2.5. Lifesavers.

Heroes.

They come in all shapes and sizes. They can look like fire fighters or police officers, or soldiers or teachers or quarterbacks.

Or they can look like five-foot seven studs with curly hair who go around saving lives. Seems like those are the best kind but that's just my opinion, you're free to your own. Let me set the scene.

When Balki and I burst into the front door of the Ritz, Twinkie was reading a porno called "Motorcycle Maidens," right behind the front desk.

I'm not making this up.

You might think he was putting on a little passive-aggressive display toward Balki and I, suggesting that since he was alone in the store while we were supposed to be working that, "hey, might as well flip through a hobby specific spank mag since I'm the only one here;" but in fact he had just been going through the mail and found the dirty magazine - delivered to the store mind you, odds are under Balki's name - and started thumbing through it because there are no rules our accountability or customers at the Ritz at all. It's really not a bad job.

He tried to ride us for being forty seconds late, but we were just kind of like "pshhhh, child's play, wait until our lunch break and see what late looks like." Balki launched into the story of how I'd just saved his life. I tried to tell him it was no big deal, and I actually meant it; at this point saving Balki's life has become part of my day-to-day routine, he just doesn't know it.I can't even count the number of times Balki has almost electrocuted himself, or fallen off a bridge, or angered a Chicagoan of color. He just wanders blithely through life, dodging anvils that always seem to land on his poor cousin. I actually had to list him on my insurance policy in the section marked "other risks."

But I digress.

Balki told Twinkie I'd saved his life and Twinkie looked sad, then asked "Why?" I would have asked him the same thing if the situation were reversed. I think Balki has turned us into sociopaths? So what had happened that morning was Balki strolled into the street without looking like he always does, and a taxi came barreling down on him, and I pushed him out of the way. If I'm being totally honest, there was also a bus coming in the other direction that I was trying to push Balki into, but coincidentally I'd saved him from what he described as a "runaway taxi" driving down the street he had been jaywalking in.

Balki was blowing the whole thing out of proportion, saying I'd risked my life to save another, and on Mypos I'd be considered a great man. Twinkie pointed out that "In America, he's still considered a jerk." Touche. Balki told me not to listen to him, and that I'm a hero.

"For what?" I said cooly. "For running out into the street and throwing my body between you and certain death?" I shrugged, and grinned. I could feel that dangerous throbbing sense of self aggrandizement - my favorite drug - pulsing through my veins. "Well, maybe a small hero." Free lesson: always downplay your heroics. That's the hero's code.

Balki wouldn't drop it. He told me that in Mypos if someone did what I just did, he is no longer a regular person. He is lifted up into something called "Primo Dopolos?" I wondered if such status would also get me "primo laid," and started thinking quietly whether Balki and I should plan a trip to Mypos where I could stage another rescue. Meanwhile I went back to getting the store ready to open while Balki blathered on about how he's only a "lowly sheepherder." I didn't say anything, but Balki's actually considerably below a lowly sheepherder. That's not his job anymore. At least a sheepherder protects sheep. Here in the States all Balki protects is America's superiority complex.

He then laid down on the floor on his back in some kind of weird sexually submissive yoga pose and said he was basking in my glory. I dragged him to his feet as he completely melted down, tears streaming from his eyes as he insisted on basking. This was going to get weird.

Holy shit I forgot you guys, Susan is back! I just assumed Balki had killed her! She came down for dinner, and was deeply impressed with the meal Balki cooked to thank me for saving his life (I have to admit, I can get used to saying that). Susan thought it was sweet how Balki was kissing my ass all of a sudden, and I went on to explain that it's mostly annoying because all of the rules they have on Mypos for this kind of thing. For instance, Balki's head can never be higher than mine. How she didn't notice this during dinner I don't know, but it's Susan, she sucks.

However.

Susan kissed me on the cheek on the way out the door, grabbed my arm and called me a hero. I have no idea what my relationship with Susan is, but this had never happened before. Being a hero could totally score me tail.

That switch in my head flipped, and as Susan left the apartment I started peacocking around, bragging to myself about how badass I was. "If he wants to serve me, who am I to complain?" I wondered aloud. "Who am I to stand in the way of his culture?" I sat on the couch with a good book just as Balki emerged from my bedroom at end of the hall.

SIDEBAR - My bedroom used to be the door right off the living room. So I've always had two bedrooms in this apartment, and I switched to the other one at some point but have never offered Balki the empty room, instead forcing him to sleep on the couch. I'm hilarious!

Anyway Balki came out of my room with his arms full. He crabwalked across the floor to stay beneath me while delivering my robe and slippers. Nice. Of course he had ironed the slippers and ruined them.

I told him to piss off while I read my book. He tried to hold the lamp inches from my face for light, and then to turn the pages himself. I told him I wanted to finish the book before bed, and so he promptly spoiled the ending for me (when did Balki learn to read?)

I lost my shit. I demanded he stand up straight and leave me alone so I could watch TV. Balki all passive-aggressively went into the kitchen and started screwing with the mixer so I couldn't hear the shoot-em-up Western I was trying to watch, and said he was making my lunch for tomorrow - something called "Sheep Wellington."  It looked like white puke. I asked him how long I was going to have to put up with this "Primo Dopolos" business, and he said that word that terrifies me whenever I think of my future with Balki: "Forever."

I had fallen asleep on the couch, which in our apartment made me bait. Balki has thus far not wandered into my sleeping quarters while I'm in there, but if we're in our shared space it's anything goes. He tied my foot to the end table - apparently so I "couldn't walk in my sleep and fall out the window" - and started checking my breathing. For whatever reason Balki had decided I had died, so he pulled my eyelids open. Not the most fun way to wake up from a nap, kids. I got up to storm off, and Balki didn't bother to tell me I'd been shackled to the end table. I fell. In a nice little surprise, the lamp did not break - we go through one of those almost every week around here. I told him his over protective bullshit had to end.

The next morning I stormed into the Ritz two hours late, and right pissed off about it. Balki had crept into my room in the night and turned off my alarm clock so I could sleep. I told Balki I'd never been late in my life, although reading back on this entry I now realize I was literally late the previous morning, and I see from other entries that I have often skipped out of work altogether for days at a time. Not important right now. Right now Balki had disconnected my alarm clock, making me late for work, which no one seemed to have noticed or cared about. I'm not sure why I was mad, but it was probably because he'd come in my room while I was sleeping.

There's no safe place from him anywhere anymore.

Twinkie burst out of his office and told me he was docking me two hours pay, which is also a first. What the hell was going on? Since when has he cared about clock management? I sucked it up like a champ though. Balki offered to let Twinkie take three dollars out of his salary instead (do I only make a buck-fifty an hour?) and Twinkie told him that was his whole salary. That is phenomenally sad. Balki makes less money at the Ritz than homeless people do panhandling.

I softened up on him and told him I was just going to quit being Primo Dopolos, but he said that I couldn't. I lost my temper. I overcorrected. I told Balki he couldn't serve me any more, on order of the Primo Dopolos himself.

Balki said he was a disgrace and a failure, and on Mypos he would be beaten to death with sticks and stones for failing the Primo Dopolos. I got an instant half-chub at the thought.

Balki stuffed a sack over his head to hide his shame, and started making a big show of sweeping the floor blindfolded while singing "nobody knows the trouble I've seen." I should have seen this coming a mile away. Balki had actually made my saving his life about him, and - like always - bullied me into an apology. Once again, I would have to massage Balki's fragile frigging ego and nurse him out of his latest public display of selfish, needy, self-pitying depression.

Or as we call it around here, "Wednesday."

He committed to the part. Hours passed, and Balki was still wearing the bag on his head while he worked. Twinkie and I were legitimately impressed with how efficiently he was able to work from under the bag. Twinkie sent him to the basement to sort pants because he was creeping out the customers (note  - the store has been empty for weeks) - and said that it wasn't even fun to push Balki around anymore. Then he came up with the best idea I'd heard in forever.

I should attempt suicide.

Twinkie thought that if Balki were to save me, he would call us even and forget about the whole thing. I asked what would happen if Balki didn't save me, and Twinkie said "either way, your problems are solved." It made a startling amount of sense. I had considered ending it all several times since Balki arrived, but I always figured I'd at least take him with me. Twinkie then suggested I could hire his friend, an actor, to break into the apartment so I could scare him off. I laughed in Twinkie's face, even though for the first time ever he was just honestly trying to help me out of a jam. Just then Balki entered, still blindfolded, and spilled several gallons of oil all over the floor.

I threw Twinkie a Ulysses and told him to have his friend come before midnight.

What I didn't know is that Twinkie called his friend and found out he was out of town and couldn't do the job, so he just pocketed my money and carried on living his life. You probably know where this is going.

It was late. I'd been up waiting all night for Twinkie's buddy to show. I was pissed. And then a real robber appeared on the fire escape and let himself in. He opened the window and strolled past Balki, who was sleeping on the couch with the bag over his head, and started cleaning us out. I assumed this was the guy, but it turns out it was just a hilarious and life threatening coincidence. I stormed down the hall to confront him.

By the way, knowing what I know now, what are the odds? Wait, HOW OFTEN DOES THIS HAPPEN? Do people crawl in that window every night?

I started giving the guy shit about how he was supposed to wake Balki up and give him a scare, then threaten me and let Balki chase him off. The dangerous criminal was understandably confused, but heard me out, which I appreciated. He went back to robbing us as I ran to wake Balki up and put on a King Lear quality performance, telling Balki I was terrified and "if only someone brave would leap to my defense!" I told Balki he could save us, and Balki pointed out that the man had a gun.

Sure enough, the burglar was pointing a gun at both of us. I told him he wasn't supposed to have a gun, and it dawned on me that the guy was just legitimately robbing us.

Whether he is a friend of Twinkacetti's too, I still do not know.

I panicked and started rambling. The burglar got hot and pushed me. Balki got pissed and told him he couldn't do that to Cousin Larry. The burglar shoved me again. Balki - who was hiding behind me - kept talking tougher and tougher while the burglar kept shoving me. Then Balki casually took the gun from the robber, and I remembered exactly how dangerous Balki is. He started slapping the guy around and yelling at him in Myposian - which, I'll remind you, sounds like a really offensive impression of Chinese. He instructed me to call the police. I bravely ran to the window and crawled out onto the fire escape, screaming for the cops as loud as I could.

So it turned out Balki actually did save my life. We went to the police department, where the cops fingerprinted him and put him in a police lineup - which was a really impressive show of forward thinking policework on their part, those fingerprints will come in handy when they're dusting them off my lifeless body. We went home. Balki tried to keep kissing my ass and I told him we were even. We admitted we care about each other and called it a night. 

And I had the most beautiful dream. I dreamed we were back on the street, and I saw the taxi coming. And instead of rushing to save Balki, I just smiled, and I waved, and I told Balki to save me a seat in hell.

2.4. Ladies and Germs.

"Guess who has a date with Bonnie Kleinschmidt?"

When you ask a question like that, you're expecting a certain kind of response. Especially when you strut into your apartment looking like the cat that caught the canary. You're expecting a sense of awe and wonder, fear and respect. Bonnie Kleinschmidt. I dropped that question on Balki this week, and he of course guessed "Pat Sajak" because Balki doesn't have any understanding of the world outside of game shows and sheep shit. 

"Close," I told him. "ME. Larry Appleton. STUD." I had a date with Bonnie Kleinschmidt, fourth runner up for the Miss Chicago Beauty Contest. Balki was confused - he thought she "always laughed in (my) face" when I asked her out. And it's true - homegirl's cruel - but she's beautiful when she laughs.

But Bonnie wouldn't be laughing anymore, because I had two tickets to the Bruce Springsteen concert. She had no choice! Balki noted that my method of getting dates seems to be bribing them, and I was just like, whatever gets me in, bro. Whatever gets me in. I daydreamed out loud to Balki about blowing The Boss's mind when he sees Bonnie K on my arm, and Balki rightfully interrupted me before my slacks started to get tight. He told me we had to go to the hospital to visit Twinkacetti, who broke his leg (whatever story he sold, I guarantee a bookie did it) and I told him eff that. 

Balki called me out on breaking my promise, but look: I had a date with Bonnie Kleinschmidt. Bonnie Kleinschmidt! I wasn't risking that by going to a hospital. They're crawling with germs. And if I wanted to be crawling all over Bonnie Kleinschmidt, I wasn't going to take any unnecessary risks.

Balki didn't know what germs are, and I admittedly described them in sort of a vague, alarmist fashion that could easily be misinterpreted by a two year old. He stood perfectly erect and still, his eyes darting around the room fearfully. He pointed out that he couldn't see anything, and I told him that germs are microscopic. 

Balki didn't believe me, completely rejecting the science of airborne pathogens altogether. Even for Balki, this was a pretty deep low. I can understand the people of Mypos might not understand banking, or the subtle and carefully planned web of manipulations and lies required to score a date with the likes of Bonnie Kleinschmidt, but GERMS? Know they nothing of illness? WHAT IS MYPOS?

He started busting my balls about it, asking if the tiny creatures have a leader and smirking to himself while simultaneously revealing he's the dumbest asshole on the planet. Normally I might have just let this one go and hope karma would reward me with the poetic justice of Balki contracting AIDS, but I had way too much empirical evidence to "lose" this fight. I told him every time I had something important in my life, germs ruined it. I missed my sixth grade graduation. I missed the spelling bee, which I was a shoo-in to win. I missed my Junior Prom.

I was not going to miss Bonnie Kleinschmidt.

Readers, you know by now that almost everything that happens in my life is either foreshadowing or payoff. 

Balki shamed me into going to the hospital with him anyway by basically calling me a coward to my face, and pointing out that Twinkacetti would wonder why I hadn't come to visit. Why, all of a sudden, do we care about what Twinkacetti thinks about us? And why do we think he'd even be happy to see us while he's laid up in the hospital with a busted twig? Twinkacetti HATES us! And just because we never go to work, or do our jobs while we're there! He'd probably just start grilling us about why we're visiting him in the hospital instead of working, which is a totally fair question. As far as I know, Balki, Twinkie and I are the only three employees of Ritz Discount; I have to assume the store is just going to go out of business now.

Where was I? Balki tortured me all the way out the door, swatting at invisible germs with his newspaper as we headed off to the hospital. He was blown away by the modern aesthetic of the American hospital, and asked if they "kill the animals on another floor." I'm almost certain he still means people, like Christians or something. 

So I was itching to GTFO. Balki meanwhile was poking around the hospital room, and came across a metal bedpan. He declared that he'd found a "Mypos Army helmet" and put it on his head. Countless people have peed and crapped in that thing. It probably did smell like people on Mypos's hair, now that I think of it. Anyway we burst through the curtain into Twinkacetti's space. As expected, he was not happy to see us and kind of a dick. Not that I can blame him; the last thing I'd want to see if I was laid up in a dirty hospital with a broken leg is the blank grin of Balki Bartokamous, who rightfully belonged in the morgue a thousand times over for the epically dumb shit he pulls every week and yet still walks around unharmed with that dopey smile plastered across his face.

I did the standard "sorry about your leg, we'll get out of your hair" routine and headed for the door, but then Twinkie got all vulnerable on us and asked us to help him elevate his leg. Balki said the crank was stuck, so I told him to press the release - and next thing, Twinkie's leg goes flying up over his shoulders and he screamed like he'd been shot, and I SWEAR Balki got a semi. Twinkie ordered us to leave, which I was perfectly happy with - but on our way out the door his wife Edwina showed up with his two awful kids, whose names - get this - are Donnie and Marie. I don't understand that at all. We kind of felt compelled to stick around and make small talk now, so I decided to drop some charm bombs on the kids. 

I imagined hours later, little Marie would say to Edwina over dinner, "That Larry Appleton is a stud. He seems like the kind of guy who could lock down a Bonnie Kleinschmidt. Someday I'm going to marry Larry Appleton and he'll inherit the store and kill my father." I knelt down in front of her and told her what a pretty little girl she is, and she sneezed right into my mouth and eyes. Edwina told her to cover her mouth because she didn't want to give everyone her germs, and all of a sudden germs became very real to Balki. He pulled a complete 180 and now feared germs just as much as I did. 

If I had time to think of it in the moment I would've been seriously insulted. I've taught Balki everything he knows about America and modern life. I've taught him the value of money. I've taught him how to run game on babes. And he calls bullshit on my explanation of germs right up until the second it's validated by Edwina Twinkacetti, and all of a sudden it's gospel? Screw Balki. I'm done teaching him anything. He can go live with Edwina Twinkacetti and ruin her life for all I care. I gave up on all social conventions and just declared "I'm out of here," then ran for the door as fast as my legs could carry me. 

And then I was sick.

The next morning Balki was preparing "breakfast" for me, which was a bowl of dry cereal. Frankly, this is the absolute peak of his culinary skills and it was a kind gesture, but let's not forget that I told Balki that this is EXACTLY what was going to happen if he dragged me to the hospital, and then he bullied me into going anyway and now I'm sick as as dog for my date with Bonnie Kleinschmidt. Per usual, everything bad in my life is Balki's fault. I told him so directly, and he acted all innocent like he didn't know what I was talking about. 

Bonnie called. Balki and I each answered a separate land line at the same time. I have no idea why we installed the second phone, by the way. They're literally twenty feet apart from each other. Anyway I shouted at Balki to hangup and switched into the coolest Larry voice I could muster through my nasty cold. She pointed out that I sounded weird, and I countered that she sounded weird. Expert move, Larry A. They put you down, you put em down harder. Jungle rules. I spit pure silk through the handset, promising to pick her up at seven and whispering "bye bye" like I was talking to her panties. 

I spent the day vitamining-up. I cut up a dozen oranges on the coffee table and wolfed them down one by one while Balki went to the grocery store for supplies. I'll also note that this is at least the second day in a row Ritz Discount did not open for business. He dumped a bag of pills on the table so big it felt like we were partying with Motley Crue, and then tried to talk me into canceling the date with Bonnie and rescheduling when I felt better. Does Balki not remember just two weeks ago, when I refused to cancel our dates with Jennifer and Mary Anne even though we were totally bushwhacked from a day at the gym and it totally paid off in the end? Wonder what those girls are up to this week, anyway? I told him I was going to push through. 

Balki then emptied the contents of his second bag. There was enough garlic in there to clear out Salem's Lot, plus something called "Wolfbane" and a bag of pumpkin mold. He told me these were the kind of things you take if you want to "get serious" about getting better. I rejected his barbaric witchcraft and told him to just leave me alone while I slam my pills. Balki insisted he could make me better by cooking his secret Myposian cure (logic problem Balki, if you can heal me instantly, then why are you trying to talk me out of the date? Get your shit together Balki, this is prime time.) and I went off like a firecracker on him about how stupid everyone on Mypos is, and that if modern medicine doesn't have a cure for the cold there's no way those silly backwards dinks do, and choked down a handful of vitamins A, B,C and D.

Nothing was working. Pills, steam, nothing. Balki was still harassing me about trying his cure but I wasn't having it. I've learned by now that Balki is like the monkey's paw - his cure might make me feel better, but would probably give me hepatitis. I had an hour and a half to get well enough, and it wasn't happening. Balki suggested I should get dressed, and I went through a manic swing of joyful optimism that he was right followed immediately by a soul-crushing realization that I was never going to see Bonnie Kleinschmidt naked. I collapsed on the couch in tears, as broken a man as I've ever been in my life. I made the mistake of telling Balki that I've tried everything, and he lost his shit. He yelled at me that he'd made the secret Mypos cure, it works in 20 minutes, and it was just sitting in the kitchen waiting for me. 

I caved. "Why not?" I said. I wouldn't be able to go on the date anyway. I had nothing to lose. I grabbed him by the collar and declared that I wanted the Mypos cure.

And now he didn't want to give it to me. 

As is his custom, Balki forced me to degrade myself and grovel over something that was all his fault. He then produced a fluid that looked like kerosene and green food coloring. He hopped up to the kitchen to grab a spoon so I could take the appropriate dose, but I'd already chugged the entire jar. Balki told me I'd drank enough for a whole village. 

He looked legitimately scared, like maybe I was about to die. I told him it was no big deal, if it was just herbs and fish parts then there's no real risk of overdosing or anything. Balki said it should kick in really fast considering the dose, and he was holding his breath.

We waited. 

And then I started to trip. BALLS. HARD.

I could see through Balki. My mind completely exploded, and I fell through a hole a thousand miles deep as the walls swirled in technicolor around me. On earth, I was standing completely still, my eyes frozen wide open with the kind of terror that a man can only experience when he's seen his own face melt into the wall and morph into the visage of Satan crying tears of blood. I couldn't move. I couldn't blink. Balki dropped me on the couch and draped the garlic across my neck, and I vanished into a hellscape fever nightmare.

Some amount of time passed. If felt like seconds or centuries. Time no longer mattered. I woke.

I felt fantastic. Better than I'd felt in my entire life, in fact. I felt like I could conquer giants. I checked my watch, and was pleased to see I had fifteen minutes to get ready for my date. I heaped praise on Balki for his miracle drug, and told him he should bottle it and sell it. Then I saw the newspaper.

It was far too thick to be the evening edition. I asked Balki what the hell, and he told me it was Sunday's paper. My mouth dropped. I'd been asleep for twenty four hours? Balki then told me it was actually Tuesday, and I'd been asleep for three days.

Balki told me the effect of the medicine was supposed to be a 20 minute nap, during which I'd recover; but since I chugged the whole jar, it knocked me out for three days. Reality sunk in. I'd missed my one-shot date with Bonnie Kleinschmidt. To make matters a thousand times worse, while I was vanishing down the rabbit hole Balki had told Bonnie I was dead and he took her to the concert himself. Fortunately, the second they got to the arena Bonnie ditched him for some guy in the front row. I guarantee she would not have done that to Smooth Larry A, but it's kind of funny that it happened to Balki. He can get around to paying me for those tickets whenever.

Balki got all sad and mopey that he was ditched by the date he stole from the cousin who he dragged into getting a cold and then drugged and left for dead. Although karma was finally starting to inch its way into the life of its biggest target on earth, I felt a little bad for him. The only thing harder than getting Bonnie Kleinschmidt on the line is watching her swim away. 

Even though I'd done even less wrong than usual and this whole mess was Balki's fault, I launched into the standard line of apologies for doing, I don't know SOMETHING wrong. Looking back at all of this I still can't understand what it was I had to apologize to Balki for, but he sure made me own it. 

Anyway turns out Bruce didn't even play, because he had the flu. They rescheduled the concert for this weekend, and I offered to take Balki with me. Then he sneezed. Get him, karma! I believe in you! AIDS! AIDS! AIDS!

2.3. The Unnatural.

Hey folks: The Voice of Larry here. I'm back, y'all! My deep apologies for vanishing on you for the past few months. It started with a hand injury that made typing difficult (fully healed) and then my spare time got completely swallowed up in another project for a long time, which I've just completed. Before we get back into the journal: while I've been adamant to not let the Internet life of this thing wade into the entries themselves, I want to send a shout out to my most loyal reader, Mark Jensen, who is recovering from a health emergency of his own and whose recovery has inspired me to get back into the swing of things. Get better soon, Mark! Without further adieu:

2.3. The Unnatural.

Larry Appleton, reporting from the dugout in baseball city! Look. I'm an athlete, all right? It was sports week here in Chicago, focused on a series of dramatic events surrounding the softball team I manage, which I've never mentioned before today and am unlikely to ever bring up again. So pay attention.

The week started with your old buddy Cousin Larry riding high. Literally. I was carried on the shoulders of the Ritz Discount Royals softball team into the store, with Balki leading a ribald chant of "We're number one!" as the team poured through the front door with their curly-headed Caesar beaming down at them from on high. Twinkacetti greeted us, and he was holding a massive handful of cash and looking anxious and sweaty. He was desperate for the results of the game like he had one of his kids' fingers riding on it (which wouldn't surprise me at all.)

Balki, the team's waterboy, scorekeeper and head cheerleader, launched into a literal play-by-play of the entire game until Twinkie rightfully shut him up and asked for me - the team's manager - to give him the quick and dirty.

Of course I'm the manager, by the way. Managers are the ones with the plan.

It was telling that Twinkie didn't care so much about whether we won, just whether we "beat the spread." You know, it's weird that some degenerate bookie Twinkie knows is actually establishing gambling lines for local rec-league softball games, but that at least explains why he was so twitchy and carrying all that cash around. I told him we had in fact pulled it off, and he spirited away to his office to count his winnings.

I  got the team charged up with a rousing speech about how we just have to beat the Shop and Spend team in the next game and the Championship is ours. They cheered. Jennifer looked at me like she was going to tear me apart the minute we were alone. Mary Anne looked at me like she picked the wrong cousin. Balki looked at me like he didn't understand a word I was saying because he's an idiot, but he was smiling. Our team might just be the Royals, but this is what Kings feel like.

Quick aside - Balki's wardrobe has gotten really out there this year. Today he had on a gray dress shirt, black shorts so long that they somehow were hiked above his belly button but still hanging down to his knees, suspenders, dress socks and wing tips. I honestly don't know if he's going for "French Schoolboy" or "Golfing Granny" but it's weirding me out.

Anyhoo. I told the team how important the win was, because if we pulled it off the Championship trophy would be MINE, and I would graciously share it with all of them - in spirit. They seemed to appreciate this. I dispatched the team and commented offhand to Balki that it was weird how Slugger, the Royals' ringer, didn't hang around for his custom slap on the ass from Coach before taking off. That's when Balki remembered to tell me that Slugger was going to the Grand Canyon with his family next week and wouldn't be around for the big game.

Shiiiiiiiiiit.

I grabbed him by his shirt collar and asked desperately why Slugger wouldn't tell me that himself. Balki pointed out that I would probably assault him the same way I was assaulting Balki right now, and I realized that I had underestimated my own identity as a vicious, domineering, violent man of power. I told Balki how much the team stinks without Slugger, and Balki started hinting around that maybe Slugger's replacement was standing in the room already. I pretended not to get the hint before sneaking out to lick my wounds.

I spent the whole next day trying to recruit a replacement, with no luck. I was really sweatin' it, man. Obviously Twinkacetti, my employer (and maybe landlord, I don't think that's ever been made clear) has been placing an escalating series of bets on the Royals, and anything that comes down hard on his head will undoubtedly come down twice as hard on mine. Also, the trophy! So close to MINE! Anyway Balki came home, overtly pining for the open roster spot now by wearing a child-size baseball cap and wearing a glove. I finally had to confront the question head on, and I told Balki we were headed into the championship and I needed someone who had at least played the game once in his life before.

Balki rolled out that whole standard issue bullcrap line about how it's important that you have fun, not that you win the game, which is the exact wrong thing I'd want to hear from someone trying to worm their way onto a team one game away from the championship. How about a little killer spirit, Balki? You're already climbing uphill trying to get on my team, Sport!

I told Balki that trophies are more important than life, and I cut to the chase that we usually don't get to until after our hijinks of the week by telling him I'm dealing with a web of serious inferiority complexes stemming from my life in a big family with more successful siblings. This time it was my brother Billy, the family athlete, who rubbed his lifetime of trophies in my face every night in our shared bedroom.

But being the good guy I am, I offered Balki the chance to practice with the team the next day so we could see if he had any raw skills. And being the terrible guy that Balki is, he responded with zero gratitude at all and instead launched into his standard selfish little baby routine, whining, "I want practice now." Despite it being dark out and how I was trying to relax with a cold beer after spending all day cold-calling bats for hire, Balki wouldn't let it go.

In the old days, this would have devolved into a vicious shouting match; but I've learned that I could either waste a lot of energy and lose that argument eventually, or just cave immediately and hope I don't get injured. Balki has destroyed my spirit to such a depressing degree that I caved in less than four seconds. He wanted to pitch - a position that is not open on our roster - but instead of directing his first practice toward something productive like fielding slow grounders in deep right field, I issued him a pair of socks and took the bat. Trust me, this was easier.

We cleared some space in the living room and I told Balki to toss it up and over the plate. He went on to pretend he was getting signs from an imaginary catcher for what felt like days, until I totally snapped at him and demanded he throw the ball. He had driven me to a level of frustration so intense that when he finally whipped the socks high and outside, I chased 'em. I should've just let it go past me and wait for my pitch, but I was so determined to cream those socks back at Balki that I lost my cool, swung hard and destroyed yet another living room lamp. The asshole had the nerve to say "Strike one."

In case you all forgot over the hiatus, I just, I hate Balki so much.

Next day. Balki and I returned home in single color sweatsuits. Mine was a spaklingly clean royal blue, and Balki was in a completely filthy banana yellow. Practice had not gone well. I told him I'd never seen such an embarrassing display of baseball in my life. He liked sliding, so he just slid head first into every base while he was supposed to be playing right field. Never took batting practice. He was so disruptive we literally would have been better off with only 8 on the field.

I tried to gently kick Balki off the team, but he pulled the most massive guilt trip ever on me before I could get the words out of my mouth about what an amazing honor it was going to be to play the game he'd spent his whole life worshiping from Mypos; although clearly not worshiping enough to ever watch a single game in his life, and I know they have TV over there.

I couldn't do it. I told him he'd made the team. Balki said they'd throw him a parade on Mypos when they hear about it. HOW PATHETIC IS MYPOS? He sashayed off to tell his stuffed sheep about the whole situation or something, just as Twinkie called to tell me he'd recruited Duke Lyle to fill in for Slugger.

You heard that right. Duke Frigging Lyle.

For those of you who don't live in Chicago, you might not recognize the name; but trust me, in the small business recreation league circles of Chicago, Duke Lyle is kind of a big deal. You don't just turn down a chance to put Duke Lyle on your roster. Twinkie had offered Duke $50, which would come out of my pocket of course. I was walking tall anyway. I was about to get my trophy, which I could rub in Billy's face for the rest of his life. And then I heard Balki singing "The Impossible Dream" from the back, and I remembered the promise I had just made.

I had a turnip to toss off the truck.

The next day, Twinkie showed up with Duke Lyle himself. Duke Lyle! The strapping young ringer was kind of a dick up front, demanding his fifty bucks and then strolling off to get in some BP before game time. As he was walking away Balki, who I'd not bothered to say anything to the night before, arrived in his brand new uniform.

I pulled the team together and gave them a super inspiring speech about how important it was for them to win for me, and sent all but Balki out to the field. I told the turnip I was holding him back as my secret weapon, and I was keeping him on the bench until the perfect moment when I would unload him on the field. On a scale of "brilliant Larry manipulations," I'd put it near the top. Balki drank every word in and called me a genius.

You have no idea, Dummy.

He gleefully took his spot on the bench, and the game started. It didn't go well from the start. The Shop and Spend Spartans got off to an early lead, and I almost got my ass kicked out for going off on the ump like a machine gun.

We were down 4-3 in the bottom of the ninth. Token female player Mary Anne struck out for the second out of the inning, hacking away at the ball overhead with the bat like she was trying to beat Balki with a rubber hose during one of what I can only imagine are the horrifying sex games they play when the lights go out.

Two outs, bottom of the ninth, down one, one runner on base.

Duke was up. Balki tried to call a timeout, and put on the most amazing crybaby voice he's ever unloaded and told me he realized I wasn't putting him in, and that winning a championship must be more important than having a friend.

Low blow, Bartokamous.

All right, look: I know this makes me look bad. That's Balki's specialty. He'd set it all up from the word "Cousin." But think about this for a second. This is my team. I've coached them all season. I've had a LIFELONG FRIGGING COMPLEX from not winning any trophies, in the shadow of Billy Appleton. Balki had to see how important this was to me! I mean, he's been pretty satisfied being the cheerleader all season, and I let him dress for the last game, and all of a sudden the thing I've obviously needed my whole life has to take second fiddle to Balki getting one at bat in a rec league baseball game or we're not friends anymore? WHEN DID THIS, LIKE EVERYTHING ELSE, BECOME ABOUT BALKI???

Twinkie came down from the stands to ask what the eff was going on, and I told him the situation. He played me even harder than Balki, tweaking my trophy-jones and calling me a loser. But I knew the real stakes. The trophy on my shelf would be nice, but it would always carry the stink of Balki's manufactured hurt feelings and it would make me sick looking at it. I sent the turnip in.

Balki stepped up to the plate and held the bat cluelessly while two meatball pitches sailed past him in slow motion. Mary Anne could've drilled a run in off of them, but Balki just watched. I told him he only gets three strikes, and he said he got the strike and ball count mixed up. He asked if he should hit the next one.

Sure enough, the pitch comes in - and by the way, we were playing with some strange silver spray-painted ball for some reason. Balki connected, solid. I've never seen a softball hit so far. Of course he just stood there watching, then ran toward third base before finally getting in motion in the right direction. He slid into every base, as is his custom. But it didn't matter; Balki had hit that silver softball a country mile. Two runs scored. The Royals had won.

Balki and I returned home victors, but the tiny, cheap trophy felt weirdly empty. I realized I'd almost thrown away our friendship over it, and I'd quietly regretted not taking that deal. He then told me he was basically a superstar at home of a much more challenging version of softball where you hit rocks with a stick. Would've been nice to know earlier in the season, buddy.

I put my tiny plastic trophy on the mantle and gazed at it with pride. My first trophy, there by itself, not being overshadowed for the first time in my life. This prompted Balki to take out his absolutely massive wood and metal Most Valuable Player trophy, which seems like bullshit considering he played exactly one at bat in the whole season, and placed it directly next to my little one. The light from the sconce above the mantle shone down on the two trophies, and mine was now literally in the shadow of Balki's much bigger one.

God hates me.

2.2. Hunks Like Us.

OK. Listen up everyone. Your old buddy Larry just might be in love.

Like most of my adventures, there was a lot of pain and embarrassment getting there; but I met an amazing woman this week and she seems into me. Balki was uncharacteristically more helpful than not this time, and he seems to have a fish on the hook, too. It's a bull market here in Chi Town.

Anyway, here's how it went down. I was cleaning the window next to the door at work. As is his custom, Balki was on the clock but nowhere to be seen. Twinkie strolled in with his paper and offered a genuine compliment for the super clean window, and I thanked him.

"You've finally found an expert job for your talents," he said with an eye roll, and I smiled while imagining plucking those eyes out of his head and seeing if Balki had some spicy island recipe for them.

Speaking of Balki, he came tearing in right behind Twinkie and demanded that I congratulate him. I congratulated him, and then asked why. He told me that today he had joined a health club. It was yet another example of Balki believing that he deserved some level of recognition for giving somebody money in exchange for a product or acquiring something you're supposed to get, like a driver's license. Lay off it Pope Bartokomous, I'm not going to congratulate you every time you take a dump and I'm not going to congratulate you for joining a gym. God, get over yourself.

I asked why he'd bother joining a gym, and he grabbed my arm-fat as his answer. Now, wait a minute. First of all, Cousin Larry is rocking the ideal body. Have you ever seen Michelangelo's body proportions painting? I see it every day in the mirror. I tried to blow off his sudden cruel outburst, and so Balki resorted to straight-up schoolyard bullying, telling me that "with aerobic exercise and muscle resistance you can whittle away that disgusting bag of body fat you got." Balki is continuing his cruel game of psychological warfare, breaking me down at each barrier until there's nothing left of the confident Larry Appleton you all knew back in Madison. Having beaten me down sufficiently with his guilt trips and making me feel like a bad person, he's now moved onto image consciousness - telling me that I LOOK like a bad person, too - and overt name calling.

Even though Balki was being a dick, Twinkacetti and I teamed up to explain to him that some of these gyms are designed to rip you off; Twinkie took it a step further, telling Balki that some gyms sign a bunch of people up for memberships and then split town with all the dough. His logic was a little specious - the concept of a fly by night gym doesn't make any sense. Would it really be worth renting a space and setting up all that equipment just to move it over night after collecting down-payments on half a dozen memberships? I guess it would only work if they never let you even SEE the gym before signing the contract, but you'd have to be the dumbest person on earth to fall for that.

So it was a coin toss whether this is what had happened to Balki, now that I think about it. Also I shouldn't question Twinkie on criminal activity, so let's all assume this con exists and is targeted at humanity's dimmest and thickest. Enter Balki, stage right.

Now instead of backing off from his investment Balki decided to double down, asking if I wanted to join the gym with him, and I told him not on his life. I'm too smart for gyms.

"This river," I said, pointing to my brain. "Runs too deep." BOOM RESPECT IT.

Then Balki showed his hand. He got all serious and muttered quietly, "you will meet woman in tight leotard."

A ha.

It had been a while since Pervert Balki surfaced, so I'd kind of forgotten the monster that lurks beneath his flashy vests. But he came roaring back this week, revealing that his whole purpose for joining a gym was to do some Grade-A rubbernecking. I told him that women who go to those clubs aren't interested in guys like us (brilliant planmakers and their mouth-breathing foreign sidekicks) and encouraged him to drop his membership.

Here's something weird. He listened to me. Balki went to the phone to cancel his membership, whining all the way about how now he wasn't going to get any exercise; but Twinkie caught him before he could get to the receiver and told him he had fifty cases of motor oil to move in the back, he could work out on those.

Two firsts in ten seconds. Balki listened to me, and Twinkie finally called him out on never doing his job and gave him a direct order. I went back to the window, thinking to myself that there was something special about this day.

I had no idea how special it was going to be.

Seconds later, the finest stone cold fox I've ever seen in my life walked into the Ritz. A tall blonde, decked out in denim with hair as high as the ceiling. I made my way over and dropped the smoothest "may I help you?" I could muster.

"I'm looking for Balki Bartokomous," she said. Of course she was. For the briefest moment I introduced myself as Balki, but then realized no piece of strange was worth that and corrected myself. I told her I was his cousin.

"I'm Jennifer Lyons," she said, and I felt a little twitch down below at the mere speaking of her name. Turns out the perfect 10 had sold Balki his gym membership, but he unsurprisingly "was so excited" that he ran off blindly into the street afterward without signing the application.

I told her I was thinking of joining a health club, and she suggested I check out "Reuben's Perfect Body" where she works part time. This was going swimmingly. We were practically to first base. Then Balki came out and almost ruined it. He told her he was about to call her, and before I could let him say "to cancel my membership" I dragged him across the room to explain that I was in love with this woman and I think we're going to spend the rest of our lives together. It's uncommon for a stone cold player like Cousin L. to say things like this, and I wasn't sure Balki understood the magnitude.

Balki asked me if I'd asked her out, and I let out a haughty laugh. Amateur. "You can take the boy out of Mypos..." I said with a knowing grin. "Women like this are only interested in jocks. I can't just ask her out. I have to deceive her first." Balki totally doesn't get running game on chicks AT ALL.

So Balki went back to sign the form and Jennifer invited me to come to the club with him to check it out. I told her I'd have to skip my fifteen mile run (genius) but I'd give it a shot.

Cut to Reuben's Perfect Body, downtown, the next day. The outside had a flashy banner declaring "Food, Fitness, Fun!" I thought it was a little weird that the gym would list "food" as it's primary draw, but Reuben's also had really legitimate looking awnings with the logo painted on it so I felt some assurances that this wasn't one of those mysterious "vanish overnight" gyms that Twinkacetti warned us about. Inside looked a lot like the film set of a low budget porn set in outer space. The floors and walls were all pink and purple with curved metal and large round windows decorating the walls, and women in tight leotards stretched and pranced about in every corner of the room.

Maybe Balki was on to something.

Babes babes babes, oh my Lord so many babes! And two dudes at a bench press, but aside from them Balki and I appeared to be the only sausage at this party. I started to wonder if the membership cost a grand a month and Balki had accidentally bought our way into some kind of above-ground prostitution ring, but everyone seemed to be legitimately exercising so apparently he'd just stumbled onto the best kept secret in Chicago. Since we were there and it looked legit, we proceeded to work out. I was wearing my standard exercise outfit: dress pants and a green sweater. Balki was wearing the nicest clothes I've ever seen on him: a sharp collared golf shirt and high-waisted black shorts with dress socks and wing-tips.

"So here are the rules," I said. "Jennifer is MINE."

"But I saw her first," Balki said.

"But I LUSTED after her first," I told him. "This is America. Learn the customs." I've finally realized I can turn Balki's game of getting away with shit by blaming it on my nation's customs back on him and finally put myself at an advantage. He basically backed down. Arf arf! That's the sound an alpha dog makes.

"Watch and learn," I told him, as I made my way over to the weights.

Over in the weight area there were a lot more dudes, but I was riding pretty high at that point and considered them all pale comparisons to the bounty that is Cousin Larry. I laid down on the bench at the shoulder press, where an extremely large man who looked like an Incredible Hulk version of me in an inappropriately tiny spandex outfit told me there was too much weight on there, but I brushed him off. He pulled the bar down for me, and it lifted me right off my ass and into the air.

There I was hanging suspended, and I instructed Balki to get me down. His method of doing so involved lying on top of me and wrapping his legs around me like he was shimmying down a fire pole. His timing for this lewd act was perfect, as Jennifer came around the corner in an amazing full body pink spandex suit that had to be seen to be believed.

Jennifer was already creeped out, and I hadn't even gotten my shirt off yet. This was a bad start. She told us she was about to start an advanced aerobics class but there was a beginner's one in the other room if we were interested. No WAY were we sinking to that indignity, and she couldn't brush us off that quick. Balki and I pushed our way into Jennifer's class, which started with some light jogging in place. I smoothly jogged over to the spot next to her and said in my coolest cool guy voice, "this is an advanced class? Ha! It's a JOKE."

So so smooth, Larry A.

"So Jennifer, you're not going with anyone, are you?" I asked, but just then the exercise changed and Hulk Larry Appleton swept his arms out, knocking me backwards.. For those of you keeping track, I believe this maintains my streak of being hit hard by another adult without any consequences at least once per week since Balki got here. Anyway, I was knocked out of my spot and I'd have to make a new move. Meanwhile, another blonde fox had made her way over to Balki. I heard her introduce herself to Balki as Mary Anne, and that she was a Sagittarius. Balki responded in his most absurd little-boy voice that he's Balki, and he's a Bartokomous.

God.

In the exact same breath Balki asked "do you want to go out with me?" and she said she'd love to. Well, apparently it's that easy.

Later on Balki was trying and failing to do a situp and I was rocking 10 pounds on the chest machine. Jennifer was doing curls, and she pointed out that we looked tired. I just laughed her off like an old English king and told her that tired was a state of mind. I was so dialed in, you guys. Couldn't make a false move if I tried. Jennifer walked off, pretending to be weirded out by me but I know deep down she was into it. I was kind of glad though, because I was finally able to take a break.

I was seriously hurting. We'd been there four hours, and Balki asked me when I was going to get it over with and ask her out. He reminded me that we'd already done 400 situps, which if you're wondering is definitely foreshadowing. Then he wandered off, which I should've immediately known was a bad sign but I was too busy showing off my weight training for another fine piece of tail that walked past me. Numa-numa-numbers game, y'all.

Balki came back looking all guilty, saying he'd done something. He rattled off some Myposian and translated it into "he who hesitates sleeps with the goats" which does not surprise me AT ALL. I said "I thought you all slept with the goats," and he said "we do."

Yeah, we went there. Subtext be damned.

So then Balki told me that he'd gone over and asked Jennifer flat out if she'd go out with me. THAT WAS NOT THE PLAN! I had been working on this plan all day! Four hours of gun-pumping, aerobics, core workouts and awesome one liners, down the drain!

This is when that violent, homicidal break I've been barely holding back since Balki first showed up at my door finally struck. I saw red. I leapt at Balki to kill him, but was still strapped into the chest machine. I told him I was going to deport him in pieces as I tried to free myself. I eventually escaped, and chased Balki around the gym. When I finally caught him, I grabbed him by his admittedly fashionable polo shirt and pulled him close, ready to bite his face off.

That's when he told me she said yes.

Boioioioing! Balki was forgiven.

With no need to exercise ever again we returned home, like conquering generals. I declared myself "massive" and we strutted and peacocked around the apartment talking about how jacked we are. I reminded him that in six hours, two gorgeous women were coming to this apartment and asked him if he knew what that meant. He did not.

I told Balki that for his benefit, we should identify our objective. He asked if this was where I talked down to him, and I told him it was. "What we are trying to achieve is physical contact," I said. "Now how do we achieve physical contact?" Balki suggested we beg, and I considered it. But then I told him the ace in the hole. "Dancing."

Balki loved it. We were going to dance our way into those pants. I told Balki we should both rest because we were going to be up all night doing the nasty. So we sat on the couch, and the effects of our four hour workout kicked in within moments. we both passed out hard.

Hours passed.

I woke just as the last rays of sun were leaking from the apartment. I could not move. The pain coursing through every inch of my body was so intense I wished I was dead, and - like I always do when I first wake up - hoped Balki would be. Apparently this is what happens when you get your first real exercise in seven or eight years by going balls out at the gym for half a day. I looked at my watch; it was 8pm. The girls would be here any second.

I roused Balki, who let out a gutteral scream the moment his eyes opened. He was in as rough shape as me, which I kind of appreciated actually. They don't breed em that tough on Mypos after all, do they? We struggled to get to our feet, and Balki said we'd have to cancel the date. This was out of the question. You only trick a Jennifer Lyons into going out with you once. He tried to make his way to the phone and I chased him, but we could only take baby steps because of the pain. It didn't matter - a knock came at the door.

The babes were here.

I told Balki he had to sack up and not let on, because I WANT Jennifer (I even creeped myself out a little the way I said it) and they'd never stick with us if we were that beat up after one workout. Balki agreed. We let them in and told them to have a seat. We did our best to saunter over to the couch, walking like we'd just been dosed with phenobarbital and grinning painfully like we were just barely holding back the urge to murder them. Mary Anne was frozen with fear, but Jennifer sniffed out our gym fatigue instantly. Balki tried to admit that she was right, but I shut him up real good.

We sat down, each letting out an involuntary scream that I brilliantly passed off as a karate kiai. Balki mentioned we had wine and cheese, and seriously Balki?? We JUST frigging sat down, are you trying to kill us both? Mary Anne said she was starving, so of course up we got again, staring daggers into each other the whole way. We struggled mightily in the kitchen. Balki immediately dropped the cheese in the trash, and I fell on the floor while the two of us fought to open the wine bottle. While I struggled to get up Balki stumbled back to the couch holding the wine bottle like his erect member, and they just rolled with it; so either these gals are cool, or they're super pervs. Either way I'm in.

Of course, after watching us go through this whole exercise Jennifer told us that they don't drink; could've mentioned that before we fought our way off the couch and into the kitchen, bitch; but before I could get too mad Mary Anne suggested we all get up and dance. Weirdest date ever?

Now, normally they would've been playing right into my hands. Dancing was the plan. The plan was working, like they always do. Balki and I were in no shape to dance, but you don't deviate from the plan, ever, especially if the plan is to get laid. I told them we could dance, but this is where Balki hit his wall. He came clean that we could barely move. They told us they'd assumed we overdid it at the gym because we were going at it so hard for four hours in our business-casual outfits, and they had kind of expected us to cancel the date.

I admitted it was all my fault, that I thought they'd only want jocks, and that I'm slime. Jennifer seemed a little hesitant, but Mary Anne was totally giving Balki DEFCON-1 level Dirty-Eyes right in front of all of us.

Balki always gets the freaks.

But hey, lesson learned: since we'd come clean, the girls decided to stay and basically take care of us. We had a lovely evening that isn't worth recapping here because everyone's pants stayed on and the girls left a few hours later. Balki and I talked about how nice they were and he wondered why I assumed they wouldn't be into us. I told him that back in high school the cheerleaders only dated the jocks, and I wanted a cheerleader so bad. I kept going off on how bad I wanted a cheerleader that Balki finally warned me that I was going to hurt myself and glanced down at my pants. Message received. This was NOT boner time.

Instead it was sleep time. We were too tired to even pull off the Dance of Joy, which seriously sucks. Balki and I both passed out standing up and slumped to the floor, each probably dreaming about the other one's date because that's just how it goes. 

I wonder whatever happened to Susan?

2.1. Hello Baby.

Hey there friends and fiends! Sorry I haven't written in a while - I guess a few months have passed. It kind of feels like a new chapter here in Chicago. I guess you could say I'm now in my second season with Balki. We both still work at Ritz Discount, and live in the apartment upstairs. Balki still sleeps on the couch like he's just crashing for the night. And we have continued to build on our dysfunctional relationship wherein I enable Balki's childish behavior and he drives my blood pressure closer and closer to quadruple digits, and we can both barely contain our disgust for each other. In other news, Balki has taken to wearing extremely ornate vests and dress shirts.

So anyway big week, lot if hijinks. Witnessed the miracle of life, NBD. Here's the scene: Balki and I were negotiating a refrigerator in to the store on a hand truck, and along with the fridge Balki was dragging another 165 pounds of sass. I was doing an expert - AN EXPERT - job directing Balki where to push the fridge, how to avoid steps, and where to swing it in while he just openly glared at me and questioned why he was "doing all the work." How about because the hand truck only has one set of handles, and I have a perfect sense of spatial navigation and a bad back, all right?

I explained to Balki in no uncertain terms that "somebody has to be in charge. Somebody has to have a plan. That's me. Somebody has to carry out the plan. That's you." I've decided to take a new, more direct and less compromising approach with Balki this year. Like most untrained animals, he acts up because he lacks discipline - and I'm going to bring this puppy in line. Also, I've really discovered lately just how much I love having plans. God, having plans feels good.

Makes me feel taller.

But I digress. The Ritz now sells exactly one refrigerator, which I would consider an odd business model if I wasn't 100 percent positive that everything we sell in this store is just stuff that Twinkacetti's nephews stole. Balki followed my directions to where we were going to park it, and then all passive-aggressively pinned me up against the wall with the fridge and pretended he didn't notice.

Before I could even tell him not to ever - EVER - do that again, a very pregnant woman ran panicking into the store calling his name and OH MY LORD BALKI GOT SOMEONE PREGNANT. My heart stopped as I slipped into a walking nightmare, imagining Balki attempting to raise a child in our apartment and committing a line of parenting offenses so long that Child Services would have to rename their manual the "Balki." I don't need that shit. I held out hope that she was just going to shake him down for money and split; if I hadn't been trapped behind the fridge I would have reached for my wallet to chip in if it would help make this problem go away.

Any way she wants.

The good news was, it turns out it's not Balki's kid after all. The woman was Gina Morelli, an Italian immigrant from his citizen class. Gina realized I was being crushed by a refrigerator and freed me, instantly engendering more goodwill with old Cousin Larry than Balki has in months. I would have traded him for this complete stranger and her anchor baby right now, straight up, no returns.

The good vibes of course didn't last. Gina broke into tears immediately, saying that her husband was a truck driver currently crossing the empty plains of Texas and she couldn't get a hold of him, and she'd just been evicted from their apartment and had no money and nowhere to go. She said that Balki is her only friend in this country, so she came to the Ritz.

This sounds suspicious.

Of course Balki drank up every syllable like a baby sheep (for God's sake, now I'm dropping shepherd analogies) and offered to let Gina stay with us until her husband gets back without even discussing it with me for like, one second privately first. I don't know this woman at all. She just dragged a fridge across the room while supposedly nine months pregnant. Can we do just a little bit of homework first, Balki? I tried to hedge a little, just to MAYBE get the briefest of asides with my roommate before we make agreements about long term guests, but he wasn't having it.

I asked where she'd sleep. Balki said he'd give her the couch, but I pointed out that she would have no privacy and would need her own room.

Balki of course interpreted this back to Gina as me offering up my own bedroom to her for the length of her stay. So now I'm not only agreeing to let another perfect stranger live in my apartment, but I've also given her my bedroom? Are these two working in tandem? Is this Balki's secret wife? Has the plan finally been put into motion?

Gina called me a saint and kissed my hand, which, well, finally someone is treating me with the right level of respect around here. Off they went to collect her things, leaving me alone and feeling played for the 100th time since last spring. This entire sequence took approximately 90 seconds.

Later that night, Balki was tucking Gina into bed while I was kind of storming around the apartment. I was angrily pacing back and forth in front of the foldout couch, which was ominously made up all nice with two sets of pillows. That's correct, dear readers; for some length of time Balki and I would be sharing a bed.

He had dragged the TV into the bedroom for Gina to watch, so we couldn't even count on basic cable to distract us from how weird it was that we were going to be sleeping five inches apart from each other for the next several days. I quipped that I would put Gina in my will, but she already has everything I own - BOOM SOLID GOLD JOKE, COUSIN LARRY! RIMSHOT! - which finally tipped Balki off that I wasn't especially thrilled with our current predicament. At least it was out in the open. Also out in the open? Balki's Spiderman pajamas. The pajamas really upset me; but part of me was relieved that they were a one-piece. God knows what Balki does in his sleep.

Now you're going to live through every detail of Balki and I going to bed together in writing, because I had to in real life; and I understand it's therapeutic to write these things down. I was irate. I tried to get in bed, but apparently had taken Balki's regular side of the bed. After an instant shouting match that would normally estrange two non-related roommates for days but was just kind of status quo around here, I agreed to take the other side of the bed.

In an attempt to smooth things over, Balki told me how much he admires me for giving up my bedroom to a woman he hardly knows. You read that right: He and Gina barely know each other! Although he's never mentioned her before now, I had just assumed these two really connected in the hours that Balki and I are apart, but it turns out she's just some lady! He also told me what a great guy I am for taking "the hot side of the bed." Apparently it's the hot side because the sun breaks through a hole in the curtains at 6 am and shines on the space where my head was with the concentration of a laser beam.

EFFFFF THAT. I'd put up with a lot already, but I wasn't sleeping on the hot side of the bed. This was all Balki's fault! So we switched sides, and I rolled over to find myself nuzzled into the ass end of Balki's stuffed sheep, Dmitri. I unceremoniously tossed the sheep off the bed, which sent Balki into a complete tailspin. He shuffled off the bed to "say his prayers," - which I've never seen before, and up to now had been pretty certain the Christians hadn't found Mypos yet - to protect Dmitri down there all scared and cold and exposed on the apartment floor, and then he hid under the covers and started sobbing loudly.

Sure enough I broke like I always do, almost entirely because I just wanted to sleep and couldn't hear myself think over Balki's loud crying. So I recovered the sheep, and of course Balki had to punish me with humiliation by making me apologize. To Dmitri.

This is one of those examples we run into a lot around here where Balki uses his Myposian heritage as an excuse to act like a spoiled four year-old. There's a big difference between cultural eccentricities and behaving like a bratty toddler; and I have to assume that life on a dirt poor, agrarian driven small island would force you to grow up early, not the other way around. Balki is full of shit with this act. Anyway, rant over.

There we were, in bed on a pullout couch. We appeared to be settled for the night, if not comfortable, and I finally accepted that we were doing a good thing and should be proud of ourselves. That's when Balki decided to tell me that the baby was due two weeks ago, and this lady was going to go into labor any second.

Balki is so buying me new sheets.

There would be no sleep in our apartment that night. Look, I come from a big-ass family, all right? I've seen enough child births to know how often things don't go according to plan.

And you know how much I love plans.

I wasn't going to let this child birth go off the rails. Not on my watch! I dragged Balki and Gina out of their respective beds and initiated a rigorous training schedule that would get her out the door in a matter of seconds when the contractions started. Stopwatch in hand, I ran them through drills for hours and hours, until Gina finally passed out in the armchair from exhaustion and Balki started whining.

I just couldn't get him there on why this is a big deal. Balki said they didn't even bother going to the hospital when they have babies on Mypos. Here's how he said it works, word for word: "The woman is working in a field. She takes a short break. She has the baby. And then she cooks dinner for eleven men."

Mypos is starting to come into clearer focus now, and it does NOT sound like a very friendly place for women.

I let him know that in America, women have to go to the hospital, and to get to the hospital you have to have a PLAN. Balki does not have a PLAN! How can he LIVE like that?

We went back to square one and ran through the cycle again, and left Gina out of it for expediency's sake. Balki was responsible for getting the suitcase while I was responsible for calling the hospital, and he did NOT agree with that workshare. I tried to gently explain to him that people at the hospital won't have the first damn clue what he's talking about, what with his bizarre verb confusion and limited vocabulary; and for the second time tonight, Balki started to cry. So I decided to just let him prove me right and do a dry run where he calls the hospital.

Here's how that went: he picked up the receiver, yelled, "hospital, baby coming!" And hung up.

Whatever. It's not my kid. Anyway we decided to give the run-through a break for the night, and I offered to stay awake all night on watch. I told Balki that "this must have been how Eisenhower felt just before D-Day." A short time later, I was fast asleep.

Sure enough, Gina came tottering out of the room and woke Balki up with the news that she was in labor. They woke me up, and I was so friggin out of it that I didn't know who Gina even was or what baby everyone was talking about until Balki hit the right trigger word - "Cousin, remember the PLAN?" And it all came rushing back in an instant. I sprung from the bed and into action. I attempted to calm Gina by telling her that first babies take a long time, and she responded that she'd been in labor for a long time but didn't want to bother us. Also of note: in this moment, Gina's accent sounded a lot more like it it hailed from Florence, New Jersey than Florence, Italy. If she is running a con, she's not doing a very good job staying in character.

I'll admit I got pretty wound up at this point. We had to move. There would not be a childbirth in my apartment, nosiree. I sprinted across the room toward the phone, cleaning out a lamp in the process. Balki beat me there, but I reminded him that he failed his test to be "the guy who calls the hospital" instead of "the guy who carries heavy shit." I pounded away at the keys on the phone, dialing up the hospital and then yelling, "hello, hospital? The baby is coming!" Click. Whoops.

I of course Blame Balki for planting that line in my head during our last run through. But at least I got in the greeting and articles in my panicked scream-dial (hello, the, is) so I did better than Balki. Jersey Gina, now making no attempt to sound like she was from Italy at all, assured me that the hospital would know why she was there when we arrived and out the door she went. I, meanwhile, could not find my keys. I couldn't find them because they were in my pants, which I couldn't find because my pants were in the closet. I could not find the closet.

Looking back now, I was pretty much a hot mess. While I was in full meltdown Balki found my keys, and that made me madder than ever. I was circling the drain when Balki finally full on slapped me across the face, and we both acted all shocked like he doesn't beat me regularly, as I've detailed thoroughly in this journal. The slap brought me back to reality though, at least enough that I was able to get out the door and follow Balki and Gina to the hospital. We were all still in our pajamas, but I stopped caring about that stuff a long time ago.

Because the plan had me driving and we were not deviating from the plan regardless of my mental state, I drove like a wildman through the dark and empty streets of Chicago toward the hospital while Balki tried to chill Gina out. Some cop who must have been driving drunk or something almost let me crash into him, but fortunately my feline reflexes kicked in and I swerved just in time.

Balki, who was supposed to be my navigator, was riding me from the back seat about how I needed to drive faster and in the process of dealing with him I missed the turn for the hospital. We hit a big bump, and apparently in that moment the little bugger started crowning because Balki said he was going to have to deliver the baby in the backseat of the moving car. I told him that wasn't a good idea, and then for no reason Gina grabbed my head and pulled it backwards.

She was not letting go. I was looking straight up at the ceiling while the car careened forward. I had no control. I begged Gina to let go, and told her in the calmest voice possible that we were all about to die. Balki finally did something useful and got her to let go, allowing me to recover from another imminent accident at the very last second.

Balki told me to stop the car, so I hit the brakes in the middle of a busy intersection. Next thing, I hear a baby crying. She'd had the kid in the backseat of the 'Stang. I saw the video in health class; the resale value of my classic car has just dropped to nil, those stains don't come out.

I turned around and saw the baby, and the mess, and then things just went fuzzy. I passed out.

Balki got me home, and I started to have my little moment. I was feeling pretty crappy about how much I'd panicked when the shit hit the fan and to make matters worse, Balki did everything right. I told him I always panic - hence the relentless rehearsals, maybe now Balki gets it - and that I'm worthless.

As I trudged off to bed, Balki told me he was going to help Gina find an apartment and they were going to start on Delaney Street.

I stopped in my tracks. "Delaney street is all wrong!" I said. "Gina needs to be in a neighborhood with good public transportation! She has to be within walking distance from a supermarket! What about a daycare center?" I told him I'd have to go with him so he didn't drop Gina in the middle of some gang turf war, when he took his little ruse too far by being way too effusive about how smart I was and I figured out that he was just trying to make me feel better. He recited some saying in Myposian, which sounds more like a racist impression of Chinese (some of the words sounded like "bing bong"). The gist of which was that "if everyone learned how to herd sheep, there would be no one to write poetry."

Wise words.

With all that settled, we decided to change out of our PJs, put on our pants and go get shitfaced to celebrate what we'd just experienced together. It had been quite the night. Gina had a baby, and I gained some respect for Balki's ability to perform under pressure.

But seriously, Delaney Street?

Idiot.