Depressed? Forlorn? Try Getting Hit On By A Crackhead For A Sure-Fire Laugh!

So the owners of my motel are crackheads, right? To the point where they come to my room every so often asking if I have any drugs for sale. To the point where I see them on the John Deere and sing "Crackhead On A Lawnmower" to the tune of The Smith’s "Girlfriend In A Coma". So yesterday one says to me, "Those kids staying at Jojo’s, they’re not supposed to be there. This ain’t no flophouse. Don’t let any of ‘em knock you up, ‘kay?"

I was speechless. He said it as though getting pregnant was like catching a cold from someone. I just stared at him with my mouth half-open.

"I’m serious," he slurred, dilated eyes staring at me from sunken sockets and track marks winding down his spindly arms. He was shirtless and his lungs - not ribs, but LUNGS - were visible through his opaque skin. "They’re no good. Now, if you’re looking for a good time, I hope you’d come to a real man like me instead of some punk-ass kid. And I won’t go around knockin’ ya up, neither."

I felt my eyes water from holding in the laughter. Hiding my smile, I stammered, "Well, you certainly are a gentleman, Wally. Thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me." I slammed the door and threw myself on my bed, belly-laughing so hard that Jojo and the gang heard me through the wall. Ahhhh, Dunkirk! What a classy place!