Don't...Don't You Want This To Happen to You?

In all my times doing karaoke at Iggys on the Upper East Side (about 15), I've never had a pretty girl come join me in a song. Only Lynch, a few Fordham buddies and an 80 year old grandmother with more eye makeup than Krusty the Clown. Here's to next weekend. I'll be looking for you, Marissa.

Where's My Sock?

I'm not a sock stealer.

The only thing I've ever stolen was a box of Tic-Tacs when I was 8 years old. They were in the front of the grocery store with all the other candy. For any 8 year old, the amount of candy in this front aisle of Stop & Shop, Duane Reade or CVS seems endless. The packages upon packages of skittles, snickers, twinkies and butterfinger beebies. Even the black liquorish looks good. Just ask this guy.

Long story, short. I was reprimanded by my mother. She was not happy. Although, I don't know if she was more disappointed in the actual robbery or the fact that I chose to steal orange Tic-Tacs.

Anyway. Back to the socks.

I was in the laundrymat in my building. Yes, I do wash my clothes on occasion. I wasn't just hanging out in the laundry room.

My clothes had finished their wash cycle and were ready for the dryer. I moved the wet, soggy mess over to the other side of the room, hoping to get rid of it as soon as possible. One problem. Although not all were being used, every dryer had clothing inside.

I was with my roommate Lynch. For those of you who don't know Lynch, he's a kid that seems innocent and polite on the outside, but has a dangerous, dark streak that appears in certain circumstances. Like Bruce Banner has Hulk, like Mike has The Miz, Lynch has Lynch-Eyez. The laundry room on that fateful, blistery Sunday night was one of those circumstances where Lynch transformed. Lynch wan't waitin'. He needed his clothes dry and he needed them dry now.

So, we pulled out clothes that were finished drying and lying lifeless inside two machines and placed them on the table in the middle of the room.

It is a bold move in any communal laundry room. The person could've walked through the door at any second. The girl could've waltzed in as Lynch was scrambling to take out her bra. The guy could've seen me handling his jock strap.

But Lynch was adamant on getting the deed done. He was giving me the Lynch-eyez. No one's ever crossed Lynch-eyez and lived to tell the tale.

Happy one minute, Lynch-eyez the next:

So we did it. I didn't feel good about the whole process, but sometimes you have to do what Lynch-eyez want you to do.

We headed downstairs and came back up about an hour later. Now, there were people in the laundry room. There was a guy standing right next to the area where the incident had happened. We peaked through the window and thought about just waiting him out. I was prepared to leave my clothes in there for days to avoid any confrontations; willing to go commando or pick up some Spa-Ha tighty-whities at the 99 cent store.

Alas, we decided to enter the madness. The guy was standing above the same dryer that I had removed clothes from. We walked around the other side of the room, pretending we were doing a wash or simply taking an evening stroll amongst the noisy machines.

"Hey! Whose clothes are these?!" the guy suddenly said.

"They're his," Lynch quickly responded, pointing at me.

I couldn't believe Lynch. He ratted me out. No "I don't know" or "Shucks, beats me." BAM! That kid over there who's staring out the window at a light post and brick wall.

"Yeah. I think those are mine," I said.

"Well, you threw my clothes out on this table and I'm missing a sock," he sneered, holding up the unmatched foot warmer.

"Oh. Yeah. (As if I'd known). Let me see if I can find it," I responded apologetically.

The sock was almost as pathetic as the kid holding it. Small, frail and smelly. Honestly, I would've had trouble fitting the thing around my thumb.

But I felt guilty and ashamed. I began combing through my laundry and the dryer, searching for this tiny article of clothing that I probably could've mistaken for a piece of lint.

The kid was staring down at me, watching my every move. Lynch was next to me, smiling, knowing the Lynch-eyez had caused another's misfortune yet again.

I looked through my clothing twice, stretching boxers out, shaking shirts in the kid's face and putting my head through pant legs. What could I do? It wasn't there. Would this kid make me buy him a new pair of socks? Would he make me give him a foot massage? Cut his toenails?

"I've just lost too many socks in this place," he kept uttering.

Well, of course you have! This is a laundry room, right? That's what happens! It's part of the deal! Idiot!

Finally, he gave up and stormed off back to his apartment. The one sock still dangling from his left hand. Maybe he can use it as a pen grip.

I've never met anybody who felt attached to a sock like this kid. I'm sure his apartment looks pretty similar to the one in this clip.

Countdown to 2011 Championship Season Begins

Who are these people? I honestly don't know any of these names. Could be a good thing.

TGIF

Finding a party like this in Spa-Ha tu-night.

You see, the hoods been good to me, ever since I was a lower-case G, but now I'm a big G. Girls see I got the MONEY.