On Porn

From the "OMGWTF" files of my life:

My day job is in apartment property management and, yes, it sucks. Please be kind to your leasing agent or property manager, because they are hated in the eyes of God. No sense in piling on.

Anyway, we recently had a round of evictions at my property for residents that had gone two or more months without paying rent, and one of the apartments featured a real batch of winners. College-age, scruffy faced, tattered hat, poker-table-as-coffee-table, empty beer bottle collection guys. Guys that get arrested by the marshal performing the eviction because they had enough weed to stuff a pillow. Those kinds of guys.

After the eviction, my manager and I entered the apartment for the final inspection. Beyond the general filth and stickiness inside the apartment, another key feature jumped up and got my attention. A thick, sedimentary layer of porn. Pornography. Teh pr0n. I can’t properly do justice in print to the insane amount of fake 2-D boobs and ass that leered at me from every wall, closet, and square inch of floor space in the apartment. These guys had a sickness for it.

While I’m processing the staggering cost of this abandoned collection, a thought crossed my mind. In the upcoming $1000 Feature Film, there’s a specific scene involving (EDITOR’S NOTE: CLASSIFIED), and the walls inside that location are supposed to be covered in this exact, trashy style of porn. If I managed to heist some of this stuff, then we wouldn’t have to spend money to buy it – obviously a big plus.

Thus hatched the Great Georgia Porn Liberation of ’08.

How best to accomplish this? I couldn’t just start scooping up the choice cuts while my boss was standing in the room. Nor could I come back later and walk it out the front door (Friends of the arrested residents were loading up their stuff in a truck. Talk about insult to injury – “Let your boys know I said thanks for the titties! HAHAHA!”) I returned to my desk at the office and stewed until, finally, an idea formed. My maintenance crew would be going in and out for the rest of the day, prepping the apartment for a new resident. Nobody would notice if they carried out some extra “trash”. I tracked down my maintenance supervisor, vaguely explained the situation, and handed him a large manila envelope. “Here. Fill this up with porn. I need all the used porn I can get.”

He looked at the envelope, then to me, then back to the envelope. He grinned. “Aw, yeah, man! They got some good shit in there. I’ll get you the good stuff!”

I winced. “It’s not like that, man.”

He nodded, as if we were sharing some covert message. “Oh, sure, yeah. I’ll get you all the porn you need, though. And if another apartment leaves behind some porn, I’ll score that for you too. I’ll let you know when I see some good stuff.”

“It’s not like that!” But it was too late. I had become the Porn Guy.

Have I mentioned lately how dedicated I am to my film?

When the maintenance man finally returned, it wasn’t with an envelope stuffed with porn. Instead, the envelope was just a small starter kernel inside a garbage bag of filth. He winked when he handed it to me. I guess, from his perspective, he just got me laid.

FINALE: I hurried the bag to the trunk of my car, already worried that my daughter might accidentally discover Daddy’s secret shame. But, once there, I made a very poor decision. “Well…. I might as well see what I’ve got in here, at least.” That’s when I opened the bag and looked inside.

I was greeted by two heinous things. First, this wasn’t just porn. This was the dirtiest, nastiest batch of pictures one could ever expect to stumble across. Nobody involved with any of this stuff had even heard of airbrushing, and the ladies involved were desperate to show me the inner workings of every puckered orifice they could strain to reach. Second, and worse: The Stench. I can’t properly describe the miasmal gas that blasted me in the face as I opened that bag, but I’d guess some unholy combination of bong smoke, cheetos, and spunk. I closed the bag as quickly as I had opened it, whipped out my phone, and made a quick call to our Props Wrangler.

“Heeeey, man. I’ve got a gift for you…”


Hustler's not THAT bad. I

Hustler's not THAT bad. I used to read it all the time when I was a kid. The cartoons are funny. :P

Carling Kirk

Carling Kirk | Sat, 05/03/2008 - 21:23

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