As these things often do, it started so simply. There was an e-mail from grand poobah Dustin waiting in my gmail inbox with the subject line “A Grand Idea.”
I like grand ideas.
We all like grand ideas.
Well Dustin’s grand idea, inspired by Yahoo, was that Pajiba was implementing a new policy — no longer would Pajiba’s writers work in seclusion. No longer would they work in their book store nooks, their dungeons full of blood and terror, their local coffee shop public areas, their study rooms crawling with newborn children. Pajiba’s writers would unite and work together, in the Pajiba Office.
This is where I should mention a little known fact about Pajiba, which is that my Santa Monica apartment is Pajiba’s official physical place of being.
It was less than a minute after I read this e-mail that I heard a knock at my door. How this was timed so perfectly remains one of the mysteries in life I’ll never figure out. As you’ve already surmised, I opened the door to see Dustin, toothy wide-grinned, a twin in each arm, a little blonde boy wrapped around his leg, standing before me. And spread out behind him, like a sacking army of mother f*ckers, were all of the writers, their laptops, children and smirks in tow.
“Oh dear Jesus,” is what I would’ve thought, had I been afforded the time to have a think before the onslaught began. They came pouring through my door like a flood of locusts. Except locusts are a lot less pushy.
This was a week ago.
You know in Trainspotting after Renton has settled in to his tiny little London flat, only to find his new life invaded by Begbie and Sick Boy? Yeah, he had it f*cking easy, mate.
I woke up this morning, a pair of strange feet in my face. At first I thought they were Agent Bedhead’s feet but then I heard the sounds of crying from the corner. Which means Bedhead has seen another sappy children’s movie and can’t help herself. So not her feet. Inhale. …Smells of beets. Which means it’s Steven Lloyd Wilson. All that time in Russia, he couldn’t come back smelling like vodka? No. F*cking beets.
Oh, I should clarify that only Steven Lloyd Wilson-Prime smells of beets. Since he’s been here, SLW has managed to build a Multiplicity-like cloning machine. So there are actually five SLWs in my apartment, four of whom spend the entire day discussing theology, mythology, global-political whats-its, and naughty British comedy. The fifth one is the SLWs’ attempt at the Multiplicity clone-of-a-clone so, yes, he’s the dumb one. …A dumb, SLW, of course, is still ten times smarter than the rest of us. He’s talking about going off to get his Ph.D in genetic engineering so he can figure out where he went “wrong.” …F*cking clones, man.
Anyway, I dash out of the bedroom, desperate to get the beet smell out of my nose. Escape to my balcony for some fresh air, I thinks. Think again, id-yote. For on my balcony this morning stood a woman literally screaming out bits of random entertainment news for all of Santa Monica to hear. It’s become a popular local feature, it seems, and the Star Tours buses that thrice daily go down my street actually stop and let the tourists listen in. …And no, I don’t even know if it’s Jody or Cindy, as I still haven’t figured out which of them is which.
Retreating from the balcony, I had absolutely no idea what to do or where to go.
I certainly couldn’t seek refuge in my office. TK’s taken dominion over that place like it’s Apocalypse Now by way of the smell of DC cartoons in the morning. He’s got a dude chained up to
my his office chair, who he occasionally pets but mostly beats. I think it’s a former writer, either Phillip or Jeremy. … I can’t tell through all the blood and pus. (I hope it’s Jeremy.)
And I can’t even hide in the bathroom, which Genevieve and Joanna have taken over. In lieu of writing, they’ve discovered a fun new hobby, trolling Sunset at night for random actors and musicians, and then bringing those newly found pieces of man meat back to the flat, where they do dirty things to them, and then have TK dissolve the bodies in my tub. …I’m never getting my security deposit back.
Meanwhile, Courtney’s gone missing. She was here for the first couple of days, baking cookies. And then putting the TV on E! and hurling the cookies at the TV. But then, apparently inspired by Genevieve and Joanna’s adventures, she took off to Hollywood and we haven’t seen her since. I saw something on the news last night about a crazy woman at the corner of Hollywood and Highland, doing terrible bodily-fluid things to the Walk of Fame. Pretty sure that’s our Courtney.
But back to this hell, remember Being John Malkovich when Malkovich enters his own headspace, leading to a world full of Malkovich’s, pure Id and Ego and “Malkovich, Malkovich, Malkovich?” That’s what it’s like in my apartment right now, just Pajiba, Pajiba, Pajiba everywhere. I’m literally hunched over my laptop in a corner typing this, while Dustin is standing over me, shouting. “Why isn’t this a list? Write a list! WHERE ARE THE ANIMATED GIFS?!?” Someone just vomited in the living room while apparently watching a sappy rom-com trailer. They didn’t even have the courtesy to do it in what we’ve affectionately dubbed Nicholas Sparks Alley, the space behind the couch where everyone else has been leaving their hurl.
And oh my god I haven’t even told you about the kids. Oh the f*cking kids. There are a pair of twins living in my walk-in closet, rolling around in all my button-down shirts and drooling wherever they damn well choose. Luckily, I don’t really need the button-downs any more, as I’ve totally been fired from my day job. And, frankly, I can’t really complain about the twins, given that TK’s horrible offspring has taken over the refrigerator. Which is to say, he is literally living in the fridge, hurling homemade spears at anyone who dares to open the fridge and reach for milk. (Poor Sarah took a spear early on, and the TK spawn has since put her on ice. Literally. Don’t go in the freezer.) How is a one-year-old capable of such territorial dominance? Did you not read that this is TK’s offspring? He lets TK in for beer, but the rest of us are persona non grata. He even tries to yell that at us while hurling his homemade spears. “Perthon grat!” It would be downright adorable if, you know, there wasn’t a sharpened projectile hurling at your head.
Perhaps the worst thing of all is that I ran out of all of my scotch, whiskey and bourbon about seven minutes after they showed up. Of course none of them have had the common decency to purchase more. And I’m too terrified of what will happen in my absence to leave the apartment. We’re prohibition-dry here, people! Except for the beer that only TK can touch. “Perthon grat!”
This post isn’t likely to stay up long. As soon as the Dictator sees that it went up, he’ll surely delete it, replacing it with some business about who’s been cast to replace that actor who was originally cast to play the Maxx in the live action remake of the MTV cartoon. But if you read this, if you can, please send help.