1.4. Baby You Can Drive My Car.

I'm slowly becoming my own worst enemy.

The decisions I'm making in Balki's presence continue to put me in deeper and more dangerous jams. I'm sorry to report that the events of this week have put all of the city of Chicago at risk. As of late this afternoon, Balki Bartokamous is licensed to drive.

Like most of these stories, it all started at the Ritz. Balki was stamping price tags on cans of motor oil (we literally sell everything under the sun within the 800 square feet of this discount store) and tossing them high up in the air for me to catch and stack instead of just handing them to me like a grownup who doesn't want to make a mess would. I have to admit we had a nice little pattern going, but why add the risk? Because Balki, that's why.

Twinkacetti strolled in in a decent mood, possibly because for the first time ever Balki was already at work when he arrived. He was showing off that he'd just had his driver's license renewed, which seems like a weird thing to brag about - but the old man kind of pulled a humblebrag about the announcement like he had won the license in an arm wrestling tournament or something, no big deal, happens all the time. It was bizarre. 

Of course, Balki was blown away. He literally asked Twinkie if getting his new license made him aroused - He's moved beyond subtle language-barrier mishaps and into full-blown overt perversion - and went on and on about what a big deal having a driver's license is. Between the two of them I'm starting to wonder if having a license is a bigger deal than I thought; but that's not the important part of the story. What's important is that Balki was enchanted by the license, and suspecting where this was going immediately, my life flashed before my eyes as I imagined myself screaming in the passenger seat while Balki drove my car off a bridge.

Balki started whining about how he isn't a real man or something because he doesn't have a driver's license, and in the first legitimately funny thing he's said since he arrived, he sincerely thanked Twinkie and I for letting him hang out with us anyway. At that point, we learned that Balki holds the ownership of a driver's license in a weirdly high esteem. When I told him it's really no big deal and just a piece of paper he launched into a series of hyperbolic analogies about the value of a license like "Is the Lincoln Memorial only a building? Is Mount Rushmore only a chunk of stone?" I quietly started wondering what Balki thinks a driver's license actually is, like maybe "driver's license" in Myposian means "vagina magnet." He then informed us that Mypos only has one car, and I realized that that translation was basically spot-on. Twinkacetti, meanwhile, got all xenophobic and started busting Balki's balls about his home country. So I took my new approach with the Turnip, attempting to win him over by declaring myself his friend and offering to teach him to drive in hopes of controlling his worst impulses.

You'd think it would dawn on me that putting Balki behind the wheel of a two ton motor vehicle seems a little premature in his first-world development program considering he still thinks the toilet is a ghost hippo that feeds on poops, but after that whole driver's license boner conversation with Twinkie I suspected he doesn't actually want the license to drive as much as he just wants it for the boners. So after deciding America's safety would not be compromised, I promised to teach Balki to drive. However, he wanted the driving lessons in the 'Stang, which no way bro. Twinkacetti saw my hesitation and pounced. He needled me relentlessly, expertly projecting Balki's capacity for failure onto me and betting me fifty bones that "the yo-yo" would fail his driver's test. Now I'm backed in a corner and when this dog gets backed in a corner I'm gonna bite, right? So I take the bet and instantly regret it. Here we go.

I stalled Balki out for a week by making him read the manual for the written test over and over until he finally caught on and called me on my bullshit, and the lessons began. We started out slow; I sat on the coffee table and invited Balki to sit next to me. For no good reason he slammed his imaginary car door, and I told him not to ever... EVER do that again. Maybe a little over the top, I know, but I was already hella stressed and he's slamming doors? We were sitting in a metaphorical gas-soaked tinderbox and I was just waiting for Balki to light the spark. He started whining about how it was kind of hard to pretend to drive without the gearshift and gas and brake pedals, so I created a fake gearshift out of the plunger, gas pedal from a box of frozen peas and a brake out of a grapefruit and you probably think you know where this is going.

Quick digression - assigning the grapefruit as a brake pedal is something I wouldn't have been dumb enough to do a month ago. It's indicative of how Balki's live-wire antics have pushed me out of the thoughtful, careful mindset I lived in for the last 23 years and honestly, I've started doing some stupid shit out of frustration or anxiety. At this pace I fear a near future where I just give up on reality entirely and stop thinking anything through at all before I act. I need to get Balki out of my life before it's too late.

Anyway, driving lesson. With Balki's imaginary car set up, we start a completely illogical driving exercise where I'm just describing to Balki that we're in traffic and he should speed up or slow down based on things I'm dreaming up in the moment. I fully recognize this is not the way to teach anyone to drive, but maybe I can scare him off from getting behind the wheel of the 'Stang for several more years if I make it confusing enough. Needless to say, I planned to create a cascading series of driving emergencies that Balki had no choice but to react to as I screamed at him - including just shouting "look out!" in order to terrify Balki enough that he might give up. I didn't even get to the second disaster event. When I screamed "look out!" in his ear, Balki let go of the imaginary wheel and curled up in a ball, just waiting to die.

I scolded him for letting go of the wheel and covering his eyes, but Balki called me on how my driving instructions didn't make any sense, and fair enough. So I finally promised that if he didn't hit anything during a few more spins around the living room (a scenario I was in complete control of since I was making up things for him to hit) we could try my car. Here's where your expectations are diverted: Checkov's grapefruit never got stomped on. Instead, while Balki attempted a "right turn" and I started yelling "signal, signal, signal!" he swung his right arm out to signal like a bicyclist and violently knocked me off the coffee table and over the couch.

Balki is frighteningly strong for someone so stupid.

Although Balki had failed my test - he didn't just hit something imaginary, he hit a very real Cousin Larry - I agreed to take him out on the road for real because I'm the dumbest man alive and it's entirely possible he hit me on purpose to remind me who's in charge. So we headed over to the parking lot, where Balki immediately crashed into a runaway shopping cart because he was dumb enough to not recognize that me yelling "hit the grapefruit!" means "hit the brake." I had made it all so simple! We stormed into the Ritz, where Susan and Twinkacetti were hanging out (weird) and I reported what had happened while Balki launched into a pity party so indulgent that even Twinkie seemed to be sad about it. Balki went full drama queen, saying he's the worst person alive and according to Mypos custom he needs to banish himself far away.

FINALLY! I figured Balki would leave Chicago when the last drops of blood left my body, but it turns out it just took a couple dings in the Mustang to shoo him off. I made no attempt to stop him.

Well, of course I couldn't be so lucky. Instead of actually going far away like the custom required, Balki had just retreated upstairs to the apartment where he hid under blankets and sulked around dramatically. This being plain evidence that his Myposian banishment custom was actually total crap and he was just fishing for pity, I should've just left him to mope until he got over it or moved out. But his put-on misery was so over the top that, Lord help me, I broke. And there I was, apologizing to Balki again for something he did to ME. And I didn't just have to apologize; I had to convince him to get back after his dream. Balki had given up on seeking a driver's license after the first 5 minutes behind the wheel, so I launched into a Joshua Chamberlain-quality inspirational speech that involved the two of us singing America the Beautiful and Balki running through a series of mixed metaphors about sheep to put him back on track.

It worked like a charm. And so, in a mixture of weakness and inspiration from my own oratory skills, I handed Balki the keys.

That same day I guess - we were wearing the same clothes - Balki and I rolled into the DMV to get him a license. Balki has been living in America for a few weeks. He has been driving for a few hours, tops. This is too soon. But we needed to put an end to this adventure so we can move on to the next insane shenanigan that he's sure to take me on next week, so there we were.

I had no faith in Balki to answer the simple line of questioning volleyed at him at the DMV so I started answering for him, until I was shouted down by the nasty old coot at the counter, who went on to administer an eye test to Balki. After a series of mishaps - like Balki covering both of his eyes at the same time, and at one point covering the proctor's eyes - they worked through it - and it turns out that much like his show of strength earlier, Balki has superhuman vision, too. You understand why I go so far out of my way to stay on his good side. It's like living with a bull. You don't have to like it, but you sure as hell have to be nice to it if you don't want it to go off on you.

Balki went on to take the written test, and he completed it in four seconds flat. I take 100 percent credit for this since I made him read that manual ten thousand times. He only got one question wrong, and then a disturbing first show of arrogance burst through when he insisted that the proctor rescore the test. It didn't matter - he'd still passed with flying colors - but Balki was insistent. Having seen the kind of disaster that Balki can create when someone angers him, I played it cool. Sure enough, the guy re-read the test and Balki had a perfect 100 after all. He was feeling all cool about it but he didn't realize that he'd wised off to the guy responsible for him getting a driver's license because of his stupid pride.

So Balki and the mean old guy headed out to take the driving test, and never came back. After two hours I finally headed to the Ritz, where Twinkie immediately assumed Balki has failed and told me that I owed him $50. I naturally went a step further and assumed Balki has died on the road, but then he wandered in with a blank look on his face and a story about how he accidentally got on the expressway, and the proctor - Frank - sort of had a heart attack, and Balki took him to the hospital. Turned out Balki's adventure on the expressway had just triggered a case of indigestion in old Frank, and the guy was so happy he wasn't dead that he gave Balki his license.

Can we talk about how big of a problem that is? Balki didn't earn the license at all. He has been driving for exactly one day, and he's already been in an accident and wandered onto the expressway during a driving test, nearly killing the proctor in the process. Frank should be fired when he gets out of the hospital. This was a happy ending for exactly one person on the whole planet. The roads are a little less safe today. Insult to injury, after we had a nice bonding moment Balki revealed that he'd locked the keys in the car.

But at the same time I made fifty clams off Twinkie, so I'm walkin on sunshine.

1.3. First Date.

Well, it's been another physically and emotionally painful week here in Chicago. I knew it was only a matter of time before Balki's primal urges overpowered him and he'd give in to his carnal desire to mate. Managing this pursuit did not go well for me.

It all started when Susan stopped by the Ritz to deliver a piece of junk mail of mine from Publisher's Clearing house that showed up in her mailbox, instead of just throwing it out like a good neighbor would. Does Susan want to hook up with me or does she kind of hate me? I honestly have no context for our relationship. Anyway I dropped a classic one liner about how it's another letter from Ed McMahon and I feel bad for not getting back to him, and Susan just laughed it off instead of catching on that she went out of her way to deliver garbage to me while I was trying to work.

Moments later Balki entered, and he was carrying a large and mysterious cardboard box. I still haven't figured out if he's been assigned a slightly different shift than me, or if he just wanders in whenever he feels like it; because I'm starting to realize most of my stories start with "I was already at work, and then Balki showed up." Anyhoo, Susan was still there so Balki immediately lost all motor skills and any sense of self-awareness that I've spent the last two weeks desperately beating into him, dropped his mysterious box right on the floor and started trying to rub his weiner all over her like some kind of feral tomcat. I cannot imagine this is acceptable in Mypos either, but what do I know, right?

Next thing, Balki literally drops face down onto the floor in front of Susan in some kind of bizarre sub-human act of submission and she understandably makes a run for it. So God help me, despite my better judgment I take on yet another fruitless effort in trying to talk reason into Balki. I tell him he cannot be such a weirdo perv around our neighbor anymore and I never see him do this to other women, and that's when Balki tells me he doesn't know any other women.

I told Balki he needs to go out and meet women, and he astutely pointed out how easy that is for me because I'm a "happenin guy." So I take pity on the little fella and offer him some can't miss seduction tips, seconds before a kind of homely chick in high-waisted pants asked for help with sweaters in the store. Her timing couldn't be worse, poor thing; but you gotta start somewhere, right? So I sent him over to make a move.

As Balki crossed the store toward his prey I remembered that he was carrying a mysterious box when he got in here that he dropped on the floor and forgot about instantly. It had landed with a pretty loud thud - whatever is in there must be heavy. I cannot stop thinking about that box. Already at this early stage in our relationship nothing Balki might bring in here in a box could surprise me. While the smart money is on magic beans, it could just as easily be a case of poisonous spiders or human heads, and I'll have no choice but to roll with it. WHAT IS IN THAT BOX?

But I digress. Balki made his way over to the paying customer who we've decided to conduct a social experiment on, got way up in her personal space and asked if he can help her in the deep, monotonous voice of a serial killer. Within ten seconds he was repeatedly and aggressively sexually harassing her in a manner that made me cover my own genitals. The poor woman tried to play it cool and keep shopping, and in the span of half a minute Balki committed enough fireable offenses that any respectable manager would have no choice but to send him packing.

Needless to say, I did absolutely nothing.

Now here's something though. While heroically trying to put Balki in his place, the customer asked him "Where do you get off?" I felt my heart stop for a second when I thought Balki might try to provide a very graphic answer to her question, but instead he said "well, I got off in New York but took a bus to Chicago." Adorable language mixup aside, didn't Balki tell me that he went to my parents house in Wisconsin before making his way to Chicago? Balki's back story gets more suspect to me by the day. Did I ever even confirm it? My eyes wandered back to the box.

Regardless, when the customer finally ran off (and I waited, with a defeated sort of acceptance, for the inevitable wail of police sirens headed toward the Ritz) I was pretty clear to Balki that he came across like a violent sexual criminal. So Balki, finally realizing the depth of his own unchecked perversion, begged me to take him to a singles bar. Realizing immediately that taking Balki on the prowl would probably end with my blood on the pavement in downtown Chicago, I said no. He assumed it's because I don't want to teach him all my bona-fide tricks for pulling tail and I told him he's right; really though, I'm a little embarrassed to hit the bars with Balki because I've been on a dry streak lately. But then it dawned on me that maybe babysitting this dimwitted walking liability will score Cousin Larry some sympathy strange out at the bar, so I caved. 

I never did find out what was in the box, but I hope it had a peaceful death.

A few hours later we hit the bar. It started exactly as bad as you'd expect. Inside a minute Balki was already driving me crazy, performing a racially insensitive "black guy" impression to a table of women and trying to do the three stooges eye-poke while I desperately tried to prevent us from getting our asses kicked.

So I got fed up and was ready to bolt. I'm two steps from the door when Balki points (literally) to a TIGHT fox who looks like a sluttier, bigger-haired version of Ferris Bueller's girlfriend sitting across the bar giving me serious let's-get-down-eyes. I started running through a series of lies to try out on her while Balki locked down a vicious and terrifying predator glare on a conservatively dressed woman sitting alone at the bar, looking exactly like the kind of girl who's one bad encounter away from moving back to the small town she grew up in and declaring the city full of demons and perverts. Balki basically bought her a bus ticket.

Here's how the conversation played out:

BALKI: "Do you come here often?"
WOMAN: "No."
BALKI: "Would you smother me with your beautiful American body?"

I made my way over and dragged him away before she started screaming, knowing all too well that by now I had full-on Larry Appleton Crazy Eyes. Balki asked me to show him how it's done and pointed out that Ferris Bueller's Girlfriend's Slutty Sister was still staring holes through me like a hungry vampire. I was off my game, sweaty, and I couldn't turn off the crazy eyes, but the man in me kicked in and I decided to show Balki how Cousin Casanova works it.

I saunter over.

I close in.

I sit down.

And I'm instantly lifted off my seat and strangled by a large, middle aged man who accused me of hitting on his girlfriend before I'd even said anything. This was an unprovoked aggravated assault, plain and simple. No one in the bar did anything to help me; least of whom Balki, who was deep in conversation with the lady I'd wrongly assumed was an uptight church mouse and in fact must be a total freak under that librarian getup after all. As I felt the oxygen leave my brain and started to pass out, I was haunted by one torturous thought: Balki is totally going to get laid.

So later I'm on the couch nursing my aching body from the asskicking I took in the parking lot when Balki bursts in bragging about his big score, and tells me I have to go on his date with him and the naughty librarian the next night. For the second time in one day I man up and refuse to go along with Balki's bullshit, knowing full well that my attempt to extricate myself from his swirling chasm of destruction will inevitably fail. Balki didn't even pick up on the fact that I'm injured because he's a selfish asshole.

Cut to the next night. I'm getting Balki ready for his date, my transparent hatred for him pouring out of every orifice of my body, when Susan arrives. Balki doesn't do anything creepy around her this time, which gives me some hope for him after all. Balki begs me to come with him again, but screw that. Instead I give him a pep talk and send him into the bathroom to clean the pipes, and Susan starts getting all up in my grill about not going on his date with him. How about I didn't want to go on his date because he's a twentysomething man, and bringing another guy unannounced to the date would probably send a really threatening and confusing message to the poor woman? Why do either of them think this is a good idea? Is there a gas leak in this building? Have they all gone crazy?

So I decided to come clean with Susan that I don't like having too much attention on me and Balki humiliates me publicly everywhere we go, and I really needed a night off from it. I blew off some steam about how stupid he is, and Susan just waited it out until I guilt tripped myself into going.

God I'm a good guy.

She agreed to come in order to ease the awkwardness - which, thank God - and we're off. So we met Balki and his date, Diane, at a fancy restaurant where she already seemed especially uncomfortable. But after some expert questioning that I learned how to do at journalism school, we got to the bottom of Diane's fascination with Balki. She teaches high school, and is kind of interested in him from an anthropological perspective. Balki told a joke. No one laughed. And at the moment it became clear that this date was going to be an abject disaster, the band started playing a very out-of-place gyspy ballad and Balki just gets up and starts dancing in the middle of the restaurant.

Here's where things get really crazy. Balki says he knows this jam and calls it "The Dance of Joy," and everyone in the restaurant seems to be kind of grooving on his moves. I tried to put a stop to things before a full-scale riot broke out, when all of a sudden the same guy who kicked my ass the night before turns up and insists that the dance go on - so I kick into dance mode, purely as a hostage to this man who just 24 hours ago beat me bloody. Since he faced zero repercussions for it (he's kind of the big, American Balki), I'm positive that if I don't dance he will strike me again.

Under duress, I proved to be an especially smooth dancer.

Hours later Balki and I arrived home alone - neither of us scored - and I let on to him that I was embarrassed to sing and dance in public even though frankly I'm pretty amazing at it. Balki tried to convince me that I'm a fun dude, and I eventually came around to the idea after he showed respect for my spot-on James Cagney impression. You dirty rat! We had a nice bonding moment and I agreed that I would make an effort to loosen up.

I'm a little concerned about the impact this decision is going to have on all of us long-term.

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.

1.1. Knock Knock! Who's There?

Greetings from Earth, Wisconsonites! Your old friend, son, brother and Cousin Larry Appleton here, getting settled in the Windy City and sending out a big midwestern hello. For those of you who stumble onto this, here's my deal. My name is Larry Appleton. I'm 23 years old. I grew up in Madison, Wisconsin, where I studied journalism. My likes include peace and quiet, photography, and having plans. I recently moved to Chicago to take a crack at a career in journalism. I've since found a job at a second hand department store and an apartment in the same building. My life is quiet and uninteresting. My boss is an asshole. But I'm giving it my best shot.

It still feels like yesterday that I burst forth from the front door of that row house in Madison, greeting a line of handshakes and high fives a mile long as I made my way to the 'Stang and set out on my own. I've questioned the move lately. It was a hard decision; things were all right in Madison. Everyone seemed to love me there. But you know, sometimes, the world LOOKS perfect. Nothing to rearrange. Sometimes you just, get a feeling like you need some kind of change. So I grabbed life by the balls and headed southeast to the big city. I thought I'd start this journal to keep my friends and family up to speed on my adventures out here and keep my writing skills sharp as I pursue my dream as a journalist.


So anyway, weird start for old Larry here in Chicago.

There I was in the living room, sitting down to a glass of fresh pink lemonade and talking to myself like usual when a knock came at the door. And on the other side was a lean, shabby man of unclear foreign lineage smiling like an idiot, calling himself Balki and claiming to be my long lost cousin.

Before I even knew what was happening this stranger was in my apartment with his arms around me, and I just kind of held my breath and waited for the knife to puncture my gut. But he didn't attack. No, not in the least bit. Instead he rattled off the branches of some complex, half remembered family tree that explains how we're related and said he's been looking all over America for me. What the hell?

Hey dad; he said he showed up at our house and talked to you. Did you seriously give him my frigging address? Did you even think to make a couple phone calls and see if his story is legit? He said you tried to call me to let me know he's coming; what, once? Kind of an important heads-up Pop, maybe try to call a few more times until I answer? Frankly this story reeks of bullshit - so if he never actually showed up in Madison, or beat my address out of you or something I really need to know ASAP. Actually, if someone else sees this can you go check on my parents and make sure they aren't dead?

While we're at it, do any Appletons out there know if we have any Greek or Mediterranean blood or something? I can't figure out where the hell this guy is actually from on a map but I doubt they have many curly-headed, pasty faced Anglos there. I cracked wise that we're sort of "related by rumor" hoping he'd get the nuance (that I'm calling him a liar) and the fella laughed it off, which I must admit I found endearing - but I'm deeply suspicious of this man with the non-descript accent, unidentifiable homeland and a conveniently convoluted family history that he claims ties us through blood.

I've heard of these hustles before in the big city. They always end in stolen cars, or stereos, or organs, or some kind of weird sex. Not interested, buddy! So I tossed his ass out, but as he started to walk off all sad and dejected into the unforgiving streets of downtown Chicago I felt a twinge of pity and called him back. I gave this "Balki" a good once over. He didn't seem to have any weapons on him. He looks about as harmless as a housefly, and I like to think I know karate. And so, after putting virtually no thought into it at all, I invited him to stay in my home. He seems to have some amount of money; maybe it's time for the prey to become the predator? I've lived on the mean streets of Chi town longer than him. Welcome to the Lion's Den, Balki Bartokamous. If you're not too careful, you might end up on the menu.

So there we were. Although we'd just met a moment ago and I sure as hell had a lot of questions, we immediately sat to watch TV in silence like an old married couple. But he couldn't get a handle on the fact that it has colors, and I didn't really want to let on that I was sizing him up in case the shit went down - so after we talked for a grand total of 90 seconds from the moment he'd walked in the door, I called it a night and left this complete stranger alone in my living room trying to figure out how the magic box makes moving pictures. Slept like a baby.

The next morning reality started to set in on this unskilled island hayseed that they don't need many shepherds in Chicago. I let him into the store downstairs where I work - did I mention my boss is also my landlord and I probably shouldn't burn him? And then left him alone to watch the store mere seconds later for a pretty significant length of time, hoping he doesn't steal anything but not really thinking much about it enough to care. I heard he had a customer. Not surprisingly, he got ripped off. God knows how long I'd been gone for, but the store was practically cleaned out when I got back. Sure enough the boss, Mr. Twinkacetti, strolls in a few minutes later; and here I am, stuck with a half empty store, 45 clams to my name and some kind of Mediterranean simpleton braying about silly putty or something.

To make matters worse Balki IMMEDIATELY started wising off to Twinkacetti, who already has rage problems and I think might be connected, if you know what I mean. Twinkie challenged Balki to fix a stereo or else basically, and I think Balki didn't realize his life probably depended on it.

Cut to later that night. Susan's over, and I've got the standard Larry charm cranked up to 11. She's trying to tell me Mypos doesn't exist and I argue that it does, even though I haven't looked it up either. I should probably take this suspect origin story with as much caution as Susan is, but my man-brain kicks in hard - no skirt gets to teach Larry Appleton about geography! So anyway the clown comes in  from trying to fix the stereo and starts running game all over Susan like I'm not in the frigging room. I mean, his tongue is practically hanging out and his slacks are three inches above his ankles all of a sudden. Not even subtle about it. Hey guy, you're sleeping on my couch. You screwed things up for me at my job. Now you're after my old lady? Why don't you just go ahead and bleed me out while you're at it, steal my identity and dump my body in the river?

Here's what happens next. Even though I've suffered this monster for the worst 18 hours since I got to Chicago, I decided to save him from himself and planted a small portable radio in the big old stereo he's supposed to fix. So when Twinkie tried to turn it on, I would flip the switch, he'd think Balki fixed it and I'd get a little more time to figure out how to get myself out of this jam. But because my boss isn't the mouth-breathing idiot Balki is, my scam didn't work. He found the radio immediately, and I started coming to peaceful terms with the bloodshed that's probably about to take place. But get this:

Turns out Balki had fixed the frigging stereo on his own. After finding my planted radio Twinkie cranked the stereo up to top volume and blasts the roof off the place. Every piece of glass in the room shatters. Between the stuff he sold for pennies on the dollar and all the merchandise he just destroyed, Balki's gotta be in it to Twinkie for half a grand. But amazingly, some guy walked in the room from nowhere and buys the stereo for 500 bones exactly; so Balki's dead even, right? Wrong. Turns out he picked over every working piece of equipment in the store to fix that stereo, putting him back in the red to the old man by an easy $500.

So Twinkie totally justifiably fired me - and Balki who he never hired in the first place. Honestly, we're lucky he didn't come at us with a baseball bat, I wouldn't have even been able to get that mad about it.

But then something interesting happened.

Balki laid on this heavy guilt trip on TWINKACETTI like HE'D done something wrong! And he seemed like he meant it! Talk about a hustler! End of the day, I get my shitty job back with a debt owed to Twinkie and Balki handcuffed to me until we can pay our way out. We're basically working slave labor and giving up part of our pay each week so I need a roommate now to cover rent, and here we are.

Despite the wake of destruction left in his path from the one day Balki's been in the city, I kind of have no choice but to take him in. Besides, I feel like I might need a scapegoat sooner than later and if Twinkie goes off the deep end, he's better off having "The Turnip" to take it out on than me. And you know what? After his shame game on Twinkie earlier, I realized this guy might make a useful partner in my grand schemes after all. I feel like the two of us could get away with being selfish scheming assholes for the next several years and his dopey-eyed earnest bull crap will get us off hook after hook.

I know this sounds like the beginning of a series of dangerous misadventures with an untrustworthy perfect stranger, but don't worry, friends and family. I'll get over on this Balki character soon enough. I'll either figure out how to make him work for me or I'll leave him squatting in a flop house with a band of Chicago junkies faster than you can say Cousin Larry. Am I going to get the raw end of this deal?

Of course not.

Don't be ridiculous.