I've always thought that the only burglars who might ever be happy looting my apartment would be gay men who own vintage kitsch resale shops, and the same holds true for would-be pillagers of Wolfgang. So when whatever crackhead rummaged quickly through all of Wolfgang's little drawers and cabinets and cupboards and opened doors and swept stuff out of compartments must've left pretty disappointed, not to mention newly perplexed by a lifestyle entirely different than that fiend's own experience. For the contents revealed within must've seemed an infuriatingly wholesome booty indeed: plastic cups, plates, utensils, and bowls all in matching '70s avacado shades, Melmac and Pyrex from kitchens of the past. Vintage sleeping bags and linens. A can of vegetarian baked beans, perhaps. Cooking oil.
That must be why that methface stole Wolfgang's ashtray, just to stick it to me for having such cute taste in campware. That, and because coins were in that ashtray, perhaps a whole several dollars' worth.
Well guess what, hophead, you missed the mother lode of drugs, it was all stowed in the water tank for the sink! Simply turn on the faucet and out spills riches of powder, leaves and pills! Never mind, you don't have the Internet and you can't read anyway!
Woah. I get pissed when someone messes with Wolfgang. Oh, Wolfgang, I'll never let this happen again. Hopefully.
Labels: nyc tomfoolery