Al fell a lot. Trip, thump! He’d trip on pretty much anything. One time he tripped on a jumbo paper clip and fell down eighteen flights of stairs. Betty on 12 saw him roll by and said, “That’s gotta be Al.” We cracked up so much, I think everybody developed cheek damage.
Get this—Al was in a meeting with Jane and the Statler brothers. (If you don’t know the Statler brothers, count yourself lucky. They are so fat and stupid.) Al didn’t need to be there, which was vintage Al. He was supposed to be cleaning throw-up off the douche dispenser in the ladies’ room. Instead, he’s pitching ideas to the Statlers. Jane said he had flowcharts and everything. A shoving match ensued—Al wound up tripping on a misplaced Sharpie and fell out a window. Talk about thump!
I’d no intention of visiting Al in the hospital. I didn’t know him well, didn’t know where the hospital was, and he smells like a cat fart. (I dislike cat farts.) But then his lottery numbers hit, and just like that, BOOM, I developed a plan to get rich.
Al plays the same numbers—9, 10, 15, 18, 27, 38—In every drawing. They’re easy to remember if you see Al on a regular basis—they’re tattooed on his forehead. When he checks them in the bathroom mirror, they’re backwards, so he always carries a pocket mirror to reverse the reversal. I asked him once why he didn’t just write them down somewhere. He said, “Duh, what are you, an idiot?” Then he said, “A-doy.”
Anyway, his numbers hit, and I realized he’s not aware of it, so I decided to steal his ticket. But it’s not in its usual place—tacked to his message board. So I visit him in the hospital.
“How ya feelin’?” I said.
“Like crap. The doctor thinks—”
“Where’s your lottery ticket?” I smoothly interjected.
“Your lottery ticket’s not tacked to your message board.”
“Oh, it was with me when I fell out the window.”
“So where’s it now?”
“Don’t know. Must’ve lost it.”
“You what?” I said. “Musta what?” I picked up his bedpan and smashed it into a framed picture of a duck. Pee flew like nobody’s business. Then I split, searched outside the building, but found nothing. Thank Buddha I wound up meeting a rich guy who was so impressed with my hairdo, he immediately hired me as his chauffeur/accountant/tennis pro. Talk about sweet! Now I steal the guy blind to fund my parrot’s coke habit.
Eventually, a winner stepped forward in the lottery.
A woman from Jersey City named Mona Bluff. What a fraud! And I kid you not: she’s fatter than the Statler brothers combined! So I wrote her a letter and told her I knew the ticket wasn’t hers. “BECAUSE IT’S MINE,” I wrote, and I used eighteen exclamation points (to honor Al’s fall). She never wrote back. Talk about wasting a stamp!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Anyway, forget about hard work. Life’s about spatial relations. It’s about one thing leading to another and being in the right place at the right time. Or not. Maybe I’m wrong. Whatever. Pass the booze!