There are lots of things I don't miss about living on Earth besides the dozen things I listed the last time I addressed this issue. I need to get two of them off my chest right now, before I start scouring that new canal I found for Martian mushrooms, algae and some ancient salt. If I'm lucky, I'll run into another homeless bum like me who was abducted from Earth by those bad-boy Grays and dumped here because his blood's Muscatel level was also a wee bit too high for their DNA experiments. Pricks. With any real luck, I'll stumble over a sleeping bum who was abducted from Earth in an alley outside of a fast-food joint or a convenience store and whose pockets may contain a few leftover fries or a half-eaten 5th Avenue.Just thinking about food — even day-old junk food that belongs to someone else — makes me forget why I'm at the old Commodore 64 this evening, blogging away. Lately, I've been surviving on nothing but pilfered Zagnut candy bars and warm Strawberry Quik, well past the expiration date, and you can't really call that "brain food".
Oh, yeah. Bottom feeders. That's what I hated most about Earth before I got snatched by a blue beam of light from the 1965 Rambler Ambassador sedan I called "home" at the time. Go ahead and laugh but, in 1965, the Rambler Ambassador was considered the Cadillac of blue-collar-worker cars, especially by people who did a lot of camping. That baby would haul anything and you'd never even know it. Of course, I was living in it in an alley near Hollywood & Vine in 2008, so it had seen its better days.
Shit. Here I go again. Bottom feeders. I mean those crooks who run insurance companies from places like Pittsburgh and who can't do business the regular way so they pretend to hook up with major credit card companies who are offering free life insurance to their cardholders. For a day or so. Then, if you don't call this toll free number in the fine print on the back of the letter they sent you, your $3,000 worth of free life insurance provided by your bottom-feeding major credit card company becomes a $200,000 policy with quarterly premium payments coming out of your credit card. If you don't call that goddamn toll-free number. So, if you don't do anything, they attach themselves to your credit card like leeches. If you do call them (meaning, if you saw that hidden clause in the fine print on the back of the bottom feeder's letter) they don't understand why you're upset. When you call your major credit card company, they act like they don't know what you're talking about. Right, and I've never heard of a Hershey Bar or "Buyer Beware", either. Crooks.
The insurance company bottom feeders are even worse than the fake car warranty people from New Mexico who send you what looks like an official warning of some kind that makes you fear that if you so much as dare to let your vehicle's warranty expire, the President of the United States, himself, will horsewhip you. That didn't bother me quite as much as the life insurance bottom feeders because the Rambler I was living in wasn't really mine anyway and I'm sure that its warranty expired about forty years ago.
How did I get mail delivered to a 1965 Rambler Ambassador abandoned in an alley in Hollywood, you might ask? Well, I can thank the 9-1-1 emergency number people for that. Before 9-1-1 came along, my "home" would have been just a rusty, old, abandoned vehicle. But, after 9-1-1 got a choke hold on L.A. and renamed all the goddamn streets and reassigned all the goddamn house numbers to suit their Napoleonic needs, they changed that 1965 Rambler Ambassador to 1965 Ambassador Way. Go figure. Naturally, the Post Office, now called the USPS, had no choice but to deliver mail there.
And, you might also want to know how a homeless bum like me had a major credit card. Well, I wasn't always a homeless bum. At one time I was a consumer, the Cadillac of citizens. And as long as I scraped together the minimum monthly payment, I got to keep my card.
By the way, if I ever get dumped back on Earth by the goddamn Grays, I'd probably still want to visit New Mexico, especially Roswell and White Sands. Those places hold a certain fascination for me. But I wouldn't go to Pittsburgh to take a shit.
