1.6. Happy Birthday, Baby.

Larry here - another wild series of miscommunication and mishaps led to a breakthrough of sorts for Balki and me this week. It's becoming more and more common that after an escalating series of screw-ups that make me want to kill Balki, we end the day finding common ground. I'd like to say it's because Balki is starting to assimilate to American culture and general human decency, but it's far more likely that I'm rapidly losing touch with reality.

I turned 24 this week. It was a traumatic birthday, to say the least.

Things started as they often do around here. I was at work, nervously screwing with an adding machine, not even noticing the customers milling about around me. I was trying to focus on work, but my mind was on the phone parked right in front of me. I was waiting desperately for a phone call that hadn't come.

"Why won't they call? They said they'd call! I'll tell you why, because nobody ever returns your phone calls!" I said out loud to no one. If you're wondering whether you should start to be worried about me, the answer is probably yes. Lord knows I am.

Anyway I was so entranced by my current hobby of blindly poking away at the adding machine and talking to myself that I didn't notice Balki descending the staircase. He swept around the front desk and reached for the phone, but I pounced after his hand with the kind of Appleton ninja speed that I know is always lurking just beneath my skin. "Balki, use the phone, I break a bone" I told him, meaning every syllable. Life with Balki keeps both of us in an environment shrouded in constant violence, either in the form of me threatening him or him actually assaulting me while chalking it up to "how they do things on Mypos." It's an unhealthy and dangerous relationship. I can't imagine it will end well.

Balki asked why I was so nervous and fidgety and accused me of getting up "on the wrong side of the flock" (because he's a shepherd, right! Shut up, Balki.) I snapped at him, and we just stood there staring at each other for a second, probably each imagining watching the other drown. Just before the tension in the room caused the windows to shatter, the phone rang. It was THEM!

More specifically, it was the photo editor of the Chicago Weekly Gazette. I had submitted a photo I took of a burning building, and they were interested in printing it. Although it was an especially important call from people I need to impress I simply told them, "great, I'll be there," and then slammed the receiver down without saying "thank you" or "goodbye." The call triggered an extremely dramatic mood swing; I was on top of the world.

They needed me to get over to the paper by 6 pm to sign a release so Cousin Larry could get his ass paid. As is our custom at Ritz Discount, I ignored the accounting work I was in the middle of, threw on my coat and headed toward the door mid-shift without even considering coming back or asking Balki if he felt like sticking around for the next hour to cover me.

He was pretty psyched for me though, and as the hatred and tension dissipated we organically launched into a little ditty we've been working on called "The Dance of Joy." If you'll remember, when I accompanied Balki on his first date at a fancy Italian restaurant the band started playing a song called "The Dance of Joy" and Balki and I kind of grooved on it. So we worked up a pretty sweet dance routine that involves kicking our legs out side to side in unison, jumping up and down and screaming, and then I leap into Balki's arms. We only do this when we're happy, which isn't often. But I have to admit we've got it down.

The Dance of Joy is rad, you guys.

So for the first time in a long time, we're doing all right. I'm in a good mood because I'm on my way to becoming a respected photojournalist who takes intrusive pictures of people's homes burning to the ground, Balki is in a good mood because I'm in a good mood, the Dance of Joy is jelling nicely and, by the way, it's my 24th BIRTHDAY, y'all!

I let this slip to Balki, who erased a lot of goodwill instantly by asking what I got HIM. Back down here on Earth, Balki remains the most selfish asshole I've ever met. He acted like it's his firm belief that on your birthday you're supposed to buy a gift and bake a cake for - I don't know, some guy I guess, he didn't explain why it would be him specifically. Then you know what he did? He FORGAVE me because I was having a good day professionally.

You see what Balki did there? Killer move. Not only did he talk himself out of getting me a present or baking a cake, he FORGAVE me all magnanimously for not doing those things for HIM. As if I'm supposed to feel bad about it but he's the bigger man for letting it slide. On my birthday. Fuck you, Balki.

I was in such a good mood though that I just ignored it. I told Balki that I hadn't told him it was my birthday because I haven't been in the mood to celebrate lately (well documented here; I didn't mention this mood is entirely his fault) but things were looking up.

Just then Twinkie burst in, and he was in a mood of his own. He called Balki and I "Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber" and when Balki told him I'd sold a photo he got really dark on me, telling me I was going to work for him at his crappy store until I die. It's possible he was in a bad mood because he saw that I had my coat on and was clearly planning to leave for the day even though he was paying me to work, but either way the old man kind of crossed a line. Fortunately he went into his office and I was out the door.

On my way out I passed Susan and her friend Tina coming into the store and left them with Balki. As I understand it, this is the moment the three of them began to plan the surprise birthday party for me that will live in infamy.

Granted, they only had an hour or two to pull it together, but even by those standards the setup for the party was pretty dim. It consisted of three small bags of chips, a handful of nuts, a bowl of punch, and a sign that read - I shit you not - Happy Birthday Cousin Lary." He'd spelled my first name wrong. Look, language barrier or not, it's a person's name, and a pretty easy one at that. He's lived in my home for almost two months. He sees my mail. Gun to my head, I could spell his insane last name after the first few days, it's kind of common courtesy. How on Earth did this dimwit spell my name wrong, and how did Susan and Tina not catch it? How little do these people care about me?

Regardless, when I entered there was no sign of a party, as Balki had scrambled to hide everything they'd just set up and Susan and Tina ran off to collect the guests. This was fortunate because I was pretty pissed off. It turns out that at the last minute, the Gazette had decided to use a picture taken by some other guy. Just because this other guy got a picture of a baby being rescued from the burning building while my photo suggested there were no survivors, I get bumped.

"Another Birthday, another banner year of failure with a capital 'F' for Larry Appleton," I declared to Balki. "Well, that's it. No more. Me, a photojournalist? It's time I realized my limitations."

I was having a pretty soul crushing epiphany, especially in light of Twinkacetti's "work for me until you die" comment from earlier. I went on with my pity party about how my master plan is ruined, and about how I'd scheduled my goals of achievement for life and it was all falling apart. By now I was supposed to win a Pulitzer Prize. Right about that time I couldn't help but notice that Balki was sitting really weird on the couch, and I'd come to learn later it's because he had hidden the party chips under the cushion and was now sitting on them. Anyway, he tried to cheer me up and pitched that we throw a party, but I wasn't having it. I told Balki the last thing I wanted was a room full of people saying "hey Larry, how's it going, whatever happened to the old Master Plan?" Which in retrospect sounds a little Hitler-y when you put it that way. I was relieved I hadn't told anyone else it's my birthday, and of course Balki was now panicking because any second now the guests would start pouring in.

A rapid knock came at the door. Balki rushed ahead of me and yelled at the party guests to go away before I could see them. I told Balki I was hungry, and so he reached into his pocket and produced some loose peanuts. Of course, he had hidden them there in a panic before I came in the door, but the fact that Balki had loose peanuts in his pocket came as very little surprise. I asked why he had peanuts in that pocket and he told me matter of factly that he had a squirrel in the other pocket. This is my life now.

So I went to hang up my coat, and as I opened the closet and reached for a coat hanger I felt a hard push on my back. Balki had shoved me into the closet and locked me in there, which I now know was so he could try to chase off the party guests; but at the time I assumed he had finally decided to make his move and starve me out while robbing me blind.

My brief incarceration awoke that barely contained rage I'd started the day with, and when Balki freed me I sprung toward him guns blazing, ready to finally have our death match. He refused to even admit that he'd locked me in the closet - was Balki finally exhibiting fear? And so I grabbed him by his collar, pulled him close and dropped the most hard core Cousin Larry Crazy Eyes on him yet.

After informing him to never - EVER - do that to me again, I released Balki and stormed off to my room just as the phone was ringing. Apparently it was my mom calling to wish me a happy birthday. Time like this, a guy could really use the unconditional love and support of his mom on an otherwise miserable birthday, so naturally Balki refused to let her speak with me. Even worse, he put on some whole performance where he pretended to be me, then slammed the receiver down on her when I headed past him to take a shower. 

Of course there was no hot water.

So I stormed out to complain to Balki and found him pressed against the window. What had happened when I left the room is that a guy delivered a birthday cake, and Balki tried to throw it out the window instead of just putting it in the fridge to try again tomorrow when I'd cooled off a little. But since Twinkie is a slumlord, the window slid down mid-toss and he'd painted it with a completely wasted cake.

I didn't really care what Balki was doing in the moment. I was fed up with my life, and decided it was time for a change. I stole away to the newspaper looking for the want ads, and began scanning them for jobs for a college grad with a knack for photography and a horrible work ethic. I decided that this was the best thing that had ever happened to me, as a weird, almost euphoric peace passed over my body. I gave Balki a kind smile and complimented his shirt as I headed off to my room to look for a new job.

I'm like, 99.9 percent sure I'm bipolar.

Five hours passed. It was the middle of the night, and I couldn't sleep. I stormed out to the living room and tried to rouse Balki, but he seemed to be dead. I yelled at him and shook him, to no avail. He didn't budge. I started to think that maybe ONE good thing happened on my birthday; but as a last ditch effort I made a wolf-sound effect and sure enough, the Turnip sprung off the couch like it was on fire. Classic.

With all my bellyaching, I finally admitted that what made me the saddest is that no one acknowledged it was my birthday, even my mom. Of course Balki had gone to great lengths to ensure this outcome, and he tried to explain that to me but I wasn't hearing it.

Another hour later, I woke to hear banging around in the kitchen, and emerged wielding the largest trophy I could find as protection. Although I know that Balki sleeps in the living room and him stalking around makes a lot more sense than an intruder, I thought this might be the best opportunity to beat the life out of him and claim I thought he was a burglar so I came out hot. The lights went on behind me, and I found the room filled with complete strangers screaming "SURPRISE" and throwing confetti. I embraced death, but Balki told me it was just a surprise birthday party. I was momentarily touched, but then reality set in and I asked who the hell all these strangers were in my living room at 3am. The party consisted of:

• A street cop.
• A guy who appeared to be the muscle in a motorcycle gang.
• A cool middle aged man in a leather jacket with slicked back hair.
• A heavyset man in all flannel
• A brassy woman in a donut shop uniform
• A mustachioed old gentleman with a bottle of booze.

It turns out Balki had called back through the whole guest list at 3 am and tried to get them to come back, but they understandably told him to go screw because he had corralled them on short notice earlier that night to come over and then rudely kicked them off the front doorstep. So instead he just went out and rounded up every stereotype he could find on the streets of Chicago in the middle of the night and let them into our home. Fortunately one of them was a cop, or dressed like one anyway.

The Biker approached. His name was Snake. He told me he was enjoying a 3 am donut at the shop down the street when Balki came in and bossed everyone in there into coming up to the party. He told me I was one lucky dude to have Balki as a friend. I patiently awaited a followup, wherein Snake would tell me to hand over all the valuables in the apartment; but it didn't come.

They brought a gift. It was crullers. They demanded a speech. I delivered.

I told them how much I appreciated how far they went out of their way to come to the party, and how it's moments like these when you realize who your true friends are. This speech was of course dripping with irony and directed at the absent collection of friends who I assumed had blown me off, but I'm pretty damn convincing when I want to be so I'm fairly certain that it came across as genuine. And so we drank and danced and ate donuts and created a lifetime of memories together. No big deal.

As daylight crested the skyscrapers of Chicago and Balki and I cleaned up the apartment, I told him that it was one of the best birthdays I've ever had. Balki told me I'm not a failure because I have friends, and inspired me to stick with my dream of being a photojournalist because "you can't set your watch by a dream. They operate on schedules all their own."

Pretty eloquent for a guy who had said about 12 hours earlier, direct quote: "What the matter with you is?"

As I headed off to catch a couple of hours of sleep, the old man from the party burst out of the bathroom with a glass and informed us that we were out of ice.

24th birthday recap: I think a strange old man drank my pee.

1.5. Check This.

Well I'm back from the hospital, where fortunately the doctors were able to help me regain feeling and use of my arms. I of course suffered this temporary paralysis at the hands of Balki, who continues to assault me at home and at work. What happened, you ask? Well, here's the latest from the apartment above the Ritz.

I awoke in the early part of the morning, to a bizarre mix of sounds including a woman screaming, strange music and loud thuds in the living room.

Balki has lived here long enough now that I'm conditioned not to over-react. Instead of suffering the natural reaction of abject fear that a normal person would have if they were jarred from a dead sleep by this disturbing cacophony, I switched instantly to frustration and annoyance as I pulled on my bathrobe and headed out to the living room to greet whatever minor disaster Balki was brewing up.

Turns out he was just exercising, which kind of made the situation worse. If Balki had gotten himself into one of his trademark jams in the middle of the night - like if he had let a robber into the apartment because the guy said he was the TV repairman and then Susan came down in a bathrobe and all of a sudden a bird that Balki was babysitting flew in the room and everyone started screaming and running in circles, for example (who knows, tune in next week) - I'd have to chalk it up to another case of idiot-meets-American culture and help clean up his mess. Instead he was just being an inconsiderate asshole, blasting his exercise tape and dancing around the room on the other side of the wall of his sleeping caretaker.

As you'd expect, when I came out and made it clear that he'd woken me up I did not get an apology; instead Balki criticized me for being "grumpy in the morning." What a dick. I don't need to go into the graphic sexually suggestive "exercises" Balki went back to doing, because even writing them down makes me feel like a pervert. I pointed out that for the second day in a row, Balki had not folded the bed back into the couch, and he whined about how hard it is to do. So I set about to school him; but the bed didn't budge. Apparently whatever sick stuff Balki does on this thing at night had broken the sofa, and rather than stop me from trying to put the bed back Balki just watched while I struggled with it until I injured my back.

Naturally, Balki sensed my pain and pounced. It was a brief but frightening assault, as Balki lifted me up onto his lap, held me down there and tried to stretch me out to fix my back. But when I broke free, Balki surprised me by offering to do the first decent thing since he got here and buy a new couch. Balki set about to get his money for the purchase and immediately erased all of the good will he'd just earned, because his money-retrieval ritual involved flipping up the mattress that I was sitting on and tossing me onto the floor violently. I was forced to utter what's become my catchphrase these days  - "Don't you ever... EVER do that again" - before questioning why Balki would keep his money in a leather sack under the bed like he's in some kind of paranoid militia.

I let him know that keeping money around attracts burglars (as if keeping Balki around hasn't attracted enough trouble on its own) and that he's supposed to keep his money in a bank because that's what responsible people do. I told him that at lunch we'd go open a bank account for him, and he should bring all of his money. Of course, this meant Balki had to throw me off the chair I was now sitting on to get his "savings account" sack instead of just saying "can you stand up." The physical abuse continues unabated. For those keeping score at home, that's three attacks before I had my pants on.

Sidebar - judging from the wad he pulled out, Balki had literally four one dollar bills in the sack. His savings account looked to have maybe 10. Presumably, this offer to buy a couch was either another hollow promise that Balki had no intention of following through on, or he thinks furniture costs four dollars. Either way, it's hard to imagine this story not ending with me buying a new couch for Balki to defile, isn't it?

At lunch we scrambled out of the Ritz to the bank and I was already phenomenally frustrated with Balki as we walked in the door. The banker, not sensing that the rube sitting in front of him was about to put him through his worst account opening of the year, tried to sell Balki on a Cadillac account that came with overdraft protection and a free TV. I let the guy know he was dealing with a customer with the brain of a child, and he switched gears to a kid's account that had a two dollar minimum and came with a frog bank.

This sounded only slightly above Balki's capacities so I urged him to take it, but Turnip wasn't biting. He decided he wanted to learn how banking works, and - God help me - instead of just saying "they put it in the safe" so we could grab a couple of sandwiches and get back to our dead end job, I launched into a complicated explanation of interest and personal loans and credit scores. This 9th grade economics lesson only confused and angered Balki, until I explained the concept of writing checks instead of using money - and that absolutely delighted him.

RED FLAG! RED FLAG, COUSIN LARRY!

I failed to realize that Balki's wild swing from caution about banks to abject joy in having a check book meant that a fundamental misunderstanding had taken place. In my zeal to get Balki to hand over his cash - 127 dollars, it turns out, which is not remotely enough for a new couch so I don't know why we bothered putting it in the bank at all - I failed to remember the sub-minimal comprehension I was dealing with. Although I might not like to admit it, I take some responsibility for what happened next. I should have just taken Balki's money and thrown it in a trashcan fire. I realize that now.

Later in the day, I was back at work - although only sort of, since instead of doing work I was angrily instructing Susan how to give me a better back massage - when Balki arrived from wherever he'd been while he was on the clock. He had a brown paper sack over his shoulder and was calling himself "Balki Claus," and said he had gifts for everyone. He gave a pack of gum to Susan, and an apple and bug light to me (still waiting on that couch bro), and bragged about how he'd written checks for these purchases. So far, no problem.

Twinkacetti emerged from his office and told me he needed me to cover for him with his old lady. He was going to a poker game that night, but apparently he's a degenerate gambler and his wife doesn't want him playing poker, so he asked me to say we were going to a basketball game that night if she asked. I refused - I'm an honest man, as much as it frequently costs me - and so Twinkie ordered me to take my bad back across town to pick up an order of weightlifting equipment for the store. I'm left to wonder again how on earth we keep cramming this ever-growing list of products into a store that's smaller than my apartment, but I digress. On the way out the door I passed a deliveryman who said he had something for Balki.

RED FLAG AGAIN! COME ON, LARRY! ASK QUESTIONS! But my back was smarting and I had to go get the equipment, so I pointed him toward Balki and was off.

So who wants to guess how much Balki spent on furniture?

How much, you say?

You're wrong, it was more than that.

More than three grand, that's how much. Hours later, after hand-moving twelve tons of body building equipment by myself I limped home cursing revenge on Twinkacetti, probably by continuing to passive aggressively blow off work and be a generally terrible employee who he gives a lot of leeway to, all things considered. It took me roughly ten seconds to spot the fancy Victorian-style living room set that Balki had filled the room with. It did not appear that the couch pulled out into a bed, by the way, so he hadn't solved the single problem this whole banking adventure started with. Anyway, it also did not yet dawn on me how he pulled this off with 127 clams. I was mostly angry that without consulting me, Balki had gone ahead and thrown away all of my furniture. It was a gift, I get it, I know, but imagine if you came home and your roommate of one month had chucked all your shit without so much as a mention?

I told Balki how I didn't grow up with much back in Madison, and had 8 brothers and sisters, and it was rare that I ever had my own stuff - so I was proud to have bought my own furniture for once in my life, and Balki had thrown it all away.  As I worked through my own neuroses and came out clean on the other end, a sinking feeling set in. It was mostly me sinking comfortably into the soft fabric of a fancy cherry-wood dining chair.

This was nice shit.

Now that I was over my own problem I finally realized Balki's. He had written a check for more than 3K. After a little scream-questioning of Balki on my part, I learned that currency doesn't really even exist on Mypos and everyone's wealth is measured in chickens, pigs and cows, and he had no idea what he was doing.

As you'd expect, Balki blamed me for everything; but I wasn't biting this time. My back hurt, my furniture was gone, and I wasn't in the mood for another classic Balki-guilt-trip turnaround. It got heated. I did a lot of yelling. I told him he was going to jail.

And then Balki calmly and lucidly admitted that this mess was his fault; and damn me, I backpedaled on everything. "It's not your fault, it's mine," I said! "I should have explained banking better," I said! Come on, Larry! I've gotten so used to taking the blame when Balki screws up that the impulse kicked in even when he tried to take responsibility for his mistake. Moving forward, I can only blame myself for reinforcing his selfish, consequence free behavior.

Regardless, I told him in my softest Cousin-will-fix-it voice that we'd return the furniture and get mine back. Where was it, you might ask? Balki had sold it.

To my enemy, Mr. Twinkacetti.

Set aside the fact that Balki sold all my stuff. Set aside that he sold it to Twinkie, who definitely didn't need it and must have known that he could run some kind of long con with it. Forget those things for a moment and consider that Balki even sold my LUCKY ROCK! It was a ROCK! It had no cash value, it was just this rock that I had and cherished and why would he even consider lumping it into the furniture deal? What else did he sell, my toothbrush? Did he clean out the medicine closet? My frigging lucky rock!!

Twinkie was of course selling my stuff out the back door of the Ritz, and I learned he'd taken it from Balki for only 75 bucks so he was making a pretty sweet margin on it. He was in no mood to sell it back to me since I'd betrayed him the day before, but then fate intervened. Twinkie's wife Edwina entered, happy to see me and thrilled to meet Balki (which leads me to wonder what kind of nice shit the old man says about us at home). Twinkie had apparently told Edwina that he took Balki to the basketball game the night before ("Remember, Turnip? Bouncy bouncy?")

Yep. Balki had him by the 'nads.

You know how I've mentioned Balki has a legitimate dark side to him that comes out from time to time? You should have seen him work this one. Out of earshot from Mrs. Twinkacetti, Balki told Twinkie that he would be calling HIM Turnip now, and they were going to negotiate on the furniture set before she came back. He talked the old man down to a dollar for the whole set, just in time before the Missus came back in the room. She had found his gambling stash in the office so the whole negotiation was pretty much moot, Balki never even had to say he went to the game; but she dragged Twinkie out the door to watch her spend his money, and we basically stole all my stuff back while they were gone.

Surprisingly, Balki confirmed out loud that he has a dark side as we set out to drag the furniture upstairs. My back was still killing me though, and before I could stop him Balki picked me up and shook the pain out. It worked; however, the side effect of his warlock chiropracty was that my arms were paralyzed. Balki then shrugged and told me to go to the doctor.

God I hate Balki.

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.