I did not always detest pharmacists.  I used to view them as highly paid, socially inept individuals who simply dispensed medicine, and little more.  While I felt that their white lab coats are unnecessarily pretentious, I never took issue with these government-sanctioned pill pushers.

That changed on Sunday, June 7, 2009.

On that warm summer day, boqueen mentioned to me that she was out of birth control pills.  Birth control, or “baby killers,” as I like to refer to them, are an essential part of boqueen’s diet.  She likes to say that she is “staying not pregnant,” but I feel that this vastly understates the importance of the matter.  Fathering a child would be absolutely devastating to my lifestyle.

I do not want a helpless, dependant fecal factory with stumpy arms in my life.  I do not want to be burdened with the requirement of rocking, comforting or changing the diapers of a small, temperamental, light brown mammal while I watch a Bulls game or attempt to record a podcast.  I do not want the smell of infant excrement lingering in our dining room while I attempt to enjoy a meal that I prepared.  I certainly don’t want to be interrupted by the little bastard crying while I am performing oral sex on his mother.

Each of these scenarios is utterly terrifying, so it is imperative that each and every one of my sperm are viciously murdered by either prescription medication or a baby wipe.

When boqueen realized that her supply of baby killers has been exhausted on that summer evening, she contacted the local pharmacy.  Unfortunately, I lived in the suburbs at the time, so all of the nearby pharmacies closed at 9:00 PM. 

She phoned the pharmacy during the pregame show for the second game of the NBA Finals.  It is worth noting that basketball is my favorite sport, and the NBA Finals are far more important to me than the Super Bowl and World Series combined.  The only things that I find more enjoyable than watching the NBA Playoffs are inserting my penis into my smoking hot girlfriend and receiving an email when a check is deposited into my bank account.

The pharmacist told boqueen that her prescription would be ready in about an hour.  To me, the timing was perfect.  The pharmacy was about five minutes away, so we could pick up her baby killers at halftime, and, at worst, I would only miss a few minutes of the game.

We arrived at the pharmacy about two hours after she had placed her call.  At the time, the Lakers were leading the Magic, 40-35.  I was eager to return home to see the conclusion of a game that began on a slow, somewhat sloppy note.

I had expected that we would spend about 30 seconds in the pharmacy as boqueen verified her contact information and accepted her bag of baby killers from the pharmacist.  Alas, I did not expect that the experience would be nothing short of an odyssey. 

Upon our arrival, the pharmacist explained that boqueen’s prescription was not ready, and that we could expect a short wait.  After speaking to boqueen, she proceeded to tap away frantically on her iPhone, presumably playing an early beta of Angry Birds, or whatever was the mobile gaming rage in the summer of 2009.

Another broad was staffing the pharmacy at the time.  She leaned against a countertop, mouth agape.

This continued for nearly an hour; while one pharmacist was engrossed in her cell phone, the other stared into the distance with her mouth open.  Meanwhile, I repeatedly checked the score of the game on my phone.  Sadly, the default BlackBerry web browser does not lend itself to activities such as “monitoring a game in real time,” “refreshing a web page,” “viewing a web page” or “navigating to a web page.”  BBM is nice, though.

After over 50 minutes of torturous waiting on a plastic chair, I inquired about the status of boqueen’s prescription.  The lead pharmacist looked up from her iPhone, sighed and explained that the pharmacy was extremely busy, and that the prescription would be ready shortly. 

It is worth noting that boqueen and I were the only customers in the pharmacy during this extended waiting period.

About 10 minutes later, the mouth-breathing pharmacist brandished a white paper bag in the air and screamed the name “boqueen” twice.  This passive-aggressive display was entirely unnecessary, as boqueen and I were the only customers in the store.

I returned home midway through the fourth quarter of the game, which was eventually extended into and overtime period.  While I found the end of the game enjoyable, I felt that I was dropped back into the game with no context.  To return to the game during the fourth quarter was like catching the last 30 minutes of a great movie like “Inception.”  While the experience was enjoyable, I was felt lost at times.  How did Lamar Odom get into foul trouble, and why were Leo DiCaprio and friends at a snow fortress?

I came away from the experience feeling that I had been wronged.  boqeeun’s preferred method of birth control is Ortho Tri-Cyclen, which comes pre-packaged in a plastic dispenser.  In order to fill boqueen’s prescription, the pharmacists were required to place a plastic disc into a paper bag, and then affix a label onto the outside of the aforementioned bag.  This task requires an extremely low level of effort, yet this process took over an hour, because the lab coat wearing cunts at this particular pharmacy were engrossed with tasks such as text messaging, day dreaming, butt scratching and standing around. 

Since this experience, I have harbored a deep-seated resentment towards pharmacists.  If I had limitless funds, I would travel the country and strike every pharmacist in America directly in the genitals with a pair of steel toe boots.  This endeavor would be extremely satisfying.

However, I do not have the limitless funds of a Rockefeller, Trump, Obama, or any other member of the Illuminati.  As a result, I recently took to the Twitter to voice my displeasure with pharmacists.  On a whim, I tweeted the following:

I don't understand why six years of school is required to become a pharmacist. They shovel pills into plastic bottles. Big fucking deal.

04.04.11 05:46 PM via webReplyRetweetFavorite

@bokeen

bokeen

I was surprised by the passionate response that I received by the pill-jockeying community. The following chronicles my conversations with these grammar molesting imbeciles.

@brianruderman THAT is why my ass left retail. I'd much rather interact with normal people than #asshats like @bokeen.

04.05.11 11:34 AM via HootSuiteReplyRetweetFavorite

@geekpharmd

geekpharmd

Wonder if @bokeen makes six figures?

04.05.11 11:35 AM via HootSuiteReplyRetweetFavorite

@geekpharmd

geekpharmd

@geekpharmd So you used to work retail, and now you have a chip on your shoulder because your an overpaid pill jockey? I applaud you.

04.05.11 10:37 PM via webReplyRetweetFavorite

@bokeen

bokeen

RT @SarcasmicRPh @geekpharmd nah. He lives in his parents' basement & deals pills on the South Side. Doesn't get laid either, I bet. @bokeen

04.05.11 09:25 PM via Plume  ReplyRetweetFavorite

@geekpharmd

geekpharmd

@geekpharmd I enjoy your characterization of me. May I assume that you're a fat ass since your avatar is an extreme closeup of your face?

04.05.11 10:44 PM via webReplyRetweetFavorite

@bokeen

bokeen

@bokeen Part those six years of school has to do with the fact that if the wrong pills are in that little plastic bottle you could be dead!

04.04.11 09:35 PM via webReplyRetweetFavorite

@Redheadedpharm

Redheaded Pharmacist

@Redheadedpharm So do they no longer publish "The Pill Book?" Oh wait, they do.

04.05.11 11:04 AM via TweetDeckReplyRetweetFavorite

@bokeen

bokeen

@Redheadedpharm If finding the right pills to put in a bottle is so challenging, work on your organization skills. Try Container Store.

04.05.11 10:50 PM via webReplyRetweetFavorite

@bokeen

bokeen

@bokeen no eff u, ur the type of delusional patient who will ultimately need a pharmacists expertise the most.

04.05.11 11:13 AM via EchofonReplyRetweetFavorite

@rossdixonii

Ross W Dixon II

@rossdixonii Right...and I would want my medicine dispensed by someone who can't be bothered to capitalize words or spell you "you are."

04.05.11 11:23 AM via TweetDeckReplyRetweetFavorite

@bokeen

bokeen

I just blocked @bokeen any pharmacy people out there I recommend doing the same and passing it along.

04.05.11 11:27 AM via EchofonReplyRetweetFavorite

@rossdixonii

Ross W Dixon II

Do it. Pussies. RT @rossdixonii: I just blocked @bokeen any pharmacy people out there I recommend doing the same and passing it along.

04.05.11 10:46 PM via webReplyRetweetFavorite

@bokeen

bokeen

@rossdixonii I thoroughly enjoy that run on, incomplete sentence. Did they not teach grammar in pill jockey school?

04.05.11 10:48 PM via webReplyRetweetFavorite

@bokeen

bokeen

@bokeen right, that's all we do. #sarcasm #getaclue

04.05.11 10:49 AM via Twitter for iPhoneReplyRetweetFavorite

@taranicolek

tara

@taranicolek I guess you count pills, too. So that's something.

04.05.11 11:04 AM via TweetDeckReplyRetweetFavorite

@bokeen

bokeen

@taranicolek I didn't say that was ALL you do. I'm sure you goons eat, sleep and breathe like the rest of us. Maybe.

04.05.11 12:34 PM via webReplyRetweetFavorite

@bokeen

bokeen

@geekpharmd @bokeen I wonder if he had ran a code blue in the cath lab while the doc is stenting a 100% occluded vessel.No?Then STFU.

04.05.11 12:00 PM via Twitter for iPhoneReplyRetweetFavorite

@OUapothecary

institutional dealer

@OUapothecary @geekpharmd You don't know what I have or have not done with code blues, so keep your goddamn mouth shut.

04.05.11 12:25 PM via TweetDeckReplyRetweetFavorite

@bokeen

bokeen

@OUapothecary Also, you should have said "has" and not "had," shit lips.

04.05.11 12:26 PM via TweetDeckReplyRetweetFavorite

@bokeen

bokeen

@bokeen you're right. I don't know. But your sweeping generalization makes you look like a douche.

04.05.11 02:26 PM via Twitter for iPhoneReplyRetweetFavorite

@OUapothecary

institutional dealer

@OUapothecary If the fact that I am a douche irritates you, I have a prescription: My dick. Applied orally.

04.05.11 02:42 PM via webReplyRetweetFavorite

@bokeen

bokeen

@RPhLady Clearly, @bokeen has no clue what a pharmacist does.

04.05.11 12:05 PM via ÜberSocialReplyRetweetFavorite

@Ohramorph

Dr O

@Ohramorph @bokeen clearly has no clue about much of anything. Not worth our time.

04.05.11 12:08 PM via TweetingsReplyRetweetFavorite

@RPhLady

Diane

@Ohramorph @RPhLady Pharmacists don't put pills into bottles? Then how the fuck do they get there? Magic?

04.05.11 12:28 PM via webReplyRetweetFavorite

@bokeen

bokeen

@jenforce @geekpharmd after reading @bokeen 's tweet he sounds like an arrogant ignorant troll that just likes to stir the pot

04.05.11 12:42 PM via Osfoora for iPhoneReplyRetweetFavorite

@Ntfrmconcentr8

lucy deaton

@jenforce @geekpharmd @bokeen Probably based on jealousy.

04.05.11 01:38 PM via Osfoora HDReplyRetweetFavorite

@BrianRuderman

B Ruderman PharmD

@BrianRuderman @jenforce @geekpharmd Yeah, I am soooo fucking jealous of your hip lab coat. SWAG

04.05.11 02:37 PM via webReplyRetweetFavorite

@bokeen

bokeen

@BrianRuderman @jenforce @geekpharmd Actually, I am jealous of your unfettered access to Xanax. I'd be eating that shit up ALL DAY LONG.

04.05.11 02:37 PM via webReplyRetweetFavorite

@bokeen

bokeen

@bokeen bite me!!!...I'm sure a pharmacist has saved your life @ least once or twice because your doc is an idiot!

04.05.11 01:41 PM via Twitter for BlackBerry®ReplyRetweetFavorite

@WI_PharmD

WI PharmD

@WI_PharmD So you're basically the spell check of the medical system? We better get you a Congressional Medal of Honor!

04.05.11 02:41 PM via webReplyRetweetFavorite

@bokeen

bokeen

@geekpharmd Wonder how many little blue pills @bokeen goes through in a year?

04.05.11 07:34 PM via webReplyRetweetFavorite

@CrackedPestle

Jackie Watkins

@CrackedPestle So you're qualified to dispense medicine AND diagnose mental disorders? No. Stay in your lane, you talentless pill counter.

04.05.11 08:26 PM via webReplyRetweetFavorite

@bokeen

bokeen

@bokeen Go count your Vicodin stash, you worthless piece of shit.

04.05.11 08:47 PM via webReplyRetweetFavorite

@CrackedPestle

Jackie Watkins

Nice! RT @CrackedPestle @bokeen Go count your Vicodin stash, you worthless piece of shit.

04.05.11 08:50 PM via TweetDeckReplyRetweetFavorite

@bokeen

bokeen

@bokeen @CrackedPestle damn! Who pissed off the old bitch?

04.05.11 08:55 PM via TwittelatorReplyRetweetFavorite

@tylerconium

Tyler Conium

@CrackedPestle I can't believe your language! What would your grandchildren think? Other than "Nana is way overpaid for her stupid job?"

04.05.11 08:56 PM via webReplyRetweetFavorite

@bokeen

bokeen

The unvarnished truth:

RT: @bokeen: This was the tweet that offended the pill counters: http://bit.ly/f7hzzj <Shhhh! Don't tell anyone, we have the best gig going!

04.05.11 12:39 PM via Twitter for BlackBerry®ReplyRetweetFavorite

@CrazyPharmD

Your Pharmacist

This old adage is meant to convey the benefits of retiring to bed at an early hour. The phrase is often used by parents who worry that the twilight hours will expose their children to the unsavory aspects of life, such as premarital sex, alcohol, drugs and Mexicans.

I thoroughly reject the notion that “nothing good happens after midnight,” as I am a nocturnal being. Every morning, I begrudgingly peel myself out of bed for work, spending the first part of the day in a semiconscious haze. I am a staunch proponent of early evening naps, and I am most productive late at night.

My girlfriend, boqueen, is also a night owl. However, I do not know if she also disagrees with the statement “nothing good happens after midnight,” as she has a tendency to get drunk and black out in the early morning hours. It is difficult to assess the quality of what occurs after midnight when one has no recollection of the events in question.

This is not to suggest that boqueen is an alcoholic. On the contrary, she moderates her alcohol consumption far more than I do. Her tolerance for alcohol is simply far lower than mine. I am blessed with the superhuman ability to consume massive quantities of alcohol without shitting myself, as I come from a long line of alcoholics. boqueen, on the other hand, has a tendency to slur her words, fall over, or vomit after a few stiff cocktails.

Most of the time, the care and feeding of a drunken boqueen is a rather trivial matter. She might spill a glass of wine or require assistance as she staggers to our bedroom. I find her absolutely adorable when this happens. As an added bonus, it gives me the opportunity to serve as the devoted, helpful boyfriend. I have always been skinny and pathetically unathletic, so this is the closest that I ever get to feeling like a superhero.

Occasionally, boqueen will pass the threshold of mere drunkenness, transforming into a belligerent being known for behaving erratically and evacuating the evening’s beverages from her body in whatever manner is most efficient. In these cases, boqueen is, for lack of a better term, a hot fucking mess.

boqueen’s transformation into The Incredible Drunk is most likely to occur when we are out with our friends, who have a penchant for hanging out in bars until closing time, spending massive amounts of money on prohibitively expensive drinks.

::

Surprisingly, the first time I witnessed this ghastly side of boqueen was last fall, after we had been dating for nearly a year.

We had spent the evening at a bar in Wicker Park celebrating our friend Durty Dee’s birthday. Wicker Park is a neighborhood on the north side of Chicago renowned for its highly-trafficked bars, overpriced food and drinks, and a preponderance of douchebag hipsters in skinny jeans.

In order to enjoy an evening in Wicker Park, one must typically secure a large credit line, home equity loan or trust fund from their parents. This particular night in Wicker Park was atypical, as Dee had arranged for an affordable package deal for drinks. However, despite Dee’s best efforts, a large number of hipsters were still present.

For approximately 30 dollars, we enjoyed several hours of unlimited drinks. The exact cost and duration of this package deal have long been forgotten, as I relentlessly consumed beers and gin cocktails like a ravenous fat person at Old Country Buffet six minutes before closing.

Likewise, boqueen dumped massive quantities of Ketel One into her gullet, in hopes of minimizing the average cost-per-drink. Her efforts were a resounding success.

By about 3 A.M., we left the bar, in large part due to the fact that a bouncer had ejected me from the premises. While walking to the bathroom, I had stumbled and fallen onto the floor, giving the bouncer the impression that I had been over-served. I had been over-served and was seeing double at the time, though my fall could be attributed to my unreliably feeble knee, which was badly injured in a car accident in 2008.

Several of our friends were standing outside of the bar smoking cigarettes as we hailed a taxi. Before leaving, I decided to moon these friends. Public exposure of my buttocks is a hallmark of an enjoyable evening for all.

The overpowering stench of curry and butt sweat in the cab lulled boqueen into a slumber. Once we arrived home, I woke her from the ill-timed nap.

boqueen reluctantly obliged, struggling to keep her balance as she exited the cab. I quickly paid the driver and rushed to help her.

I attempted to put my arm around her in an effort to guide her to the door of our apartment. This gesture was quickly rejected.

“I’m fucking drunk you fucking asshole,” she slurred, stumbling away from me. “I want to go fucking home.”

As we crossed the street, boqueen began to vomit. She continued to walk across the street, head bowed as she spewed vodka and bile onto the pavement. Most people would stop walking in order to purge, but she kept stepping across the intersection. boqueen’s multi-taking abilities are admirable.

boqueen finished, and I stood in awe of the impressively long streak of vomit that coated the street. She stood up, wiping small remnants of foamy stomach juice from her chin with her sleeve.

“Why the fuck did you fucking buy me those drinks, you fucking asshole?” she inquired, clearly unappreciative of the fact that I had generously paid for the evening’s activities.

I briefly attempted to rationalize with her, but she quickly interrupted me.

“I need to fucking go the fuck home,” she said, stomping down the street. Unfortunately, she was headed the opposite direction of our apartment, which was no more than 50 feet away.

Eventually, I coaxed boqueen into trusting me, carrying her to our apartment. She was apologetic for her behavior when she finally awoke at 3 P. M.

::

Since Dee’s birthday, I have experienced several instances of boqueen’s aggressively obnoxious drunken behavior. Last weekend, boqueen surpassed her own benchmark for reckless abandon and contempt for me.

On Saturday, we celebrated our friend Mike’s birthday. Mike is the lead singer of Treaty of Paris, and an all-around awesome human being. Also, Mike’s dad came to the party. Old people are fun in moderation.

The skull and crossbones logo is appropriate, because you could catch a deadly disease in this filthy bar.

(We spent the evening at Twisted Spoke, a biker-themed bar on the Near West Side. While the whole biker thing isn’t my bag, this is one of my favorite bars in Chicago. The bar has great food and an incredible beer selection. Most importantly, the bar is designed so the biker theme is ancillary to the customer experience. For example, Exit on the North Side is a punk-themed bar where the bartenders are dismissive assholes and the bathrooms reek of ripened urine. In summary, Exit is a deplorable shithole and The Spoke is rad.)

The evening was marked by drunken debauchery, good conversation and funny moments that were shared with the world on Twitter. Many of us sampled a variety of exotic beers, while others frantically consumed cocktails. A good time was had by all. Our evening ended around 3 A.M. when a friendly bouncer instructed us to leave the bar, which was closed.

boqueen immediately feel asleep at the start of our short cab ride home. After paying the driver, I attempted to wake her up.

“Honey, we’re home,” I said in a comforting, apologetic tone, “wake up.”

boqueen muttered something completely unintelligible.

“Let’s go, dear,” I replied, “I walk you upstairs.”

“Okay okay okay okay okay okay okay okay,” boqueen snapped, “okay okay okay.”

She clumsily scooted across the vinyl seat to the door of the cab. She placed her right foot on the ground, and then abruptly halted.

Next, she collapsed onto her side, lying across the seat of the cab.

“Just give me five more minutes,” she instructed as she huddled in a fetal position.

“Let’s go, woman,” I said, growing frustrated. “You can’t sleep in this filthy goddamned cab.”

The driver shot me an icy stare in the rearview mirror.

“No offense, sir,” I said, clutching boqueen’s ankles and pulling her lifeless body from the car. This startled her and she quickly awoke.

“Fuck you. Don’t fucking touch me you fucking asshole,” she said, lazily shoving me aside as she rose to her feet. “Take me to the fucking bathroom.”

I placed my arm around her, guiding her as to the door of our apartment. She clumsily limped along as if she had been shot in both knees.

Despite boqueen’s lack of motor function and the challenges of transporting a booze-seeped cadaver, I was determined to get her into the apartment as quickly as possible. Her insistence on using the bathroom triggered a sense of urgency in me. The prospect of cleaning up her vomit, feces and/or urine was rather unpleasant.

I am madly in love with boqueen, but my love does not extend to her excrement. Poop is gross, even if it came out of a loved one.

After struggling mightily to guide boqueen up the stairs and into our apartment, I carried her into the bathroom. I flicked on the light and announced our current location.

“This is the bathroom,” I said. “Are you going to be okay? Do you need any help?”

“Take me to the fucking bathroom,” boqueen screamed, oblivious to the fact that she was leaning with both hands on the bathroom sink to prevent her drunken body from collapsing onto the floor.

“We are in the bathroom, honey,” I politely explained. “Here is the toilet.”

A lifted the lid of the toilet and gestured towards the bowl.

“Do you need any hel–” I began.

“Fuck you,” boqueen interrupted. “You never fucking do anything for me any fucking way. Take me to the fucking bathroom.”

Clearly, my charm would be ineffective in dissipating her hostility.

“You are in the bathroom right now,” I responded, my slow, terse tone demonstrating my aggravation. “Here’s the sink, and here is the toilet.”

I flushed the toilet in hopes that the auditory cue would serve as a helpful reminder of her current location.

boqueen silent started at me, and her icy sneer made it clear that she was not pleased.

“Okay then,” I said as I backed out of the room, “holler if you need anything.”

I closed the door of the bathroom, which immediately swung back open violently.

boqueen (artist’s rendition)

“Take me to the fucking bathroom!” boqueen exclaimed, charging towards me with her arms madly flailing. Fortunately, I was not harmed by her lethargic drunken punches.

“I need to use the fucking bathroom you fucking asshole,” she desperately pleaded.

“Fuck you,” she added. When intoxicated, boqueen uses this phrase quite frequently when addressing me, as it is was a form of punctuation.

“You should go to bed, baby,” I said, hoping to diffuse the situation. “Come on, I’ll take you.”

“No, you fucking asshole,” she replied as repeatedly poked me in the chest with her finger. “Take me to the fucking bathroom now. Fuck you.”

By this point, I had grown tired of boqueen’s inability to recognize a bathroom by its defining properties, such as a toilet, sink and bathtub. I wrapped my arms around her waist, lifted her up and walked into the bathroom.

Her feet hit the floor with an empathic thud.

“You are in the bathroom now,” I said. “Piss, shit, puke or douche: do whatever you need to. Call me if you need help.”

Again, boqueen responded with a cold, hateful glare. I carefully backed out of the bathroom, hoping not to further provoke her ire.

As I closed the bathroom door, boqueen lost her balance. She stumbled and quickly propped herself up using the sink.

“Fuck you!” she screamed. “Why the fuck did you fucking push me? You are so fucking abusive, you fucking asshole. Fuck you,”

“Sorry,” I pathetically said as I closed the door. Minutes later, boqueen emerged from the bathroom and stumbled into our bed, fully clothed and carrying her purse.

She was scheduled to work the following day. She woke up Sunday morning about ten minutes after her shift started, still clutching the strap of her purse.

::

I relay this story because it is quite memorable and, hopefully, entertaining. Dealing with boqueen’s drunken antics can be a harrowing, but quite memorable, experience.

I just hope that she appreciates the shit that she puts me through.

Gondolas are nowhere in sight.  The Vatican is thousands of miles away.  And I cannot recall the last time a mustachioed man walked by carrying a paper bag with baguettes poking out of the top.

I am at my apartment in Chicago.

In late October, I moved into a new apartment located in the Pilsen neighborhood on Chicago’s near south side.  My particular borough is known as “The Heart of Italy.”  The small community is known for a stretch of Italian restaurants along Oakley Avenue, and was once a popular destination for Italian immigrants.

(Many of my friends and coworkers view my move to the south side as quite fitting.  In fact, many acquaintances have guessed that I am from the south side, due to my thick Chicago accent.  One of my college teachers even asked if I was from Bridgeport, home of Mayor Richard Daley.  In addition, I am a White Sox fan who spent the better part of my life among Cubs Kool-Aid drinkers on the north side.   In many ways, moving south of Madison Avenue was a foregone conclusion.)

Several factors contributed to my decision to move to The Heart of Italy.  As I have noted before, I was disillusioned by the performance of the corporate management of my previous apartment complex.  My new apartment is conveniently located about 15 minutes away from my downtown office and is a short walk to the train.  Most importantly, the move put me within one mile of boqueen’s apartment.

boqueen and I have been together for a nearly a year.  For the first few months, it felt like a long-distance relationship.  I lived more than 50 miles away, and the hour long drive quickly became a nuisance.  This was further exasperated by the fact that boqueen is an urbanite who relies primarily on cabs and public transportation; she did not own a car until about a week ago. 

At times, seeing each other was a complete pain in the ass, requiring hours of planning and packing and a half a tank of gas.  I decided to remedy the situation by moving much closer to her, and she eventually moved in.  Now, we enjoy all of the trappings of “living in sin,” including sharing the cost of utilities and engaging in steamy premarital sex. 

::

Searching for apartments seemed like an epic task.  Moving is an arduous task that I simply dread, so I procrastinated as long as possible.  Three weeks before my lease expired, I combed Craigslist and strolled through prospective neighborhoods, scanning for black and orange “FOR RENT” signs.

The apartment-hunting process is a blur to me now.  Over the course of five days, I looked at ten different apartments on the south side.  Some were in good neighborhoods, while others were located in the ghetto.  Many of the apartments were dirty and unkempt and a few were in respectable condition. 

Apartment hunting taught me a valuable lesson: rental units on the south side are far less expensive than on the north side.  My new apartment has two small bedrooms, a large kitchen and a living room that is cozy but not cramped.  I pay a meager $700 in rent; an apartment of the same size in neighborhoods with dense hipster populations such as Lakeview, Lincoln Park or even Logan Square would easily cost twice as much.

The hipsters will never learn the error of their ways.  Regardless, I am happy to live in a relatively hipster-free zone, as hipsters are afraid of brown people.  Ironically, the population of “The Heart of Italiy” is largely Hispanic. 

(I will make no apologies for pointing out this irony, as I poked fun at white folk’s apprehension to minority neighborhoods in great detail over six months ago.)

I am quite pleased with my choice of neighborhood.  Despite being located moments away from downtown, the area does not suffer from the congestion and gross overpopulation found on the north and near west side.  Traffic is virtually a non-issue, and free parking is relatively ample.  At times, my small neighborhood possesses the quiet tranquility of the suburbs, despite the fact that Willis (nee: Sears) Tower looms ominously on the skyline. 

I live in a three-flat, which is quite a change from the sprawling apartment complex with hundreds of units that I was accustomed to. 

Living in a massive complex offers one quite a degree of anonymity.  When surrounded by hundreds of people, it can be difficult to distinguish neighbors from one another and remember names.  During my year in the apartment complex, I befriended one neighbor, and ancient lady named Ellen.  I would encounter Ellen quite often as she would drag her blind and deaf pug across the sidewalk so the diseased animal could evacuate its bowels.  Ellen was a nice old broad.

I appreciated the anonymity because, in general, I hate people.  While I am a generally affable person, I prefer not to interact with my neighbors.  I suppose that this is a byproduct of growing up in a highly dysfunctional household where my parents would pass judgment upon the neighbors while being terrified of being judged by the neighbors for their loud, erratic and generally fucking insane behavior. 

Renting an apartment in a three-flat does not afford such luxuries.  My neighbors and I live directly on top of one another.  As boqueen and I alternately argue and fuck, they are privy to every moment, due to the lack of sound-dampening qualities in cheap building materials.  We handle one another’s mail and see each other while taking out the garbage.  Regrettably, I am forced to interact with these morose bastards, for fear of being rightfully labeled a douchebag and cast aside like a leper serial killer with a creepy wandering eye.

I live in on the top level of the three flat because, if history has taught us anything it is that the white man always comes out on top. 

Directly below me is a nice Hispanic lady named Anjelica.  She pronounces the “J” in her name with an “H” sound, which is something that my cracker-ass tounge struggles with mightily.  As far as I can tell, Angelica has one or more children and a nice boyfriend with a moustache, and she is quite family-oriented. 

Angelica recently gave us hand-me-down toys for my niece and nephew.  This was a nice gesture, despite the fact that it was clearly easier to hand the trinkets to boqueen than walk them an additional fifty feet to the garbage can in the alley.  boqueen suggested that I bake cookies for Angelica and her family, which I am in favor of, as the average recipe for cookies produces between 40 and 60 of the scrumptious bastards.  I plan on baking up a batch soon, and I will gladly hand off some of the delicious confections to a neighbor, lest boqueen and I become fat.

An indeterminable number of Mexicans live in the basement unit.  While empirical evidence indicates that, at very least, a trashy woman and her wannabe thug son live in the basement, there is quite a bit of traffic downstairs.  I would estimate that between three and 17 people live in the basement unit of the building.

While the scummy lady is the leaseholder, her son is the most prominent resident of “Unit BSMT.”  He and his social group have penchant for standing on the sidewalk in oversized clothing and referring to one another as “nigger.”

That’s more like it.

(The use of the word “nigger” is, understandably, a highly contentious topic.  Even two of the most famous colored people in the world, Oprah and Jay-Z, disagree on the subject.  Regardless, under no circumstances do non-blacks have the right to use the word, particularly in casual conversation.  Being a member of a minority group does not offer one the privilege to use all racial slurs with impunity.  It seems to suggest that Latinos endured the same hardships as Blacks in America, which is fucking absurd.  I respectfully request that all Mexican refrain from using the word “nigger” and finish mowing my lawn.)

I believe that the boy is between ages 14 and 17.  This estimation is based upon his inability to communicate in coherent adult sentences and the patchy hair that resides upon his face. 

While the basement of my unit is chock full of degenerates, I am not one to pass judgment.  After all, I am a self-proclaimed douchebag, so who am I to judge?

However, some of the living habits of the folks in “Unit BSMT” have become bothersome.

::

I would like to preface the next few paragraphs by admitting that I was once a regular marijuana smoker.  Actually, referring to myself as a “regular marijuana smoker” is a bit of an understatement; I was a full-blown pothead during my college years.  Smoking up was a part of my daily regimen.  I would get high before I went to work or to school.   I would puff a quick bowl before and after meals, a few times before bed and prior to any encounter with a family member.  My point is that I am a bona fide expert in pot-related matters.

What a buzzkill!

(Remember how depressing September 11th was?  Imagine watching the second plane hit the World Trade Center while completely stoned.  At work.  It was a bummer, to say the least.) 

I moved into my new apartment on a Sunday afternoon.  boqueen and I decided to commemorate the momentous occasion with celebratory cocktails.  As I walked into the kitchen to refresh our drinks, my nose detected an unmistakable odor.

“Hey, come in here and smell this,” I shouted towards the living room.

“Smells like weed,” boqueen said as she entered the room.

My kitchen was inundated with the smell of burning marijuana.  Specifically, it was the smell of low-quality ditch weed rolled into a blunt with a flavored wrap.

(For the uninitiated, a “blunt” consists of marijuana rolled in cigar paper.  Many believe that blunts produce a higher level of intoxication, or, as urban dictionary notes, “a blunt a day keeps the doctor away.” Blunt wraps are pre-packaged cigar rolling papers which eliminate the hassle of removing the tobacco from a cigar.  As an added bonus, blunt wraps are available in a variety of flavors, including cherry, vanilla, gin & juice and “purple.”) 

Figure 3: A blunt.

The potent odor had permeated my kitchen from the window that faces my back porch.  It was an incredibly strong smell, as if the blunt had been smoked at my kitchen table. 

I opened the door out to my porch and was greeted by a more intense cloud of the disgusting odor.  At the door creaked open, I heard a flurry of footsteps as several people scattered on a lower floor. 

Every few days, the smell would return.  The blunt stink would appear at random intervals, sometimes late at night, sometimes in the middle of the morning on weekdays.

My inherent disdain for interaction with neighbors led me to avoid confronting the issue.  While it was annoying to unexpectedly smell a strawberry-kiwi-flavored blunt while working on TPS reports on a Tuesday afternoon, the situation was easily remedied with a few sprays of air freshener and a scented candle. 

I soon confirmed my suspicions that basement unit was the source of the offending odor.  On multiple occasions, I staggered through a dense cloud of smoke on the basement level while taking out the garbage.  Other times, I would inadvertently catch the pseudo-thugs in the act, prompting them to dash into the apartment like frightened cockroaches confronted with a bright light. 

I found it quite ironic that the teenagers would be brazen enough to smoke on the enclosed porch, yet they would immediately become frightened and hide when caught in the act, as if I were wearing a police officer’s uniform.

Fucking pussies. 

::

Last Friday, I worked from my “home office,” better known as my kitchen.  During the afternoon, I was startled by someone rapping on the back door of my apartment.  This is highly unusual, as the entrance to the building is in the front, and only the other tenants have access to the back porch.

I opened the door and was greeted by an elderly cracker who presented an identification card issued by the city of Chicago.

He explained that he was a city building inspector, and that he was checking for smoke and carbon monoxide detectors.  I let him in and walked him over to the smoke detector in the hallway.  Next, I showed him the carbon monoxide detector in my kitchen, which is perpetually unplugged so the outlet can be used for far more important things, such as our laptop computers and BlackBerry chargers.

“Funny thing, I just unplugged the carbon monoxide detector so I could charge my phone,” I explained. 

The inspector was satisfied and asked that I let him exit through the front door.  The brief visit by the building inspector seemed to pass without incident. 

::

That evening, I walked to the grocery store to procure essential forms of sustenance for the weekend, such as a case of Miller Lite and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. 

Upon returning home, the trashy broad from the basement unit was standing outside. 

“Hey bokeen, hey bokeen,” she said like a fucking parrot.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” I replied, unable to recall her scummy-ass name.  I assume that it is something like “fuckhole” or “skidmark” or “pukestain.”  Yes, I believe her name is “Pukestain Gonzalez.” 

“The building inspector was here today.  He was in your apartment,” she announced as if it were breaking news that was highlighted in yellow with blinking letter across the ticker on CNN. 

“Yeah,” I responded, already growing tired of the conversation. 

“Well, yeah, he told the landlord that he smelled weed,” she replied.

“No surprise there.  The back porch always smells like weed,” I snapped back in the most accusatory tone possible.

“Yeah, but he said he smelled it in the front stairs,” she said.  “I talked to Jesse (the landlord) today, and he was wondering what’s up.” 

I responded with a cynical grin.

“So, I am not trying to pass judgment or anything like that,” she continued.  “I just wanted to give you a heads up.  I mean, what you do is you bus–“

“Well, boqueen and I don’t smoke bud,” I interjected, “so I don’t really have anything to worry about.”

She began an anecdote I had little interest in, as my arm was growing tired from holding a 24 pack of beer.

“We used to live up on the top floor,” she said, before beginning a run-on sentence of epic proportions. “And this one time, Jesse came over and the kitchen smelled like weed and I was all worried because he smelled the weed but it was my son’s girlfriend who smoked weed because none of us would ever smoke weed in the house because this is our home and we wouldn’t want to risk that because I have a family.”

“Yeah,” I responded, hoping to reach the conclusion of her Shakespearian tale.

As she briefly paused, I heard the hamster wheel turning in her tiny, malnourished head.

“So if you don’t smoke weed, it was probably Anjelica,” she stammered.  Her smile indicated pride in her ability to craft a pathetic lie.

While I do not know Anjelica very well, I would never suspect her as a pot smoker.  In fact, she seems quite like the type of broad who colors inside the lines and would not engage in illicit activities such as double-parking, let alone (gasp) using drugs.

“I let the building inspector out through my front door,” I explained, “and it didn’t smell like pot.”

“I just wanted to give you a heads up,” she responded.

“No need,” I said. “I have nothing to hide.  We don’t smoke pot.”

“Well, my brother lives with me and he smokes sometimes, but never at home,” she admitted.  “And my son – well, you know, he likes to smoke cigars, but I know, as a fact, that he doesn’t smoke weed.”

I was absolutely appalled.  My scrawny female neighbor had assumed that I was unable to detect the distinct scent of marijuana when “masked” by piña colada-flavored blunt wraps.  

Perhaps she assumed that I am a naive white boy since she is unaware of my rich history as an expert-level pot smoker.

I offered a parting jab before the conversation ended. 

“Well, thanks, but I am not concerned,” I responded.  “boqueen and I don’t smoke weed because we are adults.”

::

I walked up the stairs to my apartment, seething with anger.  The degenerate woman’s strategy was painfully obvious.  She realized that her son’s habit of smoking sugary blunts was obvious to the entire building and that the offensive odor would inevitably cause complaints to the landlord.  She had hoped that by candidly admitting that her family members routinely indulge in a puff, I would be compelled to admit the same.

I suspect that if our landlord ever smelled weed in the building, she would quickly point to the conniving mixed-race couple on the top floor as the culprit. 

When I explained to her that I only smoke tobacco products, she suggested that Anjelica might be the inconsiderate smoker.  Again, I find this to be completely implausible and another transparent attempt at deflecting blame.

I was slightly annoyed by her childlike attempt to find a scapegoat for her son’s behavior.  However, I was absolutely enraged by her attempts to coax an admission of guilt out of me, and then convince me that my quiet and kind neighbor was actually a completely inconsiderate pothead.  She was trying to outsmart me. 

Don’t try to outsmart a smart-ass.

I do not mind if one of my peers outsmarts me.  If a friend succeeds in pulling a clever prank at my expense, or if a coworker happens to make me believe a lie in order to cover their ass, I applaud their efforts.

This is a quite different scenario.  In this case, my sickly, trashy neighbor is attempting to sell me a bullshit story.  The woman speaks at a fifth-grade level.  I find it insulting to know that she believed she could beat me in a battle of wits. 

I am a college-educated professional and a world-renowned writer.  She is a young mother who never educated her son about the inherent irony of referring to himself as a “nigger” while associating with the Latin Kings. 

Forgive me if I am boastful, but I believe that I have her beaten in the “brains” department. 

::

I have decided to abandon my laissez-faire approach to neighborly relations.  Until last Friday, I was fully content with ignoring the disgusting stench of flavored blunt smoke that would waft into my kitchen and saturate my entire apartment.  My neighbor’s pathetic, juvenile attempt to shield her teenage dirtbag offspring from blame, and potentially eviction, is completely intolerable. 

My anger is exasperated by her initial strategy, which consisted of pointing the finger at boqueen and I when the building reeks of low-quality marijuana.   

This will not stand.

The next time I detect the faintest odor of weed in the building, I am calling the cops.  I will dial 9-1-1 and shriek in horror like a Concerned Neighbor would.  I will explain that the use of drugs in my building makes me fear for my life.

I will continue to call, relentlessly, every single time the thug boys and his chums smoke in the building. 

I will even call when they decide to loiter out in front of the building, expressing my fear of “gang activity.”  I will call until my landlord becomes terribly annoyed by the frequent visits by Chicago’s finest. 

I am making it my personal mission to see to it that the degenerates are evicted. 

If you were not aware, my birthday is kind of a Big Deal.  All across America, flags flew in front of suburban houses.  Mail wasn’t delivered and doves cried.  Snoop Dogg lit a celebratory blunt.  President Obama declared a moment of silence at 1:46 AM Central, the precise moment of my birth.  Shaquille O’Neal and Ashton Kutcher tweeted about it.  You probably missed it all because you were asleep. 

At the stroke of midnight on my birthday, boqueen unveiled her gift for me.  She had assembled a scrapbook containing several photos of me, her and my friends, along with excerpts from her private journal written when we started dating.  There were also several quotes from my friends.  boqueen had sent out emails to my closest chums, in hope that they would share their favorite memory of me.

I hate to admit it, but I teared up like little bitch as I read through the book. And so, without further ado, I present some of my favorite excerpts.  Consider this a series of testimonials to the life-changing experience of knowing bokeen. 

::

“I remember when bokeen and I lived together.  About a month or two into us being roommates, I woke up one morning and heard a car outside.  I looked out the window and saw bokeen in his car so I didn’t think anything of it.  After an hour or so, I still didn’t see him come in the house…so I went outside to the car and then saw him wake up, get out of the car and say to me, ‘Umm, yeah, I couldn’t make it to the door so I slept in the car.’

I thought it was hilarious as he was only a couple feet from the door…the joy of living with an alcoholic!  Good times.” 
– Kasia

“One of the first things bokeen literally said to me (besides, “Why hello there!  Aren’t you just a dapper young lady!”) was, “That’s about as awkward as a concrete tampon.”

I also witnessed him attempting to sissy (pee-pee) on a boy’s head.  I also witnessed him hump my zebra print blanked like it was 1999.  I’m pretty sure my blanket is pregnant now.

And before I had me bokeen seven five times, he mooned me on my porch and left an assprint on my glass patio door.”
- DurtyDee

“I know it is a little risqué, but it really is my favorite memory; at least the funniest.  bokeen came upon the news that a male was being requested at the site where an all-girls party was being held.  It was Jenny’s birthday and a gaggle of girls were gathered at her home to partake in the drunken festivities.  After much Captain Morgan and blue vodka, the girls started drunk-dialing all the brave gentlemen they knew to see if anyone would mind coming over to ‘dance.’  No nudity was required, but it would not be shunned, either.  bokeen arrived, half in the bag from the case of beer he had drank in preparation for the booty shakin’ shimmy he was about to perform.  He proceeded to shake his monkey maker to I’m Too Sexy by Right Said Fred.  He even did the butt floss!!!  The Sugar Shack has never seen talent like that boy!”
- Tanj

“Every time we are in an elevator with someone we don’t know, he will say something so embarrassing and so loudly that I consider hitting the emergency button just to escape the next several seconds of mortification that I have to spend with my fellow elevator riders.  Really, any time we are in public, bokeen does something JUST TO EMBARRASS THE HELL OUT OF ME and then asks why I care, because they are, after all, strangers.  It’s at a good reminder to not care what people are thinking of you all the damn time.” 
- Perplexis

“It gets bigger!”
- Dani and Feltch, recalling my explanation after they had inadvertently seen my flaccid penis. 

“The first time I met bokeen, he announced that he hates the environment because it competes for attention with him.  This was within the first ten minutes.  I knew I was in for a treat.  His creation of the BOOM! CHRIST BOMB shot is also classic.  I  believe it’s one part vodka, one part blood of Christ.” 
- CC

“We pee in alleys together…get over it!”
- System of Adan

“Simple memory: bokeen being the only one at [company parties] that is appreciative of and will to assist in making asshole faces in every photo.  Also, yelling, ridiculous bokeen with a cigarette throwing a clipboard at softball with a look that he is about to charge the umpire.”
- Nugget

“Here’s some irony for you: I think I can say, in the most heterosexual of ways, that you are someone I feel like I’ve been friends with forever.  And I barely even know you.  What’s that all about?

[Editor’s note: several thousand words removed in the interest of conserving space.]

So I’ll wind this up because I’m starting to get bored thinking about you.  I’d rather think about Megan Fox feeding me grapes in a hammock on some tropical island, or why the chicken crossed the road.  And I guess I’ll have to end it with some Hallmark type bullshit.  So here goes:

Through it all, hangin’ tough,
We’ll stay side by side.
We’ll be friends forever,
‘Til the end of time.

Friends forever.
We’ll be friends,
Talkin’ ‘bout friends.
Always will be there,
Yeah, yeah friends.
Always be friends.
We’ll be friends together.
Yes we will,
Yes we will,
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, ohhhh.

Alright.  Those are the lyrics to Friends Forever from Saved by the Bell.  Sorry. But that song still makes me cry like a gay from Cali who just got word of Prop 8.”
– Shak   

“The night of our company party, I had a broken arm.  I was a total train wreck.  My boss was feeding me drinks and I was on Vicodin.  Needless to say, I was out very quickly.  bokeen was recruited to take care of me and, to everyone’s surprise, he actually did so willingly.  He made sure I didn’t pass out in the bathroom, got me water and generally kept me alive until we got to our coworker’s house for the after party. 

At our coworker’s house, I was, all of a sudden, fine and he was a mess.  So I switched to caretaker mode and made sure he was alright while at the after party.  That’s my favorite thing about bokeen; no matter who ‘mean’ he appears to be toward me, I know he’s always got my back and he knows I’ve always got his.”
– Whorey Povich

::

Thanks to all my friends and family for the birthday wishes, celebratory toasts and amazing gifts.  The past few days have been absolutely incredible.  Unfortunately, my liver has filed a restraining order against me, so I may have to refrain from drinking for a while.

Who am I kidding?  I am drinking a beer as I write this.

This concludes the warm and fuzzy sentiments; douchebaggery will resume later this week. 

For boqueen’s birthday, I bought tickets to see her favorite band, No Doubt, play in Tinley Park. boqueen was born in late May, so it was a gift of delayed gratification.  After weeks of anticipation, the show finally arrived on Saturday. 

As a bloke in my late 20s, concertgoing is not a regular experience for me.  When I was a younger lad, concerts were a regular part of my summertime experience.  As I grew older, I became farther removed from radio play and popular music.  I feel like an old man: I cannot recognize, nor enjoy, the vast majority of music that is played on the radio today. 

Pop in a Sublime, Michael Jackson, Ice Cube or even a Beatles record, and I am good.  Tune in to a Top 40 radio station, and I am lost.  This is precisely why boqueen, who is several years younger than me, refers to me as “Captain Greyballs.” 

By no means was a reluctant attendee of the concert.  I last saw No Doubt perform live in 2001 as they toured in support of their Return of Saturn record.  I paid $20 for admission and fully expected the typical mundane performance of 1990s alternative rock bands.  Instead, I was treated to an energetic and inspired performance that easily ranks in my top five of all-time concert experiences.

Nine years later, No Doubt again delivered an exceptional concert experience.  boqueen and I enjoyed every moment, and she was pleased with her birthday gift (read: epic sex afterwards.) 

Yet I was woefully unprepared for a concert-going experience in 2009.  In the past few years, I have attended small shows is tiny venues, so an outdoor concert in an amphitheater filled with 28,000 ticket-holders proved to be somewhat of a cultural shock.

::

A No Doubt show attracts a diverse group of individuals.

Several of boqueen’s friends also attended the show, so she suggested that we tailgate with two of her close friends.  Since boqueen is a black woman and I am a white male, I thought about all of the years of oppression and decided to throw her a bone: we arrived early to meet up with her chums.

Her friends had a SUV stocked with vodka, marijuana, cranberry juice, cups, water and more vodka.  boqueen partook in all of the aforementioned recreational substances, spare drinking water.  I declined all intoxicants, opting for water instead, due to the fact that I was the designated driver.  More importantly, I did not want to risk getting whiskey dick. 

We sat in the smoke-filled SUV, watching hundreds of concertgoers walk toward the mammoth amphitheater. 

“Concerts are a great place for people-watching,” boqueen remarked.

“Look at all these people,” I responded, “they are so fucking fat.”

::

“One!  ONE!” I shouted, pointing out of the windshield of the SUV.

“What?” boqueen and her friends simultaneously asked.

“I just spotted the first massively obese girl wearing way too much makeup.” I replied.

“Why don’t you just count the fat girls wearing clothes that are far too tight?” boqueen asked.

“Same thing,” I remarked.

As the night continued, I gave up on my effort to count fatties.  In the Midwest, counting fat girls is a futile effort, much like counting the grains of sand along Lake Michigan.

::

As the smoke cleared from the SUV, a group of individuals that appeared to be aged in their early 40s passed by.  The group consisted of four women and two men; each wore personalized tank tops.

The women wore ill-fitting, unflattering shirts that read something along the lines of “No Doubt is the bee’s knees.” The obese tattooed men sported tops that read, “I am only here because Gwen is hot” on the back. 

boqueen and I carefully ruminated the messages, carefully considering the philosophical implication of each statement.  We agreed that middle-aged people should not attend a concert wearing a custom-made band shirt, for it is bad form.

::

Moments before concert began, boqueen and I parted ways with her friends.  They had general admission lawn tickets, while we had seats that placed us in an excellent position to watch the show.  While we were situated about 200 feet from the stage, boqueen’s friends were located approximately seven miles from the band.   

We were fortunate enough to be sandwiched between two loud black women and flock of energetic preteen white girls.

::

When we took our seats, the black women were situated to my left.  They were obliviously impressed by boqueen; since she is black, I was in The Club and they were willing to converse with me.

“Oh, we should switch seats.  She gonna sing, and she sing out of key,” said one of the women, gesturing to her friend, who was sitting in the seat to mine.

“I don’t give a shit,” I replied.  “I might even sing along too.  And I suck at singing.  No worries.”

“Naw, she bad,” the woman exclaimed, hoping to engage me in conversation.

“Again, I don’t give a shit,” I repeated.  “Seriously, I could give a fuck less.”

“Naw, she really bad,” the woman continued.  “But I sing on key.”

“Again, I don’t give a shit,” I replied.  “Sit here, sit there – hell, sit on each other’s faces.  It makes no difference to me.”

::

While I had the chatty black girls to deal with, boqeen was situated next to a white teenage girl.  The gawky young creature was quite a spectacle to behold.   She had obviously entered the early stages of puberty, rendering her an awkwardly androgynous young mammal.

Her eyebrows were particularly notable.  It appeared that she had recently begun an eyebrow grooming regimen but had failed to master the craft.  Thick, fuzzy tufts of hair occupied the center of her face, hastily fading away directly above her irises; they were half eyebrows.  Actually, the hair more closely resembled a tiny mustache that was incorrectly positioned.

“Fret not, tiny moustache, for you are not far from home,” I whispered.  “You are merely a few inches north of the upper lip.” 

I would describe the girl’s fashion sense as “rock and roll meets hobo chic, with a strong dash of emo.”  She wore a pop art influenced t-shirt emblazoned with the name of the opening act, Paramore.  The back of the shirt was curiously tied in a ball with a hair tie, revealing a tight, black and white striped top underneath.  The high temperature on Saturday was 84 degrees, so such layering seemed somewhat unnecessary.

The Dora Collection, now available at Victoria’s Secret.

She wore tight, low-slung jeans to highlight her curveless, undeveloped body.  An entire inch (2.54 cm) of her furry butt crack peered out of the top of her Underoos.  Her outfit was accessorized with a series of colorful bracelets, along with a teal and purple streak running through her greasy hair.

The girl sat next to two of her friends, one of which appeared to be about the same age.  The other girl was clearly the youngest; boqueen estimated her age to be about 10, while I believed that she was an overgrown fetus. 

Both girls embraced the chaotic fashion sense of their bushy-browed friend.  In fact, as I glanced around the venue, there were countless other prepubescent girls dressed in a similar manner.  I was absolutely stunned.  When I was a teenager, shopping at thrift stores was in vogue.  Clearly, the young ladies of today have eschewed thrift stores and retail outlets in favor of a dumpster diving. 

::

boqueen and I returned to the concourse for a brief cigarette break.  As I watched the youthful crowd passed by, I felt like Clint Eastwood’s character in Gran Turino.

“Goddamn fucking kids,” I sneered, chomping on my cigarette. 

Like a grizzled old man, I reminisced about my teenage years.  Fashion seemed so much simpler in the early 1990s. 

“You know, if I was 14 today, I probably wouldn’t even try to get laid,” I said to boqueen as another girl with colorful hair passed by.  “These broads look like trash.  If I was in high school now, I probably would never even take up masturbation.” 

::

We returned to our seats in time for the opening act, Paramore.  I was somewhat familiar with the band. I knew that the band blends elements of rock, emo and poppy punk, and that the lead singer is a chick.  Prior to the concert, I had heard a handful of their songs and formed a relatively favorable opinion of the group.

When the band began to play, the girls sitting next to boqueen responded by screaming and jumping in an erratic manner.  I was convinced that they were experiencing epileptic seizures and attempted to summon a medic.  However, boqueen assured me that the girls were simply enjoying the music, and that medical attention was unnecessary.

After three songs, we again became bored.  While it may seem like a trite, pedestrian criticism of the band, I felt that each song sounded similar, blending together into an indistinguishable sonic mess.  Days later, I have no recollection of a single song, but of a long, drawn-out performance. 

boqueen and I ventured off into the lawn to meet up with her friends so that she could indulge in even more cannabis.  During our journey, I noticed that the most enthusiastic response to Paramore’s routine came primarily from the same oddly-dressed teenage young girls that I had noticed earlier.  14-year-olds shrieked and clapped after every song, while the adults in the crowd were clearly unmoved by the performance. 

At that moment, I began to understand the popularity of the band.

“So when young girls get too old for Hannah Montana, they graduate to Paramore?” I asked boqueen.

Her eyes shifted towards me and her eyebrows lowered in the manner that typically precedes a sarcastic remark.  “What did you think?” she responded.  “You’ve heard them before.”

“Yes,” I snapped back. “I didn’t realize they were pandering to children.  They should be playing the Nickelodeon Kids’ Choice Awards rather than opening up for No Doubt.” 

::

We retreated to our seats after Paramore finally decided to vacate the stage, sparing the audience from further torture.  The audiences erupted during No Doubts’ introduction, and the audience members flanking boqueen and I began to behave like complete fools. 

The black women to my left repeatedly switched seats, taking turns shooting pictures of the stage.  After each switch, they were certain to elbow me in the arm and announce the change. 

“We switched,” one of the women would announce, her words virtually inaudible over the loud music, “now you don’t have to hear her sing.”

“I don’t give a shit,” I’d yell back, vigorously shaking my head and shrugging. 

While the boisterous black ladies were a minor nuisance, the flat-chested white girls to the right of boqueen were far more annoying.

The moment lead singer Gwen Stefani appeared on the Jumbotron, the girl with the massive eyebrows lost all control of her bodily functions.  She simultaneously urinated, defecated, vomited and sneezed as Gwen sang the opening verse of Spiderwebs. 

While I realize that white people are known for their lack of rhythm, I was convinced that the girl was hearing impaired, following the songs through the vibrations that she felt through her feet.  When Gwen implored the audience to clap along with the song, the girl was unable to follow along, even with visual cues from the massive Jumbotron.  As the bumbling girl attempted to follow the beat of the song, she closely resembled a drunken, autistic seal with head trauma attempting to perform for an expectant audience. 

::

After about five songs, boqueen and I returned to the concourse to watch the rest of the show.  Our seats were about 50 feet (15.42 meters) from our vantage point, so we were able to enjoy the show without the disturbances from our fellow concert attendees.

Despite the distractions, we both thoroughly enjoyed the show.  In addition, I learned several helpful lessons from the experience:

No Doubt still puts on a highly entertaining show.

Gwen’s abs are absolutely stunning, especially for a woman with two children who is rapidly approaching 40.

Teenage girls dress like they are homeless. 

Female butt cracks are disgusting, especially when they are underage and furry. 

The sterotype of black people yelling at the screen during movies is well-deserved.

Paramore’s music is garbage made for teenage girls. 

All concerts should be “21 and over.” 

Dyketha (pronounced DIKE-uh-thuh) has been boqueen’s roommate for over a year.  Today, Dyketha finished packing her scattered mess of belongings and rode off into the sunset, never to be seen again.  Tomorrow, boqueen will have a new, far less contemptible roommate. 

I have been eagerly anticipating the moment that she would be permanently banished from boqueen’s palace.

Like all humans, Dyketha is a creature of habit.  However, her habit of “living in squalor and refusing to contribute to the household” had become the bane of boqueen’s existence.

She was entrusted with paying the monthly electric bill.  Every month, she would collect each roommate’s share of the payment under the auspice that she would mail a check to the electric company.

After several months, boqueen had the nagging suspicion that Dyketha was not paying the bill.  Each utility bill would appear in the foyer of the building along with the other mail, but the electric bill was conspicuously absent.  When the mail arrived, Dyketha would quickly retrieve the bill, which was to never be seen again. 

Month after month, boqueen asked to see the bills.  Her incessant questions were met with unconvincing responses.  Dyketha would explain that she has misplaced the bill, but would assure her roommates that it had been promptly paid.

Last month, boqueen was fortunate enough to find the latest bill before Dyketha returned home after work.  She was stunned to find a past due balance of nearly $800. 

Dyketha had been making sporadic, random payments to the account, but had neglected to pay the full balance in over eight months.  She had pocketed the remainder of the proceeds.  To Dyketha, cannabis is a necessity, while electricity is a superfluous luxury. 

I was pleased to witness the ensuing Epic Confrontation.  As boqueen and her other roommate, The Red-Haired one, relentlessly questioned Dyketha about the bill, I sat mere feet away, eavesdropping while feigning interest in my laptop.

Granted, it was highly inappropriate for me to be a spectator of such a sober meeting of the roommates, but the conversation was far too entertaining to miss.

Dyketha offered a flaccid defense of her actions. She told a meandering story about a previous roommate who had neglected to pay the electric bill and how the ComEd had only recently caught up with her, tacking on an exorbitant amount onto her balance.  Her tale was wholly unconvincing, and the payment record on the bill rebutted her claim.

boqueen and The Red-Haired one explained to Dyketha that she had overstayed her welcome at the palace.  She was given a deadline of June 15 to move out.

“Thanks for the talk,” Dyketha said in her typical awkward fashion as she retired to her room.

::

Dyketha was given a real name at birth, which has since been forgotten by all concerned parties.

Her moniker is a combination of “dyke,” a reference to her butch lesbian appearance and “-etha,” a suffix that was presumably added to make her name sound like that of a dinosaur. 

On second thought, “butch” may be an inappropriate adjective to describe Dyketha’s appearance, as it evokes some semblance of sexuality.  Dyketha is neither male nor female nor transsexual nor transgender.  She is an asexual being without reproductive organs that quizzically spawns by laying eggs. 

Dyketha, doing her sexy thing.

Dyketha is fully aware of her androgynous appearance, selecting a wardrobe to accentuate her featureless figure.  On a typical day, Dyketha will sport long, baggy jeans that are torn and shredded near her feet.  An ill-fitting wrinkled t-shirt or polo shirt completes the fashion disaster.  Rather than jewelry or scarves, Dyketha accessories with filth, her clothing spattered with traces of various substances that may or may not have been part of a meal at one point in time.

Dyketha considers personal hygiene trivial.  As a result, she is constantly accompanied by a pungent aroma which offends all senses.  When the stinky little scamp would enter the room, I would experience an involuntary reaction: I would puke a little bit in my mouth. 

Eau de Dyketha is the worst possible odor that one’s mind could possibly conjure up.  It is a potent combination of seared dog shit and day-old vomit mixed with a large bag of freshly cut, sweaty pubic hair sprinkled with a dash of curry, then poured over hot charcoal in a very small, poorly-ventilated room littered with dead raccoons. 

boqueen explained that Dyketha will proudly flaunt her poor grooming habits in front of others.  Last summer, prior to her ascension to the crown, boqueen and her roommate were cooking when Dyketha entered the kitchen.  She had just finished eating, as was evidenced by the traces of food on her face.  Dyketha quickly grabbed the dirty scrubber sponge from the sink – a neglected, mildew-infested chunk of foam and plastic that was once dedicated to scrubbing the grease from dirty pots – and proceeded to wipe her mouth. 

Naturally, such a grimy person prefers to live among squalor.  As she would go about her day, she would leave a trail of garbage in her path.  Dyketha artifacts often included dirty dishes or rotting, leftover remnants of her most recent meal.  She would treat dishes like her body and clothing, refusing to wash them no matter how soiled they became.

Dyketha’s bedroom was no better.  It resembled a flea market after a natural disaster, with random cheap objects strewn about haphazardly.  Earlier this year, President Obama (D-Nazareth) declared the bedroom a disaster area.  Fortunately, the resulting windfall of federal funds will now be used to eradicate all traces of Dyketha’s existence. 

::

When I first met Dyketha, I actually liked her.  While she was as awkward as a concrete tampon, she worked in IT, which appealed to my geek sensibilities and gave us fodder for conversation.  Indeed, her sloppy stoner lifestyle was mildly annoying, but I accepted it as a quirk of her personality.

As I began to spend more time in boqueen’s palace, Dyketha quickly became a nuisance.  I’d curse her name every time I would stumble upon the remnants of her dinner or trip over an Ethernet cable carelessly strung across the hallway. 

But at that point, I didn’t technically want to see her die in a horrific freak accident.

Then, it became clear that she had been screwing over boqueen for months.  The gloves came off.  I quit the nice-guy routine in favor of the douchebag routine that you are more familiar with.  Conversations stopped.  Friendly eye contact turned to the stink eye.  I stopped short of keying her car or pissing in her shoes, but both were incredibly tempting.

For the last month, I have done my best to contain my contempt.  I eagerly counted the days to Dyketha’s departure, much like a child counts the days to the arrival of Santa Claus.

Today is the Big Day.  I feel fortunate that boqueen and I no longer have to see, smell or ever deal with Dyketha.

Good riddance, Dyketha. 

The remark didn’t carry a tinge of spite or racism; it was simply an honest observation.

As I waited for my cheeseburger in a fast food restaurant, I struck up a conversation with a Mexican girl who appeared to be in her early 20s. I was in Chicago’s Little Village neighborhood – a short walk away from boqueen’s palace.

Little Village is a predominately Mexican neighborhood. Census records indicate that 83% of residents are Hispanic and nearly 13% are black. White people are an anomaly, comprising less than four percent of population of the borough.

I laughed at the girl’s comment, acknowledging my unusual status as a minority. I explained that I was spending the weekend at my girlfriend’s apartment. As she awkwardly chuckled in response, it became clear that she was slightly disappointed. Apparently, the girl was attempting to flirt with me – and I can’t blame her.

::

One of my coworkers decided to befriend me, due to our mutual admiration for a good old-fashioned smoke break. Tryad and I got along well, despite of his fundamentalist right-wing beliefs. I am the type of person who can appreciate different viewpoints, even if I don’t find them entirely agreeable. In addition, Tryad was an affable fellow. We got along well.

At one point, I explained that I was considering moving to the suburbs. The long commute from the city’s Northwest Side to our suburban office had become unbearable, and I was willing to sacrifice the excitement of Chicago nightlife for the convenience of a shorter ride to work.

I explained to Tryad that I was considering Waukegan as a potential destination. Waukegan is a relatively large suburb located near the Wisconsin border. The combination of the city’s urban sensibilities and low rent prices were appealing to me.

Tryad lived in Zion, a suburb just north of Waukegan. I turned to him as an authority on the lifestyles of those who live in Lake County, Illinois.

“You don’t want to live there,” Tryad said, “too many spics and niggers.”

I was utterly appalled. Tryad’s comment left me speechless. His response was inappropriate for any social situation, let alone the workplace.

I abruptly ended the conversation and returned to my office. I recalled my previous conversations with Tryad.

Had he forgotten that my high school’s graduating class was comprised of nearly one-quarter native Spanish speakers? We had spoken at great length about our pasts, so I am certain that the topic had come up.

Had he forgotten our conversation about my young, half-Cuban nephew’s naïve attempts to help him better understand Spanish? I had told him the story only days earlier and we both found my Spanish-language ineptitude comical.

Had he forgotten about the picture of my sister and her black fiancée on my desk? He dropped by my office at least twice a day, so there was no way that he missed the five-by-seven glossy print.

I found the similarities between our backgrounds and the discrepancies between our worldviews incredibly ironic. We both were born and raised in areas with a burgeoning minority population. While I grew to accept the fact as a part of life, Tryad resented blacks and Hispanics as an infringement on his boring, gun-toting, white-boy lifestyle.

In many ways, I am delighted by the fact that 53% of the population of Zion is white. The other 47% keeps Tryad’s fat racist ass awake at night.

::

My friends are frightened by boqueen’s neighborhood. Granted, she lives a half a mile away from Cook County Jail, but crime rates are not exceptionally high by Chicago’s standards. When boqueen hosted her birthday party a few weeks ago, most of my friends were no-shows.

I attempt to explain that Little Village is a peaceful neighborhood populated primarily by families. My efforts are futile, because white people are scared of brown people.

Unfortunately, the South Side of Chicago has earned a bad reputation. Residents of Lincoln Park believe that the South Side is a crime-ridden war zone characterized by stray bullets and random muggings. Many North Siders consider the South Side as unsafe as Fallujah. This is a terribly myopic perception of the South Side.

The mere presence of white people does not guarantee a safe neighborhood. During my relatively brief stint living in Rogers Park on the North Side of the city, I saw witnessed the killings of two people in broad daylight and watched an open-air drug market get pinched. The 31% of whites that make up the population of the neighborhood were unable to heroically keep the neighborhood safe.

Conversely, boqueen and I rarely witness crimes in Little Village, despite the fact that the neighborhood is populated by the Hispanics that Tryad found so untrustworthy.

Little Village is a lively neighborhood. Last Saturday, I stepped outside of the palace to find a mariachi band and a man selling freshly-blended fruit drinks from a cart. I walked to the corner bodega – they can be found on nearly every other corner of residential streets – to buy a two liter of pop. As I walked back to the palace, I encountered a man letting his pet chicken get some exercise and another vendor selling fruity popsicles from a cart.

The North Side lacks such vibrant character. Neighborhoods are completely indistinguishable from one another, marked only by the number of yuppies and hipsters staggering between bars. On the North Side, ethnic neighborhoods have been virtually eradicated. Mexican, Italian, German and Polish families have been displaced by rising home prices. Blacks were never really allowed into the club. Today, most of the North Side is comprised of young professionals who are fortunate enough to afford a condo priced at upwards of a half a million dollars.

The North Side lacks personality, while the South Side is the final bastion of the unique diversity that once defined the city.

I encourage my frightened Caucasian friends to continue to toil away in their uninspired existence among the vast army of blonde girls and Volkswagen Jettas.

Hitler would be proud.

Meanwhile, I am going to the corner to grab a taco.

Last week, boqueen and I met up with four of her friends for dinner at a Moroccan restaurant.  I was delighted to find out about the restaurant’s “BYO” policy, which means that we would be allowed to bring our own booze of choice.  As an ardent alcoholic, I realized that we’d potentially save hundreds of dollars on drinks. 

The restaurant was located in the Lakeview neighborhood, an area rife with yuppies.  I briefly considered trying to blend in by getting dressed up and bringing import beer.  But I am a simple man, comfortable sipping cheap domestic beer while lounging in a black t-shirt and Chuck Taylors.  I decided to keep it classy by eschewing my preference of cans of Miller Lite in favor of bottles of Miller Lite. 

This only looks like food because it happens to be on a plate.

We arrived at the busy restaurant fashionable late, as boqueen prefers.  As I climbed over other patrons to reach my seat, I noticed that fare consisted of foods that I did not recognize.  The lively combinations of meat, vegetables and various other edible substances looked quite appetizing.  Unfortunately, I had gorged myself on greasy pizza hours earlier when I awoke from my afternoon nap.

::

Our diverse party could have easily been cast in a Benetton commercial.  The group consisted of three Indians, an Asian, Nubian princess boqueen and my pasty white ass. 

The topic of conversation quickly turned to my minority status at the table.  boqueen’s friend Sanjay was the first to note my standing as the lone Caucasian. 

In many ways, Sanjay is my doppelganger: Bizarro bokeen, if you will.  Like me, Sanjay is extremely intelligent and possesses excellent communication skills and sharp wit.  However, Sanjay is a snappy dresser who appreciates the finer things in life, while I am content with cheap beer and greasy pizza.

After berating me for being born as a white male, Sanjay noted that I did not suffer from “WPS.”  His girlfriend laughed but I missed the joke, so I asked him to explain.

White Person Syndrome is an acute psychological condition that claims the souls of trillions of Americans each year.  Symptoms include an artificially cheerful disposition and feigned interest in the mundane lives of others. For example, a coworker with WPS will enthusiastically inquire on a Monday morning, “Hey buddy, how was your weekend?”

Victims of WPS are easily identified by their forced smiles and tucked-in collared shirts. In addition, individuals with WPS have a penchant for banal activities such as golfing and scrapbooking.

Medical professionals are tirelessly investigating the causes of WPS.  It is believed that European bloodlines and exposure to suburban environments and fluorescent office lighting are factors that increase the incidence of WPS. 

It was relieved to learn that I am not afflicted with such a wretched condition. 

::

Sanjay’s comment about WPS was the ultimate ice-breaker.  The table came alive with boisterous conversation about the predictable behavior of my fellow Caucasians.

“I hate white people!” boqueen loudly proclaimed in the restaurant full of fair-skinned yuppies. 

The juxtaposition of a swarm of white people noshing on African food while being openly mocked seemed ironic.  Yet not one person turned their head or shot us a dirty look, because white people are afraid of brown people. 

As the conversation began to drift to another topic, I grabbed boqueen’s hand and gazed into her eyes.

“This is the first time that I’ve ever experienced racism,” I deadpanned, “and I don’t like this feeling.”

::

Aside from being a cracker, I felt somewhat out of place.  As everyone sipped on wine, I gleefully chugged my bottles of Miller Lite, regretting that I did not buy cans.

“This is pretty good shit,” I boorishly remarked as I took a sip of boqueen’s Riesling.

Sanjay expressed his desire to become an elite wine connoisseur – a world-renowned expert known for his discerning tastes.  Normally, I would find such a statement utterly contemptible, but Sanjay has gained a great deal of friendship capital due to his willingness to make crude sexual jokes, so I let it slide.

“I’d love to be a world-renowned connoisseur, too,” I remarked.  “But not of wine.”

I paused to give the others a moment to respond.

“Of beer?” Sanjay asked as everyone else nodded in approval of the most obvious answer. 

“No, of white trash food,” I replied. 

I explained my dream of becoming the world’s premier shitty food expert.  I described a blind taste-test where I was challenged to indentify different brand of hot dogs.

“Those are Ball Park franks,” I jubilantly proclaimed, “and those are the generic brand from Aldi!” 

::

One cannot simply decide to become a white trash food connoisseur.  Inevitablly, I would need to start from relatively humble beginnings.  My rise to stardom would begin with an overheard conversation in a dirty diner.

“I like the new menu items,” I’d casually say to the owner of the diner, “but you should really try out Beefaroni salad.  I think it would be a hit.”

“I don’t know,” the skeptical businessman would reply, “I don’t think the mix of hot and cold would go over that well.”

“The beauty is in its simplicity,” I’d explain.  “Cold Beefaroni and iceberg lettuce: your customers will love it.”

Another diner – a local newspaper editor – would casually eavesdrop as I offered several other unconventional and inexpensive menu suggestions.  Impressed, he would approach me outside of the diner.

“I overheard your conversation; you are a true visionary,” the editor would breathlessly say as he offered me a job writing in the paper’s dining section.

I would toil away at the newspaper for a few months, cursing the limited reach of the small-town daily.  Thankful reader letters would lift my spirits as I worked in an otherwise thankless job:

“I loved last week’s column.  I never thought about mixing Spam and barbeque sauce into ramen noodles, but the kids love it!”

“Great review of that new buffet restaurant. The green bean casserole was great and the whole family ate for less than 12 bucks.”

Within months, I’d get my big break when an editor at the Chicago Tribune would offer me a job.  Again, readers would enthusiastically respond to my work, which would be syndicated across the country.  Legions of bokeen fans would breathlessly await my next column, blog post or tweet.  My culinary inventions would be served at trailer park cookouts across the country. 

My meteoric rise to stardom would continue when the Food Network would offer me my own show.  Soon, Grubbin’ with bokeen would become the highest rated show on cable. 

The topics of the show would be free-flowing, in order to maintain audience interest.  One week I might review the newest flavors of Skoal chewing tobacco, the next week might be titled “100 things to do with pork rinds.”  I’d continue writing my syndicated column and consider the idea of writing a book. 

Food companies would scramble to purchase my recipes, which would be runaway hits at grocery stores.  The incredible success of “ketchup and potato chip” Hot Pockets would only be rivaled the “macaroni and cheese with hot dog bits” variety. 

I would become the envy of the industry.  Rachel Ray would repeatedly offer to bear my children, and I would repeatedly decline.  Her interest would gradually escalate to obsession as she transitioned from mailing me her panties to creeping outside my bedroom window in full-blown stalker mode.  The obligatory restraining order would receive a great deal of attention in the tabloids, permanently damaging her career. 

Once I had reached my status as a bona fide multimedia superstar, the media would fawn over me.  I would make perplexing decisions about who I would grant interviews to.  I’d gladly appear on The Adam Carolla Podcast, but I would politely decline Oprah’s interview requests.  You know, just to show her who’s boss. 

Then, at the peak of my career, I’d suddenly retire and vanish into obscurity.  I’d break my contract with the Food Network and quit writing columns without any warning whatsoever.  For months, devoted fans would clamor for my return. 

I would use my vast fortune to enjoy the finer things in life.  I envision being seated around the table at a posh restaurant with the same five friends from the Moroccan restaurant.  As we snack on exotic cheeses, I’d stand up, motioning for a toast with my glass of expensive wine. 

“To friends,” I’d say as only a victim of White Person Syndrome could.

I aspire to sell out.  It is the American dream. 

Not “ouch that hurts” pain, but “I am too goddamn young to confront my own mortality” pain. What started as minor abdominal discomfort had become debilitating agony.

boqueen decided to go to the emergency room. Like 630 billion other Americans, she is uninsured. And like any uninsured Chicagoan, she sought care at John H. Stroger Hospital, the city’s largest public hospital.

We traded text messages as she sat in a waiting room with hundreds of other patients, waiting to have her number called. Nervous and concerned, I offered to come to the hospital and wait with her. She repeatedly declined, assuring me that she would be seen soon.

We both knew better. Stroger Hospital is notorious for exceptionally long waiting times.

After four hours, her number had been called. Her blood pressure had been taken and she was asked to return to the waiting room to be called again.

boqueen considered transferring to another more efficient hospital. I got in my truck and headed out to Stroger Hospital, with the intentions of taking her to an ER that takes a fleeting interest in actually treating patients.

As I drove to the hospital, boqueen’s name was called. We both knew the waiting game was far from over.

::

“Emergency?” We use the term very loosely.

When I arrived at the hospital, I was stunned by the number of people in the emergency room waiting area. The room was nearly filled to capacity. There was a sea of sick people sitting in cheap plastic chairs – at 11 p.m., I counted over 250 people in the crowd.

The waiting room at Stroger Hospital is one of the most depressing places in North America. Tired and sick people wasted away as they endured an endless wait. A man held a bloody towel tightly to a gunshot wound on his arm. A woman, presumably with whooping cough, barked out loudly and showered nearby patients with droplets of diseased phlegm. The room reeked of sweaty ass. A visible cloud of germs hovered above the crowd.

I wondered how many of the patient’s conditions were being exasperated by being forced to wait for hours on end for treatment.

I found an area with a few open chairs and, against my better judgment, I took a seat. I was tempted to read the copy of the Chicago Sun Times that sat on the floor next to me but I thought better of the idea, for fear of contracting cholera from the germ-ridden pages.

After a few minutes, a patient wearing a surgeon’s mask sat down next to me. While the mask was surely meant to prevent the man’s disease from spreading, I did not feel comfortable sitting next to Patient Zero. I decided to wander around the hospital instead.

::

As I strolled through the halls of the hospital, boqueen and I continued to communicate using text messages. The blow-by-blow account of her treatment was agonizing. She underwent three different tests, with waiting periods of at least an hour between each.

After the tests, it was determined that boqueen had a bacterial infection. The doctors explained that she would be given a shot of antibiotics, and that she would have to return the following day to pick up her prescription.

“A lady in scrubs finally just said to me ‘I’ll be right with you,’” she wrote, one hour after receiving the diagnosis, “Which obviously means another forty-five hours.”

boqeen arrived at the hospital just before 6 p.m. She received her diagnosis at 12:45 a.m.

We left the hospital at 3 a.m.

Over the course of nine hours, boqueen had spent approximately 30 minutes dealing with actual medical professionals.

::

We returned to the hospital a few hours later, just after noon. Our task was simple: pick up a boqueen’s medication.

We neglected the fact that no task is simple in the confines of Stroger Hospital.

After waiting in line for over a half hour, boqueen was told by the pharmacy that they had no record of her in the computer system: no prescription record, no patient record – nothing.

She spent the following two hours sorting out the matter between the emergency room, hospital administration and the pharmacy.

She was told that her prescription would be ready by 3:30. At 3:30, she was told to come back an hour later. At 4:30, she was told to come back an hour later. At 5:30, she told to come back an hour later.

boqueen finally got her prescription at 7 p.m., nearly seven hours after arriving at the hospital.

::

As we left the hospital, boqueen was both frustrated and relieved. “Just be thankful that you don’t have to return to this shit hole,” I said.

“This is exactly why socialized medicine will never work,” boqueen replied.

I was stunned to hear those words come out of boqueen’s mouth. She is quite liberal and, while not a Kool-Aid drinker, an enthusiastic supporter of President Obama (D-Nazareth). I had never expected to hear her decry the concept of Universal Health Care that so many liberals are fond of.

Stroger Hospital is the perfect case study to illustrate why the government should not run a health care facility, let alone the nation’s entire health care system. Politicians are barely able to perform their jobs as it is, as evidenced by the budget deficits plaguing states across the nation and a country as a whole. Furthermore, governments in the United States are inherently inefficient. When these same inefficiencies creep into our health care system, as they do in Cook County, the patients suffer.

Finally, politicians are simply not qualified to make decisions about health care. Today, most politicians have backgrounds in law. I certainly want don’t someone who is a trial lawyer today to make decisions about how I will be treated by my doctor tomorrow. I shudder at the notion of an ass-clown like Senator Roland Burris (D-Hundred Acre Woods) being entrusted to make such important decisions.

If you are still convinced that socialized medicine is a good idea, I invite you to visit Stroger Hospital in Chicago. You may reconsider your ideas as bathe in Lysol to disinfect every square inch of your body.

::

I fully realize that boqueen’s story isn’t unique. Many hospitals simply do not have the amount staff needed to treat the increasing number of patients in their emergency rooms.

However, the long wait times and poor care that boqueen experienced were not simply a result of a lack of staff. She explained that the emergency room was filled far beyond its capacity. Patients were being treated on beds in hallways and behind any curtain that could be found. Stroger Hospital does not have an adequate number of beds to keep up with the demand for care in the emergency room.

This is absolutely appalling, considering that Stroger Hospital opened in December of 2002. The hospital was built from the ground up to replace the aging Cook County Hospital.

Cook County Hospital had long had a reputation for a poor level of care and epic waiting times for treatment. The Cook County Board and the Illinois Health Facilities Planning Board worked on the plan for the new hospital in the mid 1990s. The day the new hospital opened, the emergency rooms were not able to keep up with patient demand.

Quadrillions of taxpayer money was spent building a state-of-the-art facility that already desperately needs to be expanded. The county government approved this shortsighted plan and patted themselves on the back for supposedly improving public health care.

The absurd ineptitude of those running the Cook County government is something to behold. The fact that those same imbeciles are responsible for decisions pertaining to boqueen’s health care scares the living shit out of me.

::

While the finishing touches were being placed on the hospital, the Cook County Board voted to name the hospital after John Stroger (D-Machine), who was board president at the time. The honor was meant to recognize his alleged commitment to providing quality health care for the County’s poor residents.

If I were Stroger, I would have declined such recognition. He knew of the problems that plagued the previous hospital, and he would have been delusional to think the same problem wouldn’t exist today.

Stroger made a key decision about his legacy. For patients of the hospital, “Stroger” will forever be synonymous with “failure.” Were I John Stroger, I would be rolling in my grave every single time the doors to the emergency room opened.

The hospital besmirches the Stroger family name even more than the astonishing incompetence of current Board President Todd Stroger (D-Daddy).

A few weeks ago, as we ventured out to pick up lunch, I noticed a large piece of mail at the entrance of her palace.  The hefty envelope was addressed to boqueen, and the return address indicated that it had been sent by the Chicago Baha’i Center.

The Baha’i faith is the youngest of the major religions and is spreading quite rapidly.  Baha’is can be found in countries and territories across the globe, second to only Christianity.  The Baha’i faith emphasizes the unity of humanity and all religions.

I have spoken with boqueen at great length about religion and spirituality, and the Baha’i faith had never come up, so the packet piqued my interest.  She said that several years ago, she met a friendly southern woman at O’Hare airport.  The topic of conversation turned to religion, and the woman explained her Baha’i beliefs.

boqueen told the woman that she agreed with many tenants of the faith – few will take umbrage with concepts such as peace,  unity and equality – but she said that she did not feel the need subscribe to a particular faith.

After a long conversation, boqueen exchanged contact information with the woman.  They have not been in touch since the airport encounter, but boqueen began receiving mailings from the Baha’is.  boqueen ignored and discarded each packet as soon as they arrived.

I was too curious to throw away such a hefty envelope full of propaganda.  I ripped open the envelope to find two documents.  The first was a small newsletter about the latest happenings in the Baha’i community.  The envelope also contained a large directory of Baha’is in Chicago.

“Don’t tell me that my name is in that directory,” boqueen said. 

I quickly scanned through the pages and found her name and contact information.  I looked up from the book with a telling smirk.

“No fucking way!” boqueen yelled.  “Let me see that!”

I pointed to the entry in the directory.  While we were both shocked, boqueen noted that the contact information in the directory was out of date. 

While I was outraged by fact that boqueen’s contact information was involuntarily disclosed, she was far more measured in her response, choosing to laugh at the matter instead.

::

I find it curious that a religion would involuntarily sign up members – it seems like a method for padding the number of faithful in order to appeal to those considering converting to Baha’i.

It is impossible to provide an accurate count of members of any given faith.  The estimates of the number of Baha’is in the United States have varied wildly over the past three decades and are clearly unreliable.  Many estimates make a distinction between individuals with valid mailing addresses, known as “members,” and practicing, “active” Baha’is. 

On the surface, artificially padding the number of Baha’is seems somewhat unethical – after all, it is not fair to count the number of addresses on a mailing list as faithful members of a religion. 

However, we live in the age of the Interwebs; a recent study found that nine out of every three Americans will have their identity stolen by the time you finish reading this sentence.  Furthermore, billions of rapists, stalkers, creepers and Bulgarian hackers will seize every opportunity to find their victim.  Widespread distribution of a person’s contact information without their consent makes it easier for these sleazy bastards to find a new mark.

While I am not accusing the Baha’is of regularly engaging in this practice, I am deeply disturbed by finding boqueen’s contact information in their Chicago directory.  Nor do I take issue with the Baha’i faith, spare my skepticism of organized religion as a whole.  However, it would be utterly reprehensible if this was a widespread practice among Baha’is, in light of the sheer number of malcontents willing to dumpster dive to procure even a shred of one’s personal information.  While garnering one’s contact information is not a difficult task, we live in an age where privacy is a paramount concern. 

In this age of cyber-crime and Interweb creepers, I am especially guarded about disclosing any personal information. boqueen’s conversation with the southern belle was not indicative of her interest in adopting a new faith, and whoring out her personal information publicly is an egregious breach of personal trust.

A note to all: if you are ever fortunate enough to discover the location of my home (the “bocave”), please do not circulate my address throughout the greater Chicagoland area.