#humor story fun comedy roommates mytrogblog

[mytrogblog]

55. #Aftershock

Avoiding any sprouts, I scurried back upstairs to my private quarters. Oddly, I felt safe here. It wasn’t much but it was mine. Went out to my “terrace” to take a panoramic peek at Thelma & Waldo’s revenge artwork and it was awe-inspiring. As if Picasso and Martha Stewart had teamed up for a vegetable mural.

I slept like a baby. There’s something satisfying when a rotten prune gets her due. And Borbala’s time was overdue. Finally, some payback for her mountain of Trog crimes. Not that this Brussel sprouts festival is going to stop her pursuit of pettiness but could curb it a bit. Or could make it worse? Oh, I hope not.

The morning opened with a big smile from me. Texted Todd to see if he could meet me at Primo’s. Hadn’t been there for a while and this event called for a donut. Glazed. He seemed eager and I was certainly eager to tell him all about the avenging Thelma. 

Slipped out of the Nuthouse without any fanfare. The Trog was still wading around in her waterbed and unaware of what this beautiful day had in store for her. That thought triggered me to break into a skip all the way to my Mustang. Weather was still mighty hot in the City of Angels, and I felt rather fancy free in my jean shorts and tank. Summer was my favorite time of year. Put the top down, cranked up the music, and off I puttered to Primos.

As I passed by Pippy and Lana’s, I saw Pippy on his porch swing, sipping coffee. The detective pointed to the cabbage-covered lawn quizzically and I just shrugged as if I knew nothing. He gave me a nod and an endorsing grin as I drove away, far away from what was about to happen at the Nuthouse. It occurred to me then that there were many possible suspects of this sprouts caper. All signs would point to Thelma, but Pippy and others, including yours truly, would not be exempt from the investigation. 

Both Todd and Archie were already at Primo’s and looking quite comfy with each other. This twosome had really gotten serious, it seemed. They were sharing a donut which is a big clue. There was a buttermilk special, my favorite, awaiting me, along with tea and an empty chair. I almost felt like I was intruding but they both stood up as I arrived, and Todd ran, nearly tripping, for a hug. Todd gave good hugs, and I was happy to be the recipient of one. 

They had news and were so excited to tell me that I dared not go first with my scoop. Even though I can’t imagine what would be more exciting than a Nuthouse full of Brussel sprouts. Can you? 

“Engaged! But…” I stammered, “you barely know each other. Like two months, maybe. You don’t think this is a little premature.” Todd gave me that look that he always gives if I may be judging. So, I paused, resting my response. Then took a big bite of the glazed buttermilk in front of me… and choked. 

Archie rescued me with a glass of water. I gulped. He was preparing to do the Heimlich but no need. He kinda got it, I think. This might be just too much for me. Dang, and the day had started out so breezy.

“Don’t get me wrong, I like you, Archie, but I’m just concerned you guys may be, possibly, perhaps, perchance… moving too quickly,” I delicately suggested.

Which they were, in my opinion. And I do wish Todd hadn’t sprung this on me with Archie present. I shifted my eyes to the affable donut and bit off the end, the best part.

“Just be happy for me, Sal, I’m happy, and so is Archie, aren’t ya, Archie?” Todd cooed at his newly betrothed. Archie cooed back, “I am, Toddy.”

Oh boy. They’re smitten. Bewitched. Gaga over each other. I guess I’ll just have to get used to this. Todd has a new best friend. 

As usual, Todd knew exactly what I was thinking. “Nothing will change, really, Sal. You’re still my best friend. Archie understands that. But he’ll be my husband and I’ll be sharing my donut with him.”

I mustered up a smile and took another lonely bite. 

“You will be my best woman, though, won’t you?” Todd asked in a way that I couldn’t possibly refuse. “Of course, I will… I love you and I’m happy that you’re happy… and that Archie’s happy.” I said it, I meant it, but it still felt well… I don’t know. Not fully prepped, if ya know what I mean. Todd loves love and loves falling into it. But once the flicker fades, he’ll head for the beaches of Bali, alone. Or maybe with me. Stand by.

Todd was ready to switch gears, “Now what was it you wanted to tell me, uh us?” ... to be continued

[mytrogblog]

54. #ThelmaPart2

Kuche broke the silence. Coming from the lap of her mistress and echoing the Trog’s command, Kuche’s ear-splitting bark was a direct hit on little ole Thelma. After collecting herself, she leaned in toward this yappy critter and said something soft yet chilling in Afrikaans. I swear the translation was something like, “Go ahead, make my day, you twat, twat, twat.” 

Kuche halted her bark and quivered. The Trog crossed her bulging eyes, folded her arms around her dog and pushed her chair back from Thelma. “Humph,” she scowled. I know it’s not funny, but… it was. Ya see, the Trog’s chair jiggled and needed fixing. And as she pushed back, it crumbled beneath her. Plop went both Borbala and the “twat.” 

Thelma knew how to make an exit and did. I stepped back as she rounded the kitchen corner. Get out of the way, Sally, I thought. Almost out of view, Thelma made a swift one-eighty and returned. Peering down at the flattened Trog she said, “Don’t ever tell me to shut up, again.” Then, stuck out her two middle fingers vigorously and sashayed to her room. 

Poor Waldo. Didn’t know what to do. He scrambled to pick up his employer, hefty as she was. But the Trog refused help and ordered him to get back to work. Me, I pivoted and scurried out the door for breakfast elsewhere.

And that was that. Or so I thought.

There’s only one food the Trog is opposed to… Brussels sprouts. Hates them. Both their smell and taste. You’d think someone with her nickname would be a Brussels lover. But not this Trog. Thelma, on the other hand, loved them. She grew up on them and they originate from her hometown of Brussels. They were her main course on her first few nights here. That was until she got an unwanted note shoved under her door. Thelma had shared the decree with me, “DO NOT COOK BRUSSEL SPROUTS IN MY KITCHEN. PU. IT IS CAUSE FOR EVICTION. BF”

The Nuthouse had been eerily calm all day after “the incident.” Maybe, it would just all go away, I thought. Midwest thinking. Hope springs eternal. I so wanted Thelma to stay. 

She was a breath of fresh and unusual air.

But about 3:45am that next morning I woke up to a rustling outside my balcony. It was unnerving… was Hugh back? Nahhh. An animal, maybe. Cleopatra wandering the grounds? HA! Grabbing my flashlight and bat for light and safety, I inched myself stealthily out until I reached the railing. Leaning over it, I saw two figures on the porch with big sacks over their shoulders. They didn’t see me. Dare I flash the light? Yup, I do dare. Ever so briefly, yet long enough to catch their drift. WHAT!?! It was Waldo and Thelma in black hoodies. WHAT were they doing? 

No longer frightened, I shined the light near them, but not on them. Waldo squatted and buried his head while Thelma stuck her neck out and signaled me to shush with her super finger. 

What else could I do but abide by Thelma, so I gave her a thumbs-up and killed the light. But it didn’t mean I wasn’t going to check out their nefarious activities. Sly as a fox, I snuck down the stairs so as not to awaken the obvious butt of this mischievous jig, the Trog. 

As I got to the bottom stair, I slightly teetered. Reaching down to see what was the cause… you guessed it, a smooshed Brussels sprout. I peeled it off my foot and dropped it on the floor. Pick it up later. The house was dark so it was hard to see. Shining my flashlight across the living room, I bravely followed the path all the way to the kitchen. They were everywhere. The Nuthouse was a field of baby green cabbage. 

I made my way to the front door, kicking the little round balls out of the way. Treading very lightly, I opened it without a speck of sound. The two tricksters were active in the front yard, throwing the Brussels on the lawn, in the trees and in the bushes. Oh, this was a sight to see. Again, I wanted to wake Doho to share another classic Nuthouse moment but couldn’t. Too much possible noise. Consequently, I just watched with glee, solo. Thelma noticed my presence and walked over to me. 

“Can I help?” I fervently whispered. “Oh no, I forbid it,” she denied me. “Don’t want you involved. Go back upstairs. We’re almost finished. Just need to toss a few sprouts in the pool.”She started to walk away, then came back. This seemed to be a habit of hers. “This is the last you’ll see of me or Waldo. And you never saw us tonight. Understood?,” she warned me. “Understood,” I saluted. So, I just stood there as Thelma placed a couple sprouts on top of each Gargoyle’s head, winked at me, then vanished into the night. 

[mytrogblog]

53. #Thelma

“Dum-de-Dum-Dum”… Ladies and Gentlemen, the story you are about to hear is true. The names have been changed to protect the innocent. Sort of. It was 9:15 AM and hot in Los Angeles. My name, Sally, Sally Smith. Her name Thelma, Thelma Dubois. Her place of birth, Brussels, Belgium. Her age, vintage. Her length of time at the Nuthouse, 6 days, 7 hours, 4 minutes, 23 seconds. Approximately. 

Though vintage, she was spry, smart and a real match for the Trog. As a former dialect coach, Thelma knew more languages than a person ought to. Woe was Borbala. Also begs the question why she would take Thelma on as a tenant in the first place. Being a know-it-all as she is, Trog finds it agonizing for anyone to know anything more than she. And it was obvious that the woman from Brussels did.

It all turned a corner one morning when the rare male maid-du-jour, Waldo, and Thelma started chattering in Afrikaans. To the dismay of the Trog, of course, because it all went over her bushy head. As it also brushed over my blond bob. But that’s not the point. Had no idea what frickin’ lingo this was but I wanted to know. Standing in the dining room, waiting my turn for the kitchen, I was captivated by this entertaining exchange. Not to mention the amusement of the steam rising from the Trog’s carroty roots. At her breaking point, with beads of sweat on her brow, the Trog roared from her command post “shut up, shut up, just shut up, Thelma!!” 

I feared what would happen next. And wanted to flee but dared not move in case I would disturb the now still air. I was frozen in place. So were Waldo and Thelma. Except for their mouths which just kept opening wider and wider. Enough room for a swarm of those nasty blow flies to enter. No one could believe it. Even Doho who I could see out of the corner of my eye, peeking out from his room, was stuck in position. The Trog was prone to outbursts with those vulnerable to her like Waldo, but not Thelma, her elder & polyglot superior. The Trog was going to have to pay for this. I could feel it. Thelma was no withering daisy.

Miss Dubois, as her clients called her, was a master ax-thrower. And though petite, powerful. She’d promised to take me to a place in Koreatown to have a go at it. “You’d be good at it,” she said, looking me over. I liked her and I liked the idea of throwing an ax. “Exhilarating! Like shooting an arrow from a bow and hitting a bullseye,” she said breathlessly, as she mimed pulling back and releasing. And this was when I saw it. The extra finger. A spare middle finger, if you will. I didn’t ask. But I suppose it could come in handy. She was on the Belgian Olympic Archery Team when she was just 16 and I wondered if that additional digit gave her an advantage. No, not a good idea for the Trog to try and silence Miss Dubois.

We had some long chats since her Nuthouse entrée, and I’d learned a few things about this formidable woman. She’d been married five times, at 17, 27, 37, 47 and yes 57. To a fellow archer, a linguistic professor, a fire chief, a pot salesman and a butcher. Still trying to link their commonality. But to no avail.

None of them lasted more than a year but she loved all five, she said. “At least temporarily. I just got sick of them. Plain and simple.” Her theory of partnering once a decade was enough to satisfy her. “The rest I took care of myself,” she laughed, showing off her six-fingered hand. “And I made a game of it by wedding on the same date every decade. Now that was fun. Didn’t bother the last couple decades, though” she continued, “too busy.” “Right… right,” I murmured, not knowing exactly how to respond to all this data.  

Having just sold her house, Thelma needed a few months to wrap up her life in LA. And that’s where the Nuthouse came in. She was biding time here before heading back to Brussels, where it all began. But by the looks of things in the kitchen, she may be biding somewhere else… “Dum de Dum Dum”… (to be continued)

[mytrogblog]

52. #Kuche'sSurprise

Late last night…

I heard a scream. Like someone had just stumbled onto Chucky, the terrorist doll. Jumping out of bed, I picked up my bat and gave it a practice swing. Then mustered the courage to run downstairs and save whoever was in dire straits. Well, I didn’t actually run downstairs… it was more like a measured tiptoe. But bat gripped in position, I was ready for action. As I reached the bottom stair, there was a spooky silence. I spotted Kuche in the far corner, shivering. For the first time I felt sorry for this animal. My eyes then trailed, slow motion, from this very live dog to the very dead dog. And there crouched barefoot over her pet rug was the Trog. She slowly turned her head up at me and declared, “Kuche pooped on Yoda.”

And she’d stepped in it. 

That’s really all I have to say on the matter, except I wish I could have shared this moment with Doho. But he was still on a Trog fast and had to miss the sight of her hobbling across the main room with Kuche’s  poop between her toes. 

[mytrogblog]

51. #TheBitchisBack

Last night I joined Todd and Archie at the movies. Yup, they’re dating. Well, it’s more than dating, really. Archie moved in with Todd. Temporarily, they say. But showing up wearing matching Homer Simpson socks indicates a cozy connection and something more permanent, I’d say. Nevertheless, the two were a great antidote to my current mood and I was happy to be with them.

We went to the Aero in Santa Monica where they show revivals and advanced screenings. Built in 1940, it’s been renovated and has that cool vintage feel. “Terms of Endearment” was playing. Even though she was no Aurora Greenway, it made me miss my own Mother and Milwaukee. Maybe I needed to go back to the Midwest, have a few beers and get a grip. But honestly, I couldn’t afford it. So I sat back and succumbed to what movies allow you to do best: escape, laugh and have a good wail in the dark. I did all three, plus a big bucket of popcorn.

When I got back to the NUTHOUSE, there was a rumpus going on in the front room. The Crappers and our gumshoe neighbors were hovering and high-fiving around Doho, who was pouring champagne into plastic glasses while maintaining tree pose. 

“What’s the occasion?” I asked, as Doho handed me some bubbly.

Was he moving out, too? Did he crack a case? World record of tree pose, perhaps?

“I’ve reached a milestone.” Whatever it was, he was excited! 

And I was anxious. Not only for his reply but that he might topple out of tree pose and spill champagne on Yoda, who was nearby. 

We clicked glasses as he wobbled. “Cheers!” I said, “Good for you… for what??” 

“Oh. Well, each day I don’t see Borbala, I put a star on my calendar. And it’s now been three days. It’s a triumph!” Doho rotated on one foot, holding his pose and shouted, “Beau, Blue… show Sally the calendar.” 

In unison, the identical brothers picked up this huge True Crime calendar that was leaning against the far wall. Three gigantic red stars stood out, designating Doho’s achievement. 

“Wow! That is something, Doho. How’d you manage it?” I was curious, as I’d like to outmatch his feat. 

He was about to expose his secret when the “The Bitch is Back” started thundering out of everyone’s phone… but mine. The group freaked and took flight. What!?! Rory and the triplets scooted into their rear house pad. And leave it to Lana to grab the champagne as she and her lover darted out behind them. “See ya, Doho, and congratulations, buddy, woohoo,” Pippy sang, as he shot out the door.

“Geezus, Doho, what’s going on?” I asked as I headed for the stairs, figuring I better get out of there too. But he was already halfway to his room and didn’t hear me. Then, I noticed that the calendar was still leaning against the wall. Oh, no. Feeling an obligation to save Doho from any Trog trouble, I grabbed it and ran to Doho’s room. 

“Here, now what’s going on?” I demanded.

He spoke so fast I could barely understand him. But evidently he tracked something that hooked something up to something in the Trog’s car that when she was within 100 feet of the Nuthouse, everyone’s phone started playing her new theme song. 

“Wow, that’s insane, but way to go!” 

“I’ll do yours tomorrow. Now, get out of here before it’s too late.”

Unfortunately, it was too late. As I got to the first step, she ambled in, with snarling Kuche attached. I reluctantly turned and acknowledged her. She exhaled in response. Then, shot multiple probing spikes into my mystified soul.

What the Holy F**kness!

[mytrogblog]

45. #ACaper

All quiet today at the Nuthouse. Nary a word or sighting of either loon. But after last night’s horror show, I needed a break. I called Todd and he was out in Monrovia somewhere searching for antique socks. Hoped that didn’t mean old stinky socks. I didn’t ask. But evidently someone had a yearning, and he was obliging.

I tried writing. I tried reading. Social media was a bust. I went downstairs to see if Doho was around for a chat. Greeting me in a curly blond wig and a horseshoe mustache, he said no, he was getting ready to meet Pippy and Lana for a stake out. “Did I want to go?”

“Yes!” I was excited.

“What do you think of my disguise?”

“Yeah, good,” I lied. But he seemed pleased with himself so why not.

I ran upstairs to change. Wondered if I should dress in disguise too but thought better and just pulled my hair back and put on my aviators. Who would know me anyway?

On the brief walk next door, Doho blurted, “I don’t want to talk about it.” I zipped my lips. But he couldn’t help himself, “Both are wackadoos, ok. Just I’m rolling around with one.” Another eyebrow lift from me ended the conversation.

“Welcome aboard the Pipmobile, Mustang Sally,” Pippy said tipping his cap. I smiled at the very familiar nickname. Pippy was charming in a bohemian kind of way. I liked him. And Lana was kickass. They made quite the pair. We all piled in his dark grey 2012 Ford Escape. The tinted windows made me feel safe… or maybe sorry, not sure. “Plenty of room. Perfect vehicle for surveillance… common, inconspicuous, and high visability. Especially for us short guys.” Pippy was 5’4” on a tall day. So, he needed that little extra boost of an SUV.

“Where are we going,” I wondered out loud.

“Digging up dirt on some cheaters. That’s Frannk’s specialty. Success rate is 97%,” Lana grinned buttering up her lover. “Studio City, always lots of action in that part of town.”  

So off we went over the hill down the 405 to see what we could see.

To be continued...

[mytrogblog]

42. #WaysToBumpOffTheTrog

If I were a killer (which btw I am not), the Trog would be the first one on my hit list. Question is how to do it. Quick and easy. Slow and long. Hire another killer. Anyhoo, thought I’d check in with the Nuthouse crew at the anti-Trogite meeting and see what would be their murder method of choice. Here are the results:

1)    Hit her over the head with a frying pan. Lana’s idea.

2)    Stuff her in the freezer. Still Lana.

3)    Strangle her with 3 ply toilet paper. (BORBALA’S HOUSE RULES - #16 Maximum toilet paper allowed for each bathroom visit is three sheets. Prefer one-ply. If you clog, you pay piper. BF) Rory’s revenge.

4)    Take turns slapping her silly with her broom. Beau, Blue & Bette.

5)    Put antifreeze in her plum smoothie. Me.

6)    Shoot up her spicy pork sausages with arsenic and watch her die. Geez, Pippy.

7)    Lure her to bed, then smother her with her muumuu. Doho’s plan.

8)    Just shoot her. Valda.

When we voted, Lana won.

[mytrogblog]

40. #PeepingTrog

I went downstairs for breakfast the next morning and it still stunk in the house, especially the kitchen. I was afraid to warm my tea in the micro for fear a skunk would dart out. Displaying cleavage aplenty in her ragged short toggery, the Trog was la-de-da-ing at her post as if this stench was sacred. Believe me, it was far from myrrh, but perhaps a holy Trog perfume that I am unaware of. It’s all a wonder here in the Nuthouse.

Consequently, I set off to Starbucks for my caffeine and a croissant. Lingered there for a while. It’s always so pleasant at this cafe, away from the chaos. But eventually you must return to the den of deranged. The spaces in front of the house were occupied by Doho’s van and Valda’s Pinto so I pulled up in front of Pippy & Lana’s house next door. At that moment the Trog was clomping out of the driveway with her stuffed backpack and her overfed dog. I diverted my glance so she wouldn’t catch wind of me.

Not wanting to interact with her, I waited in my car. But out of the rearview mirror I saw her halt at Doho’s van and give it a thorough surveillance. Slyly she looked to the right, then to the left. After making sure the coast was clear, she pulled out her phone and boldly stepped right smack dab up to the van window and took a photo of the inside. Then another and another.

What the unyielding f**k? What was she looking for? What was she scheming? Don’t know, but it gave me the creeps. I had a hunch it was connected to her carnal obsession with Doho and hopes of one day having a shtup or two. Good luck there, Trog!

[mytrogblog]

50. #Archie

Well, with one of the major nuts skedoodling, there’s room for one more. I hear through the grapevine (Doho) that the Depressed German got booted from her new accommodations. Seems she lasted three days at a hostel in Santa Monica before they threw her out for spewing “Verpiss dich! Depp!” when a staffer told her to stop running around in her translucent underwear. The staffer evidently understood German and once she put her clothes on, had her removed. Now, Valda is living in Gerda, her prize Pinto, wearing whatever she wants.

The Trog, on the other hand, was making haste for a new nut. But fortunately, or unfortunately, not having a lot of luck. She interviewed about a dozen people before landing on a chiropractic student that Todd met while checking out a Mac & Cheese socks booth at his favorite Silver Lake flea market. They hit it off over a love of foot warmers.

Anyway, the guy’s name was Archie. And like the comic books, he was a ginger, a bit scrawny and a joke-teller. Every time he walked out the door, he’d yell, “back in a snap.” Oh, Archie. I think Todd wanted me to have an ally in the Nuthouse, plus I think he had a little crush on Archie.

Well, Archie only lasted two nights. Longer than I anticipated.

The Trog was in the living room, pacing. And shouting “Agent, Agent, Agent” into her phone which was on speaker. Her shouting coincided with the thundering march of her flat feet. Of course, the automated customer service was not paying any attention. So the Trog kept repeating “Agent” over and over, faster and faster, louder and louder. Everyone could hear. Even ‘the Crapper’ kids had creeped in and were watching from the kitchen. I was on the stairs, out of view. Comical as it was, it was alarming. She was out of control. Peeking through the railing, I could see she was sweating and about to burst a myriad of vessels.

Archie came forward and offered, “a crack?” as Doho came booming through the front door, “What’s going on?” At the same time the monotonous phone muzak abruptly halted with a pleasant voice, “This is Dora, how can I help?” The Trog exploded at all the activity and accidently hung up. She went ballistic, stomping on poor Yoda and shrieking some undetectable language.

Everyone scattered for fear of retaliation. And Archie had enough. The Trog had already sent him a “Crime & Punishment” note about an apparent faux pas and his allergies had flared, due to mold and Trog proximity. He swiftly packed up and fled in the middle of the night. I was sad to see him go but happy he’d escaped the Nuthouse syndrome.

But now who?  

[mytrogblog]

49. #PruneDay

Tuesdays are the Trog’s prune day. We all know it and keep our distance. The consequences of the prunes are, dare I say, effective. I don’t know what it is with her digestive system but it’s not normal. Not that there’s anything wrong with prunes. I know they can be helpful, but I think she does just fine without them. Rory suggested we hide her prunes but then rightly acknowledged she’d just run to Ralphs for more. Or worse start a full-scale inquisition for the prune thief. So we, as Nuthouse tenants, must persevere on Tuesdays with Trog’s Prunes.

Anyway, had to get that out of my system.

[mytrogblog]

48.#PineapplePrincessSkedoodles

Upon the return from my spy day, I ran up to my room to hide under the covers. I had hoped to get away from the mad world I now found myself in, but instead I snagged hunger pains, a Hugh sighting and a bruised butt. 

First things first. I tore into the BBQ rice chips from my snack basket and tended to my tush wound with some aloe vera lotion. Then, back into the bitty bed and continued snacking. After taking several moments feeling sorry for myself, I turned to gratitude. I heard my mother’s voice reminding me of all the things I had to be thankful for. Was on a roll when I heard the downstairs door slam and another voice… another language. It was Valda’s booming German.

Drat! I thought I had avoided more of this deranged drivel.

Sprang up and went to the stairs where the Trog was chain locking the door with Kuche barking at her side. I only saw the back of her as she stood erect, taking in her tenant’s rebuff. She responded in her native language. I didn’t understand a word, except skedoodle. No love lost between these two.

Over to the balcony I dashed to see what was happening on the opposite side of the battle. The Depressed German was blathering non-stop at the latched door and swinging her suffering suitcase like it was a machine gun. It was like viewing a European version of George and Martha. Not sure who was who, but definitely wanted to stand back from this volcanic eruption.

I could hear the Trog leave her position, but from my balcony box I could see Valda linger. Then she turned up to me. Must have felt my presence. I offered her a fare-thee-well wave. Unappreciated, she shouted some guttural German up at me and shooed me away. But I stayed and watched her skedoodle with that poor suitcase and a big bag of canned pineapple, which I think was her go-to snack.

So the Depressed German bit the dust. Flags at half-mast. The dust is not permanent to the planet, just to my side of town. Yeah, take your canned pineapple and ride out of here, sister. No tears will be shed by me. Valda had certainly not made living here any easier.

So now there will be someone new. But is the devil you know better than the devil you don’t?

[mytrogblog]

47. #ACaperPart3

Sinsational! Though it was really too difficult to detect who the couple was from our vantage point, we had to endure their very mushy farewell. Get a room! Oh wait, they just had one. Finally, the woman pushed her lover away, as if urging him to get a move on. He hastened. Time for the husband to return, I guess. Well, at least we’d be heading back. I was hungry.

The man started to run or rather trot with a little skip between trots. Hmmmm… that was a familiar trot. I put my nose up to the window for a closer look. And followed the trotting cheater as Pippy snapped away. Could it be? What are the odds!?! I shook my head and looked again. Yes, it was. I was sure. What the unbelievable f**k?

Hugh. Hugh was the trotter. “That’s my old boyfriend,” I blurted, breaking the silence in the car. Something took over me. Any suppressed wrath I had for him came bubbling up and squirting out. I was fuming. “Quite a gait he’s got there,” observed Doho. “I’m going after him,” I screamed. Good thing the Pipmobile was soundproof or the whole neighborhood would be out eyeballing the diddler.

I pulled the handle up to get out, but it wouldn’t budge. Pippy had locked us in. “Whoa back, Mustang,’ he commanded, ‘We’re spying here, remember.” Oh, yeah, I thought, wiping the froth from my mouth. This wasn’t like me. Probably a combination of the hunger, the Hugh residue and that spring still chaperoning my tush.

I had calmed down. Started to breathe normally. “The universe has funny ways of making its case,” Doho aptly assessed to the crowd of four. Thank you, Deepak. But he was right. Doho knew all about Hugh. I had told him the whole story after Hugh’s balcony visit. And this certainly put a nail in the relationship coffin with the crowing cock. No need for further discussion.

But Lana, being an astute surveyor of the pulchritudinous male and now checking out the photos from Pippy’s camera, piped in, “I can see why you’d want to hang on, sure is sexy.” This, for some reason, did not make me feel better. But I agreed, he was criminally sexy. Because he couldn’t see me through the tinted windows, I took the opportunity to wave as we passed. My last goodbye.

Well, Pippy had gotten what he came after. Evidence for the husband and another paycheck. And I had gotten rock-solid evidence with witnesses this time as to what an insatiable rotten tart Hugh was. Amen.

[mytrogblog]

46. #ACaperPart2

Have to admit I was worried about the sequel to last night’s loon episode back at the Nuthouse. Curious if there’d be any bloodshed or glass shattered. The Depressed German has held the Trog’s cherished glass chimpanzee up as a threat in the past but would she go through with it? Borbala was short and strong but Valda was large and certifiable so it’s hard to know who would be the victor.

Studio City is named after the Radford Studio lot that was created in 1928 by a silent film producer. So many classic shows were filmed there from “Seinfeld” to the soap fan fave, “Passions.” It’s a sweet area. Lots of show biz types. And one that I’m familiar with as I used to spend a fair amount of time in this part of town.

We stopped at a Starbucks so we could all remain alert during the cheater’s humping exchange. Pippy explained we’d just be spy-sitting and needed to stay focused as it’s easy to drowse. Matcha was my latest kick and I knew it would not only keep me focused but distract me from the loose spring that was chaperoning my tush. No wonder Doho urged me to sit on the left side. “More leg room,” he said. Always thinking, that Doho.

“We’re not going to peer in, just watching the comings and goings,” Pippy briefed us. Much appreciated, I thought. Don’t really want to ‘peer in’, Pippy.

So we sat and sat and sat for hours across the street from this mansionesque house, the place where the wicked were. Nothing. Heard endless stories of Pippy’s G-man days. Good thing Lana brought some chips for us to munch on. We should have had more food prepared but they didn’t think we’d be there long. Seems the husband hired the detectives. Pippy did not reveal names but said the cheated man told him, “another mule is kicking in my stall.” What?!? “His words, not mine,” Pippy defended himself. Do all rich people talk like this?

It was starting to get dark, and I wondered if anything was going on. Pippy reminded us we needed to be patient. “These things take time,” he said. “Sure thing, Sherlock,” I mused to myself as I turned away and rested my eyes. But no sooner did I drift off than Doho nudged me and pointed. There was a kissing silhouette like in the movies at the side door. It was hard to make out who the couple was, but Pippy quickly got his camera out and zoomed in.

To be continued…

[mytrogblog]

44. #DepressedGermanStomp

My time here at the Nuthouse is really something out of a Dickens novel. Mean, boobish, rich landlord housing the poor who are trying to bounce back. The Trog has little compassion for her tribe. She is a wretched woman who only shows her humanity when it doesn’t disrupt her puny life. She’s got a lot of Trogsplaining to do at the pearly gates.

Last night I had just turned off the lights when I heard stomping up the stairs. What could this be? I had my suspicions they were a pair of boat feet, bound for retaliation. I was right.

Picture a dark hallway. A creak of light streaming from the master bedroom’s door. The smell of a 80’s suburban house. And a Depressed German on the loose.

Bang. Bang. Bang…went DG’s healthy-sized mitts against the Trog’s door. “BORRR-BA-LA…BORRR-BA-LA…BORRR-BA-LA,” she screamed. I got up and locked my door. She’s a scary chick with lots of bottled-up German in her. And I was on the frontlines.

“I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE SVISHING AROUND ON YOUR VATERBED.”

Felt voyeurish again. And tried to block my ears from this trainwreck but neither one was attempting to make this a private matter. And frankly, the drama was intriguing, so I jumped back into bed for a cozy listen.

“BORRR-BA-LA… I GOT YOUR LETTER AND I AM NOT MOVING.”

The Trog responded with her distinct blaring voice, “It’s midnight and I’m not talking about this now.” I gathered this was her next move to eliminate the competition for Doho’s affections. Devising some passive-aggressive jealous plot by slipping her usual note under the door. I’ve gotten a dozen diatribes myself for multiple inane reasons.

“I AM NOT MOVING. I CAN’T AFFORD TO MOVE. I CAN’T EVEN DO MY LAUNDRY VITHOUT YOU SAYING SOMEZING. YOU KNOW KARMA, BORBALA… VELL, YOU ARE HOARDING KARMA. I AM STRUGGLING AND THIS IS MORE KARMA FOR BORBALA.”

“That’s your notice and we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“I AM NOT MOVING.” Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Mumble. Mumble. Mumble.

The Depressed German told me in confidence a while back that the police had to literally carry her away from the last place she lived. So, this will be interesting. And obviously, Doho has simply gotten a pass from the enamored Trog!

[mytrogblog]

43. #TheCoitusReveal

One of the rules of the Nuthouse is “No conjugal relations between inmates.” The Trog doesn’t allow visitors so that would mean no inner-Nuthouse coitus. So if you want sex, find it elsewhere. Except for her, of course. She is awaiting the day of Doho’s submission.

That day is not today. Because Doho is getting plenty of fulfillment from the Depressed German, it seems. Early this morning when I came down for breakfast, I went quietly to my cubby in the hallway for a teabag etc. Normally a slugabed, the Trog was already parked at her kitchen post wolfing down a bologna roll.  Must have had a craving for blubbery meat or was spying on Doho’s crack of dawn activities.

But she was too involved with her bologna and humming to opera to hear Doho’s rising activities. But I did. First, it was just some soft stirring from Valda’s chambers. Then came a series of grunts, groans, and ahh-ahh-ahhs. And these thrusting noises were not from Valda doing push-ups, guaranteed.

I felt a bit like a voyeur as I gathered what I needed from my cubby. It’s a bit disconcerting to overhear others having sex, so I quickened my pace. I rushed into the kitchen, where the Trog provided a guttural grunt as well. I think she timed her grunt with a bologna fart, hoping I wouldn’t notice. But I did! And was nearly undone by this explosive cacaphony of unfortunate sounds.

Kept several feet away from the Trog, as I quickly put some fruit and yoghurt together to take upstairs. Back in the hallway to return stuff to my cubby, there was silence. Sex audio was on mute. They must have been in post mode. But at that moment Doho came tiptoeing out of his lover’s room. He saw me and I gave him an eyebrow lift. He returned in kind. “Shushhh,” he whispered and slipped into his lodgings, hoping he had avoided a Trog collision.

I thought so too until I turned around to leave. Standing in the background, observing the interaction was the Trog. Fists on hips, ready for a fight, she said, “what was that?” I shrugged and took off. As I headed up the staircase, she was still standing there, pondering her next move.

[mytrogblog]

41. #Waterbed

Today the cowbell rang early in the morning. It kept ringing. So I went downstairs and there was a delivery man at the gate. “Whatcha got there?” I asked. The pleasant guy said, “waterbed…for a Borbala Franks.”

“I’ll go get her,” I snickered. He joined in the snicker. But she was already barging toward the gate, in her morning glory. “Out of the way, Sally.” I got out of the way but not without first “accidently” stepping on her Trog toes. I apologized and she gave me a push. Geez!

Who knew you could still buy a waterbed? Waterbeds were the craze back in the last century but have certainly lost favor. And what exactly propelled the Trog to make such a purchase? They’re not cheap. But she is. There must be a reason.

Sex toy, perhaps. Legend has it that waterbeds increase your intimacy enjoyment. Well, it is bouncy, there’s less squeaking, splendid for variety and most importantly it’s an easy clean-up. I wouldn’t know.

Doho springs to mind. My guess is that she is stepping up her tempting devices for his attention. Evidently the shorter muumuus and new perm have not done the trick. What will she do? Seduce him into her boudoir to show it off? Then casually trip him onto the aqua mattress and dive in herself. Maybe drowning the poor guy. Oh, the scene is too much to bear.

Regardless, the waterbed is now set up. Ready for seduction. But not without giving the delivery man a flood of her grumbletonian spirit. This unfortunate fellow had to refill the bed six times before his customer was satisfied. Saw him throughout his long day and he’d just roll his eyes. It’s a wonder someone hasn’t bumped her off. Hmmmm…