Godfather poster: Whatever, fag. Why don't you go jerk off for the third time today.
The Gooch: Listen, dipshit. The only reason you're up there is because you used to hang in my grandfather's bar, you're in a frame, and I have a lot of wall space to cover. I guess the inclusion of the "Make him an offer he cannot refuse" quote is pretty funny in an aren't-I-ironic-and-witty-and-free-spirited-and-why-don't-I-go-fuck-myself kind of way. But ultimately you're just a juvenile home furnishing that goes out of its way to make me look like someone completely devoid of original thought or unique personality (although the Godfather is one of the greatest movies of all time (and obviously the second one is vastly superior)) and you could just as easily be hanging in some over-heated, cinder-block-walled dorm room thick with the stench of ass-sweat emanating from fake leather computer chairs, with only this guy to talk to:
The Gooch: Just shut the fuck up man.
Godfather: Pussy.
The Gooch: Ok.
[a brief, awkward pause]
The Gooch: So what's goin' on, man.
Door: What's up.
The Gooch: Nothin' really.
Door: Cool.
The Gooch: You see that shit about Brittany Murphy?
Door: Yeah, we talked about it on gchat already.
The Gooch: Shit, that's right. I waste so much time at work it's all starting to blend together.
Door: Seriously. All I do anymore is just sit around, bored as hell..
The Gooch: It's gotten to the point where bullshitting is like, more fucking tedious than work. I can only read for so many hours straight, you know? Even if I do have the energy for it, I go through all my favorite sites by like noon. Then it's a struggle to find interesting content the rest of the day.
Door: What about Reader? You're all about that shit.
The Gooch: Yeah, I mean, there's an endless amount of stuff there, but even with that -- shit, especially with that, fucking around becomes a chore. I have so many feeds, and most of them are super active, so unless I'm psychotically going back and making sure each feed has been read as the items are posted, which is impossible, I can't keep track of which ones I've looked at. It's like, "hmmm, did Deadspin have 56 unread items the last time I checked or 58?"
Door: I guess.
The Gooch: Then you have the "social" part of it, or whatever. You want to read your friends' shared items and everyone's comments on the shares.
Door: Still sounds better than working.
The Gooch: It is, but I'm telling you, it's stressful in its own way. Here's me on Reader: "Hmm, let's see see if anybody gave my hilaaaaarious comment a plus. Wait, was the share with the picture of a crocheted octopus tentacle-raping a Matt Yglesias post on Tiger Woods' favorite computer programming languages this far down on comment view? Maybe I missed it. Who shared it again? Oh shit, comment view just turned bold. Maybe somebody responded. Nope, just a new share about some political bullshit. Hmm, has the sex mailbag been posted on Kissing Suzy Kolber yet? Wait, what was I about to do? Check the Slate feed?"
Door: You're out of your fucking mind.
The Gooch: It's the internet. It's driving me crazy.
Door: Seriously.
The Gooch: Yeah, definitely
[A brief, awkward pause]
The Gooch: So, um, door.
Door: What's up?
The Gooch: I want to talk to you about something.
Door: Are you breaking up with me? Is it the sex? It's the sex isn't it. Fine, we can try anal. Is it that important to you? I'll do anything. What if I tickled your--
The Gooch: Shut the fuck up, man.
Door: It's the spooning, isn't it. Look, I just can't sleep like that. I get all hot and--
The Gooch: You're an asshole.
Door: (laughs) What the fuck is it man? Spit it out.
The Gooch: I wanna talk about the other day.
Door: What about it?
The Gooch: It's just. I'm not trying to start a fight or anything, but I think what went down was pretty fucked up.
Door: What was fucked up?
The Gooch: Dude. Come on.
Door: Seriously. What the fuck are you talking about?
The Gooch: You fucking locked me in the apartment, man! Jesus.
Door: How do you figure?
The Gooch: You're trying to tell me that wasn't your fault?
Door: Fuck yeah, I am.
The Gooch: How do you figure?
Door: Well, let's see. First of all, you're the one who changed my settings.
The Gooch: Yeah. I wanted to see if you could do that thing where you lock automatically when I close you.
Door: Right.
The Gooch: So I hit that fucking toggle switch on the bottom of the lock mechanism. That guy, right there.
The Gooch: Then when I closed the door, that fucking deadbolt at the top activated, which is great and all, only it could only be opened from fucking outside the apartment.
Door: Right.
The Gooch: Right? What the fuck is your problem man?
Door: What?
The Gooch: You don't feel bad at all for locking me inside my own apartment?
Door: Let me ask you a question.
The Gooch: Sure.
Door: I just want to get something straight right off the bat, because I don't want us to have a big fucking fight over a little misunderstanding.You know what I mean?
The Gooch: Yeah, I get it.
Door: So you just wanted to see if I "did that thing where I lock automatically when you close me," right?
The Gooch: Yeah.
Door: By that you mean you wanted to see if I could lock automatically when you left the apartment, right?
The Gooch: Yeah.
Door: So you wouldn't have to lock me with a key, you could just shut me and go, right?
The Gooch: Yeah.
Door: SO WHY THE FUCK DID YOU TEST THAT OUT BY SHUTTING YOURSELF INSIDE THE MOTHERFUCKING APARTMENT‽
The Gooch: That's not the point.
Door: THAT'S NOT THE POINT‽
The Gooch: No, it's fucking not. What do my intentions have to do with anything? I could have just as easily wanted to know if you would lock behind me on my way into the apartment.
Door: But that's not what you wanted to know. I heard you, man. You think I don't see and hear everything that goes on in this apartment? Your girl was in town, and you wanted to see if she could leave the apartment after you without a key. And why? Because your cheap, lazy ass didn't get her a spare set of keys yet.
The Gooch: That's not the point.
Door: Sure it is.
The Gooch: Fine, you're right that I wasn't gonna find out what I wanted to know at that precise moment without closing the door from the outside, but why the fuck would a lock EVER have a feature where you could LOCK YOURSELF INSIDE YOUR OWN MOTHERFUCKING APARTMENT? Why would that exist? What the fuck did you used to be used for?
Door:: I can't help how the fuck I was designed. I just did what my maker designed me to do.
The Gooch: Yeah, you just made sure some alcoholic's wife couldn't go to the library and do some book larnin' and get all smart on her husband during the day while he was out trying to make a fucking living for the both of them and she thinks she knows what's best for him well goddammit he's a man and this is America and nobody's gonna tell him what the fuck to do, least of all some rotten, prissy bitch.
Door: Man, fuck you. You didn't ask me what would happen. You just went ahead and pushed that toggle switch. You didn't even hesitate.
The Gooch: Yeah, because in every other place I've ever lived, when you push a button somewhere around there, it toggles back and forth the door's ability to lock automatically.
Door: Well I'm not one of those doors.
The Gooch: Thanks for telling me. Appreciate it.
Door: You didn't ask.
The Gooch: "You didn't ask." Why don't you tell me to stop hitting myself? You prick. "You didn't ask." Go fuck yourself.
Door: Look, it was a dick move, what do you want me to say?
The Gooch: That. Just admit it. You should've told me that button toggled the fucking slave lock.
Door: Alright, shit. I'm sorry that I have a function that allows you to lock yourself inside your own apartment. What am I supposed to do about it?
The Gooch: You just should've told me. I mean, shit, to be honest with you, I think it's creepy and weird that you have this feature, and it makes me uneasy to know that I'm being kept safe by a lock with a questionable history like yours, but I can come to grips with it. I can make the psychological adjustment and deal. Just admit that it was fucked up that you didn't tell me.
Door: Alright, man, fuck. I'm sorry.
The Gooch: That shit was mad embarrassing, son.
Door: You've got to admit it was funny, though.
The Gooch: Not really.
Door: Dude, quit acting all fucking traumatized. Nothing bad happened, really. This is you: "Waaaaa, I'm locked in my big new apartment with nothing to entertain me but weed, booze, food, tv, the internet, a couple of guitars, books, music, and my girlfriend. Waaaaa, my life's so horrible. Waaaaa, I'm a whiny little bitch."
The Gooch: Yeah, I guess nothing bad happened. Nothing bad other than, you know, the fact that I now have a reason to be paranoid at all times. This was me before last week: "Ahh, here I am with a freshly-packed bowl, a frosty Bud Light, Utz brand pretzels, and a giant bottle of Gulden's. Gallinari's draining threes over Lebron at the Garden, OB4CL2 is blasting on the stereo, I just got a "like" on a BFD post via Reader, and my girlfriend's about to come to town. Life is fucking good."
And this is me now, "Mmmm, here I am all warm and snuggly, curled up on the couch on a cool winter's eve. Nothing bad could could possibly happen to me now. Actually, yes, something bad could possibly happen to me now. I could randomly not be able to leave my apartment because I somehow hit a button that makes it impossible to open the fucking door from the inside. WHY WOULD THERE EVER BE A FEATURE LIKE THAT? WHAT THE FUCK?"
Door: Dude, you're not going to accidentally hit that button. That's fucking ridiculous. Plus, like I said, nothing happened in the end. Your sister came with her boyfriend and let you out. Then you, your girlfriend, your sister, and her boyfriend all went out to dinner. Then you came back here, to the scene of this fucking traumatizing crime, and watched Funny People. You had yourselves a nice, tame, middle-aged evening. End of story. Happily ever after.
The Gooch: Oh yeah, thanks for reminding me of another indignity I suffered. Having to call my sister like "Hey sis, I just wanted to let you know that I'm barely a functioning member of society and I've somehow managed to lock myself inside my own fucking apartment. Could you come free me from this prison I've built upon a foundation of my unfathomable stupidity, constructed entirely out of bricks of shame that are being held together with mortar made from my ground-up, liquefied sense of self-worth?"
Door: Yeah, well, maybe it's for the best that you had to call somebody. Now you might finally get some of the professional help you obviously need.
The Gooch: Dick.
Door: Whose a bigger dick? Me, or the guy who doesn't know one single person in his apartment building who could help him out.
The Gooch: I just moved here, and everyone's afraid of me because I'm under 40 and don't wear a shtreimel.
(This is a shtreimel.)
Door: Racist.
The Gooch: I'm serious. They're wary of me. I can see it all over their faces.
Door: Why didn't you just call the super?
The Gooch: I don't have his number.
Door: How the fuck do you not have your super's number?
The Gooch: He lives in the building. I figured if I ever needed him I could just knock on his door.
Door: Figured wrong.
The Gooch: Yeah, well, again, I never imagined such a heinous mechanism could ever exist or that you could be such a smug, inconsiderate prick.
Door: I'm inconsiderate, yeah. The one who didn't make his sister get on a subway to come rescue him from his own stupidity. Remind me again why that was the only option you had?
The Gooch: What else was I supposed to do?
Door: Use the fire escape.
The Gooch: I tried that, but ultimately decided against it.
Door: Yeah, cause you're a drug addict.
The Gooch: What?
Door: If you weren't high you would've trusted your judgment and just went down the fuckin' fire escape without being a huge bitch about it.
The Gooch: That was just one factor.
Door: Oh yeah? What were the others.
The Gooch: When I got to the bottom of the fire escape, I realized that I'd have to lower that attached ladder thing to make it down that last 10 to 15 feet.
Door: So why didn't you?
The Gooch: Well, for a lot of reasons. First of all, there was a bike directly beneath the ladder. I'm talking right underneath the fucking thing.
Door: And?
The Gooch: And I didn't know how heavy the fucking ladder was. I wasn't sure if I'd unlatch it then watch it go crashing to the ground, destroying that bike. I don't have the money to buy someone a new fucking bike right now.
Door: If you weren't high you would've been able to judge that.
The Gooch: PLUS it was raining outside. My high, dumb ass probably would've slipped on a rung and went crashing to my death.
Door: Right, your high, dumb ass. Like I said.
The Gooch: ALSO, it probably would've been loud as shit. If I didn't already freak out all the orthodox families in the building by creeping around the fire escape, I definitely would've alerted them to my presence by lowering the ladder. Then they call the cops cause they think there's a fucking prowler outside, the cops come to check out what's going on, my apartment reeks of weed, and even though I wasn't doing anything illegal by trying to get down using the fire escape, I've got a ticket or am in jail for having fucking weed in my possession.
Door: Again, like I said, you're a drug addict.
The Gooch: Fuck you, man. There's nothing wrong with smoking weed. The only reason it's illegal is because of racist fucking politicians from the 1920s who scared white America into thinking negro jazz musicians were going to rape all their daughters with the help of the Devil's plant.
Door: Save it for your Norml message board.
The Gooch: You're the one who brought up weed. I'm not allowed to defend myself?
Door: Alright, fine. Fair enough. So let's just say, for argument's sake, that the laws against weed are unjust and that you use it sparingly and responsibly like an adult. If that's the case, how come you told your sister you weren't high when she asked you?
The Gooch: I don't know.
Door: Sure you do.
The Gooch: It was embarrassing. What do you want me to say? She asked if I was high because it sounded like I was freaking out unnecessarily. I didn't want her to think that because I was high, I was therefore stupid enough to lock myself in my own apartment.
Door: But isn't that what happened?
The Gooch: No. What happened is that you never told me you had a slave lock.
Door: Or, you got high, made a terrible decision, compounded that terrible decision with a refusal to listen to the reasonable means of solving the problem you were presented with -- because, I must emphasize, you were high and therefore paranoid and freaking out -- then you lied when your sister, sensing that something was up, asked if you were high. Fast forward an hour or two, she came and saved your dumb ass from yourself, and here we are now.
The Gooch: Yeah, I dismissed her suggestions from freeing me from a prison THAT YOU CREATED WITH YOUR REFUSAL TO COMMUNICATE WITH ME a little too eagerly at first, but after we talked it over we both decided that what was best was for her to come to my apartment so I could slip her the key under the door--
Door: What'd you do that with?
The Gooch: A butter knife.
Door: (laughs) Oh man, a fucking butter knife. I love it. I really wish I could've been on the other end of that door watching my dumb ass brother shove a key through the crack with a butter knife. You have to admit, that's fucking classic.
The Gooch: (mumbles)
Door: What?
The Gooch: Alright, it's sort of funny. You're still a fucking asshole.
Door: Look, I'm sorry man. Seriously.
The Gooch: Then stop laughing, you fucking jackass.
Door: Alright, alright. I'm sorry. Look, no laughing. I'm sorry man. Do you forgive me?
The Gooch: Yeah, I forgive you, asshole. Just don't pull any bullshit like that again.
Door: Ok, ok.
The Gooch: You promise?
Door: Yeah, I fucking promise.
The Gooch: Alright.
[a brief, awkward pause]
The Gooch: You wanna smoke a bowl?
Door: I can't. I'm a door.
Door: No biggie. I'll just watch. I always do.
The Gooch: Alright, talk to you later man.
Door: Peace, son.
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