1.2. Picture This.

Good morning and welcome back to another episode of "How Weird Can it Get?" starring your old friend Larry Appleton. 

I'm afraid to come out from under the covers this morning after yesterday. Another day, another wild series of events. Things started out plain enough. It was your typical boring morning at Ritz Discount. I had just cashed out my first customer of the day when Twinkacetti showed up bragging about knocking an old man over on the sidewalk or something. His hair trigger temper already clearly set on "any second now," I decided it would be smart to smugly needle him a little; and Balki decided it would be smart to show up even later than the boss on his second frigging week of work. 

Apparently the Turnip had found his way to the rooftop of some old lady's apartment on the other side of the city and got attacked by a flock of pigeons.

I am not making this up. It is only 9am. How is Balki not dead already? I mean I understand there are some language and culture barriers at play here, but this level of imbecilic behavior is barely quantifiable as human. 

But I digress. Twinkie didn't seem to give half a shit that Balki was late. What's the deal with those two? Mr. Twinkacetti seems to really outwardly hate Balki, but he totally reinforces his bad behavior by leveling zero consequences on him. Anyway, believe it or not this whole episode was immediately forgotten moments later, when I finally got IT.

My first hot celebrity gossip lead.

Gus called - you don't need to know who he is, it's not important - to let me know that Dolly Parton had been spotted at the Whitcliffe. As you all know friends, it's been my lifelong dream to be a respected photojournalist, so a hot paparazzi shot of Dolly Parton standing around in a hotel is obviously like gold in the reserve. Next stop, National Geographic. This was it. 

So I left Balki alone to watch the store again, because that worked out so well last time, and I was off. But I had arrived at the hotel a moment too late, and missed the shot. Instead of going back to the store for the rest of my shift which had just started, I guess I just kind of wandered around the city the rest of the day because the next time I saw Balki it was at home in the apartment. I wonder if I'm going to get paid for this shift? Mr. Twinkacetti made it pretty clear after last week's debacle that he's willing to put up with the absolute worst of Balki and my behavior, including just blowing off a day of work to pursue a different career, so I probably don't have anything to worry about. Twinkacetti, what a jerk, right? Anyway, good news and bad news. The bad news is I missed the shot; the good news is, I poked around and found out that ole Dolly D-Cups is having an affair and it's playing out right in Chicago. Boioioing! 

Balki had some issues with me invading Dolly's personal space, but I explained clearly that celebrities give up their right to privacy in America and they just have to put up with shitstain paparazzi taking their pictures every waking second - and besides, I need this picture to become a respected photojournalist. Balki had a kind of remarkably shrewd moment where he asked if this is actually photojournalism, but I deflected it with a classic Larry one-liner and put the whole thing to bed. I need to mention again that I'm a phenomenally patient man, letting this clueless ding-dong who's completely dependent on me for food, shelter, employment and practically the air he breathes to second-guess my integrity after just a couple of days living in my apartment. I SWEAR TO GOD you guys, seconds later I popped open a soda can and he was so bewildered by this act of dark magic that he thought I was some kind of demigod.

Anyway, read this loaded sentence and try and figure out the kind of strange I'm pulling out here. A flight attendant named Linda showed up at the door with a 150 pound killer dog named Gorbachev, that I apparently promised to watch while trying to get into the mile high club. 

Although she's out of town for days she left no dog food, but I probably have some in my apartment since, I don't know, I watch this dog all the time? It's never come up before and probably won't ever again. But who cares? Because the fact that we're hinging on nuclear war with Russia and this chick has a dog named after the Russian general secretary couldn't make it more clear that she must be NUTS in the sack. 

So I locked the dog up and instantly forgot about him when I noticed Balki was sewing Twinkie's pants instead of going to his naturalization class.

I gave him a pep talk about not letting people take advantage of him without any hint of nuance, which was sure to not backfire on me at all. In the same moment Gus called again with a hot tip that Dolly was on the move, and the timing couldn't have been worse because someone needed to walk Gorbachev and Balki was riding high on a new wave of jerk confidence that I'd just programmed into him. So he put on his sassiest "no" voice and said he wouldn't walk the dog. I probably should have countered with "then move out," but I wasn't thinking very clearly in the moment. DOLLY WAS ON THE MOVE. Left with no other clear options I took the dog out on my hunt, and sure enough Gorbachev started chasing Dolly across the park and I got a sprained ankle out of the deal. So instead of just kicking Balki out of my apartment for good like I should have done in the first place, I just got all whiny passive-aggressive around him instead, and guess what:

He pulled that guilt trip shit AGAIN. ON ME. So I stormed off to the bathroom to clear my head when Gus called, and Balki made a big show about hanging up on him. Who the hell does Balki think he is? Let's recap. 

1 - I let Balki into my home, teach him to work, watch TV, open soda cans, wipe his own ass, what an American woman looks like, etcetera etcetera.

2 - I ask this freeloader for a small, simple favor so I can chase the dream I've had since I was a kid. He not only says no, but is a dick about it.

3 - I screw up my chance and hurt myself in the process. I'm understandably a little stand-offish around Balki over this. 

4 - I get a second chance when my friend - who Balki does not know - calls the phone in my house - which Balki does not pay for - and before I can get out of the bathroom Balki rudely hangs up on him. 

5 - Balki now seems pissed off at ME.

Balki is a monster. I considered pouncing on him and fighting it out until one of us strangled the other, but instead I tried to reason with him even though he didn't deserve it. I offered to apologize - although I don't know for what - if Balki would just tell me what Gus said, and in that moment he seized alpha dog status for good. Here's what he made me repeat, and I know I have this right because I'll never forget it: 

"I am dirt. I am the sweat of a pig. I am sorry forever." 

WHO DOES THAT? He didn't just say it to me, he made me say it about myself, and I hadn't even done anything wrong! It was in this moment the chilling realization struck that I'm Balki's prisoner. I was so foolish to think I might be able to control him. I just have to hope he shows pity on me from time to time. In this case, he did; he gave me the lead on Dolly, and we took off together to snap the picture. We tracked Dolly and her secret man to a fancy restaurant, and once Balki had lured me into a false sense of trust he stole my camera and ran for it. After a brief physical struggle I wrenched the camera out of his hands and pulled some ninja moves across the restaurant to close in on Dolly, but Balki was right on my heels. He started throwing himself in front of me and then shouted out to Dolly to run for it.

So everyone gets up from their tables afraid I have a gun or something, and guess what: it's not even Dolly.

Frigging Gus. 

I talked my way out of an ass-kicking by the husband of the poor woman I've been stalking all over the city and Balki and I got the hell out of there. That night I did some real soul searching and decided being a paparazzo isn't the line of work for me. Balki took all the credit for my epiphany and tried to pass off his dickish behavior as him trying to teach me a lesson (HE DOESN'T KNOW HOW TO OPEN A SODA CAN) thereby solidifying his position as the master in this master-slave arrangement. To close out the worst day ever, Gorbachev attacked me once I walked into my bedroom.

Linda so seriously better put out.