If I didn't go to damn hell already for making fun of a guy for getting flowers when his dog died, this ought to do the trick.

Please enjoy this jumbled mess of jellified poo.
Take it. TAKE IT, bitches-!

You LIKE it. Swallow. Goood.

Our show just finished up its glorious run, and by "glorious", I mean "-$722.54."

If you did not come and see our show, that is because you are a suckass. I do not care if this is because you didn't actually know about the show. You still suck hairy anus. Do not EVEN try to invite me to your lame cocktail party or God forbid, YOUR show, in the future, because I will not come. Hypocrite.

Anyway, it was fun and I will miss it, even though I have a shitty attitude about playing an inanimate object for a living.

It's not every day people say to you, "here is your tree-hole" and "I reinforced your pants."

Ahhh, th' theatar(d).

By the way, have I mentioned that we have a tard problem...?

Across the street is a Boba place. I think it is called Boba Land or Boba World or Jumbo's House of Warm Goo or some shit, but we call it Boba Tard*, because that is where the tard lives. Works. Whatever.

*not to be confused with Boba Fett. -Timpson

Actually, I think the tard's parents work there but nevermind.

Anyway, the tard does not work and he is belligerent. You do not want to be pissing off the tard because, as Cranky says, he has "tard strength."

Some well-meaning clueless actor types who were renting our space kept repeatedly inviting the Boba Tard in and it wasn't pretty. They were laughing and playing with the tard and feeding him Ritz crackers, and that was nice, but I don't think throwing Chex Mix into the tard's mouth was actually very safe. For the tard. Or themselves.

Sometimes, they bite.

So the door guy was expressly employed not to let the tard in but he is slippery, that tard, and LOUD. Plus he kept hitting us up at the bar for free drinks.

The tard did not really want free entertainment. The one thing the tard really wanted was sugar. Apparently, his parents feed him on defective boba. I tried ignoring his pleas of "wan' COKE pleez" but Cranky eventually gave in. But the tard was still not happy. He kept returning asking for "wam" Coke and/or "Dotta Peepa." Shiiiiit.

We don't even really know how old Boba Tard is (10? 25? 32? Who can tell? Tards age so well!) so we didn't want to be held liable should he decide to go on a murderous rampage or a drinking binge or into a diabetic coma or some shit, just because his Coke wasn't warm.

So we eventually succeeded in kicking the Boba Tard out, but it hasn't ended there. Our friendly neighborhood tard is being exploited by his parents to guard the "their" parking spot, otherwise known as the loading zone outside Poo Tea Tang, or whatever it's called.

Our esteemed colleague Hobbs had the following conversation with the Boba Tard:

CH: Doo dee doo, yay, I found a parking space!
BT: Yo canna pok dere!!!
CH: Hey, what's up, li'l tard buddy...?
BT: NO!!!! Canna pok! Wan' Coke-!
CH: Uh, yes I can. It's after 7.
BT: NOOOOOO!!! (screams and pulls hair)
CH: Uh...calm down, buddy... Attempts to leave
BT: Wayy...I tell you fodder...!
CH: My father is dead.
BT: I tell you mutter...!
CH: My mother has passed on, too. Leaves.
BT: ... ... ...wan' Coke.

In our defense, we may have contributed to hopping the tard up on Coke, but we ain't the ones who hooked him on crack. I think his parents have shafted him off on the medical marijuana clinic next door just 'cuz they tardsit for free.

Nice 'hood, no?