";biz-con in the dirty south, yo!";


Klutch.xls: Hello Robots.
I am Klutch.xls. I am excited to have a place amoung your ranks. Please treat me kindly as I am what the internet terms a "Newbie," which has always sounded dirty to me, and dirty excites me.


I hope to fill this page with fact, fiction, and a blurred vision of the two. For example;

Fact: "There I was, on stage in front of 300 audience members, beating myself with a wooden hanger . . ."

Fiction: "Yesterday was my birthday, and I ate cake!"

Blurred vision: "I long for the days of St. Petersberg! Bitter, my lone companion, strumming ever so lightly on his balalaika. Oh, Sweet youth, you have escaped me."

P.S. I use commas incorrectly and too frequently. Sue me.

The story begins.

I e-mailed Rich Robot after reading his call for "bloggers" in the "Robot Journal." Now, I always thought that blog was a shortened form of "Blow-G" (ghetto for "get on your knees, b*tch!) But after a quick lesson from your friend the Honkey Cracker I understood that it was this unique form of communication on the world wide web. Rich was kind enough to reply to my query and I have subsequently printed out the correspondence on acid-free paper and bound it in hopes of willing it to my offspring, who will no doubt auction it off at sotherbys whilst dancing on their dear father's grave.

As a newbie, I posed the following: " . . . if you have any particular needs . . . perhaps I can meet them."

Rich responded (and I quote): "I do have the need for tough guys to hassle the teens outside my apartment.
if you like hassling teens, you're hired!!"

Well, not only am I no tough guy, but I have an un-natural fear of teen-agers. Anyone else? I don't know when it happened, but I am guessing it was around the time when my little brother (by 8 years) got big enough to kick my A**. I used to love teen-agers. They reminded me of my own fleeting youth. They were dependent on me for alcohol. Then one day the walls came crashing down around me. Pass a teen-ager on the street and I break into a sweat, my eyes dart towards the sidewalk. I turn the volume on my walkman down so I can anticipate their attack from behind. Even when they are with their parents.

I passed this kid (15?) on my street in Boston for about a year, just looking at the ground. One day I accidentally made eye contact and now I have to give him cigaretts as "protection" money at least once a week. We never cut a deal but I am assuming this is the case. Frankly, I don't have the balls to find out otherwise.

Sorry Rich, I wish I could help you with the kids, but it is beyond my ability.

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