Obeah posted:

When I was working as a graphic designer for PAWS Inc. (SE Asian Market) in Muncie, Indiana, I got stuck in what I can only describe as a triplex apartment between a group of BSU students and an elderly, mentally handicapped man who would tell us all about how he was the last person in his assistance program to still have a helper monkey. Apparently they've mostly been phased out or something?

Anyway, the kids who lived next to me in the triplex were obsessed with seeing this grandfathered capuchin and seemed to be split 50-50 on believing it even existed. I'd been there six months, the students almost a year, and none of us had seen or heard this thing in person. Kenneth - the old man - would stand on his end of the house and "water the grass", which really just amounted to chain smoking and hosing his corner of the lawn down. Anytime any of us went outside while he was doing this, he'd yell conversation to us. "Esquire (the monkey) turned off the TV during Final Jeopardy last night. I got so mad..." and "I caught Esquire eating out of the trash again. Such a pain in my rear end." It was nonstop during the summer months.

So at the end of August, I was helping Kenneth with some legitimate yard work. He asked me if I wanted to come over for dinner, and even though Esquire did not come up in the invitation at all, he was my first thought. A chance to confirm this creature's existence. I jumped at the opportunity.

So that night, I have the worst meal of my life. Reheated spaghetti eaten out of Tupperware. No conversation. Just the sounds of us eating. Feeling weirdly nauseous and wanting to go home, I asked Kenneth where Esquire was.

"In my bedroom. He was acting up earlier. and I didn't want him bothering you during supper."

I should have accepted this, but I pressed on, saying I was full and just wanted to meet him before going home. At this point, Kenneth stood up, walked to his bedroom, slammed the door shut, and was in there for maybe five minutes or so. I was about to leave when he came out.

"He's about to bedtime out, but you can see him before you leave."

Here's my memory of that encounter, as filtered through my PTSD (semi-serious here - I could get diagnosed for sure):

Sock monkey sitting in a wicker chair next to a bed. Withered Cracker Barrel price tag still hanging off. White areas of the monkey stained with nicotine. A hole cut in between the legs. Kenneth behind me. The sinking feeling as I realize his hard cock (still in pants, though) is pressed against my back. I forget the exact words, but he did ask me to touch Esquire, so I half heartedly petted it and he slapped the back of my head. Whispered to me "F-fingerblast this little turd." That part I remember perfectly. And I did.

I won't dwell on the rest of the encounter. Suffice to say that it was a bad night for me, and finishing out that lease was hell. I don't regret anything but accepting the dinner invitation. Had I not become finger intimate with Esquire, he very well could have stabbed me. He'd been collecting knives since Vietnam. I noticed several pocket knives on a drawer in the bedroom alone. This was a scary dude, and it's hard to blame myself for it. But anyway, I ended up getting let go from my dream job right before the end of the lease, so obviously I didn't stick around for long.

All of this is just a roundabout way of saying that you should really, really be careful around this neighbor of yours. What seems and reads as funny on SA or to your friends can be a life threatening, terrifying experience irl.

Demonachizer posted:

Could you use a shovel instead of a broom?

Obeah posted:

When I was working as a graphic designer for PAWS Inc. (SE Asian Market) in Muncie, Indiana, I got stuck in what I can only describe as a triplex apartment between a group of BSU students and an elderly, mentally handicapped man who would tell us all about how he was the last person in his assistance program to still have a helper monkey. Apparently they've mostly been phased out or something?

Anyway, the kids who lived next to me in the triplex were obsessed with seeing this grandfathered capuchin and seemed to be split 50-50 on believing it even existed. I'd been there six months, the students almost a year, and none of us had seen or heard this thing in person. Kenneth - the old man - would stand on his end of the house and "water the grass", which really just amounted to chain smoking and hosing his corner of the lawn down. Anytime any of us went outside while he was doing this, he'd yell conversation to us. "Esquire (the monkey) turned off the TV during Final Jeopardy last night. I got so mad..." and "I caught Esquire eating out of the trash again. Such a pain in my rear end." It was nonstop during the summer months.

So at the end of August, I was helping Kenneth with some legitimate yard work. He asked me if I wanted to come over for dinner, and even though Esquire did not come up in the invitation at all, he was my first thought. A chance to confirm this creature's existence. I jumped at the opportunity.

So that night, I have the worst meal of my life. Reheated spaghetti eaten out of Tupperware. No conversation. Just the sounds of us eating. Feeling weirdly nauseous and wanting to go home, I asked Kenneth where Esquire was.

"In my bedroom. He was acting up earlier. and I didn't want him bothering you during supper."

I should have accepted this, but I pressed on, saying I was full and just wanted to meet him before going home. At this point, Kenneth stood up, walked to his bedroom, slammed the door shut, and was in there for maybe five minutes or so. I was about to leave when he came out.

"He's about to bedtime out, but you can see him before you leave."

Here's my memory of that encounter, as filtered through my PTSD (semi-serious here - I could get diagnosed for sure):

Sock monkey sitting in a wicker chair next to a bed. Withered Cracker Barrel price tag still hanging off. White areas of the monkey stained with nicotine. A hole cut in between the legs. Kenneth behind me. The sinking feeling as I realize his hard cock (still in pants, though) is pressed against my back. I forget the exact words, but he did ask me to touch Esquire, so I half heartedly petted it and he slapped the back of my head. Whispered to me "F-fingerblast this little turd." That part I remember perfectly. And I did.

I won't dwell on the rest of the encounter. Suffice to say that it was a bad night for me, and finishing out that lease was hell. I don't regret anything but accepting the dinner invitation. Had I not become finger intimate with Esquire, he very well could have stabbed me. He'd been collecting knives since Vietnam. I noticed several pocket knives on a drawer in the bedroom alone. This was a scary dude, and it's hard to blame myself for it. But anyway, I ended up getting let go from my dream job right before the end of the lease, so obviously I didn't stick around for long.

All of this is just a roundabout way of saying that you should really, really be careful around this neighbor of yours. What seems and reads as funny on SA or to your friends can be a life threatening, terrifying experience irl.

Obeah posted:

Sock monkey sitting in a wicker chair next to a bed. Withered Cracker Barrel price tag still hanging off. White areas of the monkey stained with nicotine. A hole cut in between the legs. Kenneth behind me. The sinking feeling as I realize his hard cock (still in pants, though) is pressed against my back. I forget the exact words, but he did ask me to touch Esquire, so I half heartedly petted it and he slapped the back of my head. Whispered to me "F-fingerblast this little turd." That part I remember perfectly. And I did.

Obeah posted:

City of Tampa posted:

dude is watching to make sure that you leave so he can go into your apartment and rub his musky unwashed dong all over your toothbrush and silverware and TV remote

Obeah posted:

When I was working as a graphic designer for PAWS Inc. (SE Asian Market) in Muncie, Indiana, I got stuck in what I can only describe as a triplex apartment between a group of BSU students and an elderly, mentally handicapped man who would tell us all about how he was the last person in his assistance program to still have a helper monkey. Apparently they've mostly been phased out or something?

Anyway, the kids who lived next to me in the triplex were obsessed with seeing this grandfathered capuchin and seemed to be split 50-50 on believing it even existed. I'd been there six months, the students almost a year, and none of us had seen or heard this thing in person. Kenneth - the old man - would stand on his end of the house and "water the grass", which really just amounted to chain smoking and hosing his corner of the lawn down. Anytime any of us went outside while he was doing this, he'd yell conversation to us. "Esquire (the monkey) turned off the TV during Final Jeopardy last night. I got so mad..." and "I caught Esquire eating out of the trash again. Such a pain in my rear end." It was nonstop during the summer months.

So at the end of August, I was helping Kenneth with some legitimate yard work. He asked me if I wanted to come over for dinner, and even though Esquire did not come up in the invitation at all, he was my first thought. A chance to confirm this creature's existence. I jumped at the opportunity.

So that night, I have the worst meal of my life. Reheated spaghetti eaten out of Tupperware. No conversation. Just the sounds of us eating. Feeling weirdly nauseous and wanting to go home, I asked Kenneth where Esquire was.

"In my bedroom. He was acting up earlier. and I didn't want him bothering you during supper."

I should have accepted this, but I pressed on, saying I was full and just wanted to meet him before going home. At this point, Kenneth stood up, walked to his bedroom, slammed the door shut, and was in there for maybe five minutes or so. I was about to leave when he came out.

"He's about to bedtime out, but you can see him before you leave."

Here's my memory of that encounter, as filtered through my PTSD (semi-serious here - I could get diagnosed for sure):

Sock monkey sitting in a wicker chair next to a bed. Withered Cracker Barrel price tag still hanging off. White areas of the monkey stained with nicotine. A hole cut in between the legs. Kenneth behind me. The sinking feeling as I realize his hard cock (still in pants, though) is pressed against my back. I forget the exact words, but he did ask me to touch Esquire, so I half heartedly petted it and he slapped the back of my head. Whispered to me "F-fingerblast this little turd." That part I remember perfectly. And I did.

I won't dwell on the rest of the encounter. Suffice to say that it was a bad night for me, and finishing out that lease was hell. I don't regret anything but accepting the dinner invitation. Had I not become finger intimate with Esquire, he very well could have stabbed me. He'd been collecting knives since Vietnam. I noticed several pocket knives on a drawer in the bedroom alone. This was a scary dude, and it's hard to blame myself for it. But anyway, I ended up getting let go from my dream job right before the end of the lease, so obviously I didn't stick around for long.

All of this is just a roundabout way of saying that you should really, really be careful around this neighbor of yours. What seems and reads as funny on SA or to your friends can be a life threatening, terrifying experience irl.

Boko Haram posted:

I'll go downstairs to do my laundry, forget the key so I set my basket down, as soon as I turn the flight he's out and about in the stairwell. I come back down and he goes back in. Same thing happens after I leave the washroom. When I go to my car he will leave his apartment and go up the stairs and stand at the entrance to the building looking out the glass as I leave, sometimes he pokes his head out.

Obeah posted:

Whispered to me "F-fingerblast this little turd." That part I remember perfectly. And I did.

Hillary Clintons Thong posted:

no loving way lol

Obeah posted:

When I was working as a graphic designer for PAWS Inc. (SE Asian Market) in Muncie, Indiana, I got stuck in what I can only describe as a triplex apartment between a group of BSU students and an elderly, mentally handicapped man who would tell us all about how he was the last person in his assistance program to still have a helper monkey. Apparently they've mostly been phased out or something?

Anyway, the kids who lived next to me in the triplex were obsessed with seeing this grandfathered capuchin and seemed to be split 50-50 on believing it even existed. I'd been there six months, the students almost a year, and none of us had seen or heard this thing in person. Kenneth - the old man - would stand on his end of the house and "water the grass", which really just amounted to chain smoking and hosing his corner of the lawn down. Anytime any of us went outside while he was doing this, he'd yell conversation to us. "Esquire (the monkey) turned off the TV during Final Jeopardy last night. I got so mad..." and "I caught Esquire eating out of the trash again. Such a pain in my rear end." It was nonstop during the summer months.

So at the end of August, I was helping Kenneth with some legitimate yard work. He asked me if I wanted to come over for dinner, and even though Esquire did not come up in the invitation at all, he was my first thought. A chance to confirm this creature's existence. I jumped at the opportunity.

So that night, I have the worst meal of my life. Reheated spaghetti eaten out of Tupperware. No conversation. Just the sounds of us eating. Feeling weirdly nauseous and wanting to go home, I asked Kenneth where Esquire was.

"In my bedroom. He was acting up earlier. and I didn't want him bothering you during supper."

I should have accepted this, but I pressed on, saying I was full and just wanted to meet him before going home. At this point, Kenneth stood up, walked to his bedroom, slammed the door shut, and was in there for maybe five minutes or so. I was about to leave when he came out.

"He's about to bedtime out, but you can see him before you leave."

Here's my memory of that encounter, as filtered through my PTSD (semi-serious here - I could get diagnosed for sure):

Sock monkey sitting in a wicker chair next to a bed. Withered Cracker Barrel price tag still hanging off. White areas of the monkey stained with nicotine. A hole cut in between the legs. Kenneth behind me. The sinking feeling as I realize his hard cock (still in pants, though) is pressed against my back. I forget the exact words, but he did ask me to touch Esquire, so I half heartedly petted it and he slapped the back of my head. Whispered to me "F-fingerblast this little turd." That part I remember perfectly. And I did.

I won't dwell on the rest of the encounter. Suffice to say that it was a bad night for me, and finishing out that lease was hell. I don't regret anything but accepting the dinner invitation. Had I not become finger intimate with Esquire, he very well could have stabbed me. He'd been collecting knives since Vietnam. I noticed several pocket knives on a drawer in the bedroom alone. This was a scary dude, and it's hard to blame myself for it. But anyway, I ended up getting let go from my dream job right before the end of the lease, so obviously I didn't stick around for long.

All of this is just a roundabout way of saying that you should really, really be careful around this neighbor of yours. What seems and reads as funny on SA or to your friends can be a life threatening, terrifying experience irl.

Kurtofan posted:

Well Obeah, has the monkey stopped screaming

Murphy Brownback posted:

I have a neighbor that kind of does the opposite of the OP's. Every time he sees me and/or the landlord he'll stop in his tracks, turn around and go back inside and stare out the window until I'm gone. I've seen him walking down the street toward the house while I was on the way to work and when he saw me he about-faced and speedwalked away. I think he went around the block the other way.

I didn't have to fingerblast his monkey or anything, but he does make me feel a little uncomfortable.

Big Beef City posted:

GBS: "F-fingerblast this little turd."

jiharlequinade posted:

he intends to strangle you with a nylon cord, op, hth

Big Beef City posted:

GBS: "F-fingerblast this little turd."

Big Beef City posted:

GBS: "F-fingerblast this little turd."

Obeah posted:

When I was working as a graphic designer for PAWS Inc. (SE Asian Market) in Muncie, Indiana, I got stuck in what I can only describe as a triplex apartment between a group of BSU students and an elderly, mentally handicapped man who would tell us all about how he was the last person in his assistance program to still have a helper monkey. Apparently they've mostly been phased out or something?

Anyway, the kids who lived next to me in the triplex were obsessed with seeing this grandfathered capuchin and seemed to be split 50-50 on believing it even existed. I'd been there six months, the students almost a year, and none of us had seen or heard this thing in person. Kenneth - the old man - would stand on his end of the house and "water the grass", which really just amounted to chain smoking and hosing his corner of the lawn down. Anytime any of us went outside while he was doing this, he'd yell conversation to us. "Esquire (the monkey) turned off the TV during Final Jeopardy last night. I got so mad..." and "I caught Esquire eating out of the trash again. Such a pain in my rear end." It was nonstop during the summer months.

So at the end of August, I was helping Kenneth with some legitimate yard work. He asked me if I wanted to come over for dinner, and even though Esquire did not come up in the invitation at all, he was my first thought. A chance to confirm this creature's existence. I jumped at the opportunity.

So that night, I have the worst meal of my life. Reheated spaghetti eaten out of Tupperware. No conversation. Just the sounds of us eating. Feeling weirdly nauseous and wanting to go home, I asked Kenneth where Esquire was.

"In my bedroom. He was acting up earlier. and I didn't want him bothering you during supper."

I should have accepted this, but I pressed on, saying I was full and just wanted to meet him before going home. At this point, Kenneth stood up, walked to his bedroom, slammed the door shut, and was in there for maybe five minutes or so. I was about to leave when he came out.

"He's about to bedtime out, but you can see him before you leave."

Here's my memory of that encounter, as filtered through my PTSD (semi-serious here - I could get diagnosed for sure):

Sock monkey sitting in a wicker chair next to a bed. Withered Cracker Barrel price tag still hanging off. White areas of the monkey stained with nicotine. A hole cut in between the legs. Kenneth behind me. The sinking feeling as I realize his hard cock (still in pants, though) is pressed against my back. I forget the exact words, but he did ask me to touch Esquire, so I half heartedly petted it and he slapped the back of my head. Whispered to me "F-fingerblast this little turd." That part I remember perfectly. And I did.

I won't dwell on the rest of the encounter. Suffice to say that it was a bad night for me, and finishing out that lease was hell. I don't regret anything but accepting the dinner invitation. Had I not become finger intimate with Esquire, he very well could have stabbed me. He'd been collecting knives since Vietnam. I noticed several pocket knives on a drawer in the bedroom alone. This was a scary dude, and it's hard to blame myself for it. But anyway, I ended up getting let go from my dream job right before the end of the lease, so obviously I didn't stick around for long.

All of this is just a roundabout way of saying that you should really, really be careful around this neighbor of yours. What seems and reads as funny on SA or to your friends can be a life threatening, terrifying experience irl.

Obeah posted:

When I was working as a graphic designer for PAWS Inc. (SE Asian Market) in Muncie, Indiana, I got stuck in what I can only describe as a triplex apartment between a group of BSU students and an elderly, mentally handicapped man who would tell us all about how he was the last person in his assistance program to still have a helper monkey. Apparently they've mostly been phased out or something?

Anyway, the kids who lived next to me in the triplex were obsessed with seeing this grandfathered capuchin and seemed to be split 50-50 on believing it even existed. I'd been there six months, the students almost a year, and none of us had seen or heard this thing in person. Kenneth - the old man - would stand on his end of the house and "water the grass", which really just amounted to chain smoking and hosing his corner of the lawn down. Anytime any of us went outside while he was doing this, he'd yell conversation to us. "Esquire (the monkey) turned off the TV during Final Jeopardy last night. I got so mad..." and "I caught Esquire eating out of the trash again. Such a pain in my rear end." It was nonstop during the summer months.

So at the end of August, I was helping Kenneth with some legitimate yard work. He asked me if I wanted to come over for dinner, and even though Esquire did not come up in the invitation at all, he was my first thought. A chance to confirm this creature's existence. I jumped at the opportunity.

So that night, I have the worst meal of my life. Reheated spaghetti eaten out of Tupperware. No conversation. Just the sounds of us eating. Feeling weirdly nauseous and wanting to go home, I asked Kenneth where Esquire was.

"In my bedroom. He was acting up earlier. and I didn't want him bothering you during supper."

I should have accepted this, but I pressed on, saying I was full and just wanted to meet him before going home. At this point, Kenneth stood up, walked to his bedroom, slammed the door shut, and was in there for maybe five minutes or so. I was about to leave when he came out.

"He's about to bedtime out, but you can see him before you leave."

Here's my memory of that encounter, as filtered through my PTSD (semi-serious here - I could get diagnosed for sure):

Sock monkey sitting in a wicker chair next to a bed. Withered Cracker Barrel price tag still hanging off. White areas of the monkey stained with nicotine. A hole cut in between the legs. Kenneth behind me. The sinking feeling as I realize his hard cock (still in pants, though) is pressed against my back. I forget the exact words, but he did ask me to touch Esquire, so I half heartedly petted it and he slapped the back of my head. Whispered to me "F-fingerblast this little turd." That part I remember perfectly. And I did.

I won't dwell on the rest of the encounter. Suffice to say that it was a bad night for me, and finishing out that lease was hell. I don't regret anything but accepting the dinner invitation. Had I not become finger intimate with Esquire, he very well could have stabbed me. He'd been collecting knives since Vietnam. I noticed several pocket knives on a drawer in the bedroom alone. This was a scary dude, and it's hard to blame myself for it. But anyway, I ended up getting let go from my dream job right before the end of the lease, so obviously I didn't stick around for long.

All of this is just a roundabout way of saying that you should really, really be careful around this neighbor of yours. What seems and reads as funny on SA or to your friends can be a life threatening, terrifying experience irl.

PureEvil6_13 posted:

So did Esquire come or what?!

Smash it Smash hit posted:

yeah i mean you gotta tell us about the rest of the encounter like how long did you finger blast the monkey before you left? jesus christ

Big Beef City posted:

GBS: "F-fingerblast this little turd."