerve to say "we should have taken the refrigerator."

I have my flaws, but I firmly believe that in that moment I became a verified saint for not wrapping my hands around his throat and squeezing until his legs stopped kicking and I saw the light slip from his vacant eyes.

Later on, we sprinted through the casino as quickly as I could drag Balki in order to fight the powerful urge to gamble coursing through my veins. I left Balki alone to get our Wayne Newton tickets, and exactly two seconds passed before a seasoned Vegas predator closed in. A dirty hooker named Windy joined Balki at his table and - as I understand it, I wasn't there - asked if he wanted to have a good time. She attempted and failed several times to negotiate a price for whatever filthy garbage sex Balki might be into before I returned and told her Balki had no money. Bye bye, Windy.

So Balki had a quarter on him and just NEEDED to gamble, and I figured it would be mostly harmless to let him blow his quarter on a slot machine and get it over with. Once the quarter was gone, we could carry on with our lives; but because my life is a never ending series of ironic torture, Balki hit paydirt. Quarters poured out of the machine like water over a dam.

Next thing I knew, we'd drifted onto the main floor of the casino. I was twitchy and uncomfortable, and I warned Balki that we had to move out quick or else he'd catch "the fever." I forbade him to stay there, which he of course completely ignored and dropped some chips on 32 on the roulette table.

Frigging Balki hit the jackpot again. This was bad. I grabbed his chips and told him I'd help him lose his money so he could learn a lesson and we could make it to the Wayne Newton concert that I didn't even care about. We split the chips and hit the wheel again. Balki lost, and immediately entered a depressive funk. Unfortunately, I won.

The memories get a little fuzzy from there.

Even though Balki was satisfyingly done with gambling, I had set about to lose the rest of his winnings to punish him - which I'll admit fails a pretty glaring test of sensibility. I let my bet ride on the roulette wheel - a suicidal move considering the number had just hit - and miraculously hit lucky 36 AGAIN. Do you have any idea what the statistical odds of hitting the same number twice on a roulette wheel are? They're astronomical! Clearly, something more powerful was at work here, and I could feel it coursing through my body. The room moved in slow motion. My fingertips became electric, my voice deepened, and I was certain that I'd grown five inches taller.

I felt alive.

I put the chips on my birthday and it hit. The money was really starting to pile up. Balki's kindergarten level attention span had long since quit on him and he just wanted to go see Wayne Newton, so I gave him his ticket and told him I'd catch up with him once I lost his money. I dismissed Balki coolly, convincing him that I was just as excited about seeing Wayne as he was. It was like I was watching all of this from outside of my body while an insanely powerful hunger was in control. It felt like I was dying of thirst, and the moment I'd dispensed with Balki I could drink from the river of life. I would have said anything in the moment to make him go away. I NEEDED to gamble.

Having successfully fed me his forbidden fruit, the Myposian Serpent left the scene. And my birthday hit AGAIN. 36, 36, 24, 24, all in a row, and I bet on every single one. People write songs about that shit.

Eventually my streak ended; sometime later, I'm not sure how long, I had played 12 and the wheel hit 22. The guy operating it was weirdly antagonizing toward me about it. So I played 22 and the wheel hit 12. In retrospect this was probably that same higher power telling me to pack it in, but I couldn't hear it anymore. Balki returned, having watched the entire Wayne Newton show by himself. He asked why I didn't join him, and I told him I'd sold my ticket to keep gambling.

I spread my money all across the table and somehow still lost, while the dealer seriously rubbed it in my face. This guy needed training on how to keep a loser at the table, but I barely noticed him because Balki was being all patronizing and playing ignorant about why I was super into gambling now, even though I'd been begging him since Chicago to NOT LET ME GAMBLE.

I confessed to Balki that I had sold my plane ticket too, and that I would have to win enough money to buy it back. Then you know what that prick said to me? "I think you take after the Uncle Pete side of the family."

Balki tried to physically restrain me from riding the wheel one more time, and when I tricked him into turning away I dumped every dime on Lucky 12. Balki then broke a cardinal rule by grabbing the marble off the roulette wheel.  The casino fell silent. Two mobbed up pit bosses descended on him immediately. I had to promise I wouldn't gamble anymore so he'd turn over the marble in order to save his life, and then he ran off with my chips.

The wheel hit 12.

I lost my mind. I chased Balki across the casino all the way back to our hotel room, where I stalked my prey, bursting into the bathroom and closet and screaming. I sniffed the air and crept around the room, having finally committed to murdering Balki. I eventually scared him out of his hidey-hole and pinned him up against the wall.

"Cousin Larry!" he pleaded.

"There is no Cousin Larry!" I spit into his face. "There is only Lucky Larry! I'm going for the big jackpot! I'm going to blow this town wide open! Now give me my chips!"

Balki saved his own life by shoving a mirror in front of me. The face that I saw in my reflection was not my own.

It was Uncle Pete's.

I collapsed, emotionally destroyed, into a sobbing puddle. Balki stood above me all high and mighty and told me I went off the deep end.

Quick recap: I begged Balki to take the fridge and keep me away from Vegas. He dragged me there. I begged him to keep me out of the casino because our family has an addiction. He dragged me there. I pleaded with him not to gamble, and he did anyway. Now he has the audacity to look DOWN at me and tell me I went off the deep end? NO. Balki rolled me up in a carpet and threw me off the deep end.

I confessed to how low I had sunk. I had sold my Wayne Newton ticket. I had sold my plane ticket. I apparently had even sold the free champagne in the room, which frankly was pretty shrewd on my part. I accepted that I am a compulsive gambler.

Balki tried to reassure me that I'm not a compulsive gambler, I just got caught up in the excitement of Vegas. He reminded me that I don't gamble on sports or the lottery, and asked if I wanted to gamble in that moment. I told him I never wanted to gamble again.

Then, inexplicably, Balki got mad at me.

He started yelling at me in Myposian and finally told me I always either go too far or not at all, and I need to find somewhere in the middle. This is enabling behavior at its absolute worst. It was like I'd accepted that I'm a drug addict, and Balki said "no you're not. You can just do a LITTLE heroin, like on the weekends." Clearly I can't, asshole, I have an imbalance. But then he stopped making it about gambling and tried to spin the whole experience into an analogy on my unwillingness to have fun.

What really happened is I begrudgingly did what Balki wanted to do even though it was unhealthy for me, and it went really badly, and rather than encourage me to avoid triggers for my addictive behavior Balki just shamed me about not being able to control myself so he can keep doing whatever he wants and dragging me along to keep him from getting killed.

For all of this, I ended up thanking Balki and telling him I owed him a lot. I'm so broken, I actually believed it. We set out to see Wayne Newton's second show.

I hope when I get home my food isn't spoiled. Our fridge is garbage.