Dear Mr. Stein,
I’m calling to tell you about the Craigslist Creep and what she’s done to my sobriety.
Full disclosure, I spent my boyhood, teens, and most of my 20s as a gang member. I was the first and only white member of MS-13. I used to run crack cocaine and meth across Los Angeles on my Huffy in the early 90s. True story. The cops didn’t mess with a nice boy on a Huffy with carrying a Ninja Turtles duffel bag. But soon that kid wasn’t too nice. He needed more energy to ride that Huffy through the hills to get to the valley, and soon, he was looking for something a little stronger than Mountain Dew to fuel his rides. The next thing you know he was up for nine days tweaking on meth.
Next thing after that last thing I told you, I’m carrying a sawed-off smoke pole seven days a week and executing rival gang members by the hundreds. Just riding up to their houses on my Huffy dressed like a Latter Day Saint good Mormon boy, knocking on the doors. “Good señor, can interest you in a BLAM!” Buckshot to the face. You know the rest. If you didn’t, I’ll explain: What I’d do next was get back on my Huffy and ride into the distance.
But that’s not the point here, Mr. Stein. The point is I’ve got my shit together now. I now live in Hollywood with my Maltese named Rosie and my iguana, Ricki. We're all sober and keep a low profile, simply going on walks and taking baths a few times a day while I collect my MS-13 pension (tweaked my knee on a job in ’09). But times have been tough. Neither Rosie nor Ricki contribute to the rent so we decided to get a new roommate.
I went to Craigslist and made an ad. “Single homie with dog and iguana looking for a tight roommate.” I received one response from a woman who simply called herself Big Mac. I invited her over for crackers and cheese. She seemed pleasant and agreeable to Rosie and Ricki so we invited her to live on the couch.
The first night was a pleasure. She treated me and my girls to a wonderful supreme DiGiorno pizza. We drank wine, and it all seemed truly platonic (side note: I haven’t been sexually active since the late aughts when I was dressing like a Latter Day Saint good Mormon boy.) But the following week was hell for me. On Tuesday, while I was sleeping with Rosie and Rick I heard a creak, then felt the stale breath of a warlock on my neck. My bed began to sink. Someone had gotten in and was cuddling up with me. I was terrified. Rosie let out a yelp. Rick crawled up near my head. I laid in silence for four hours until the sun rose. Finally, I could see that there in my bed was a hairy, bearish man and on the floor was Big Mac lusting over us, eating the rest of a fresh pepperoni DiGiorno. I questioned what was happening, and Big Mac threw a slice at me. The thick cardboard-like pie pasted to my arm, scalding me. I was then informed I had 20 minutes to vacate the premises. Scared for my life, I put Rosie and Ricki on their leashes, and we fled.
We’ve been living in a small tent in Hollywood for the last week. Ricki, Rosie, nor I have bathed in the time. We stink like pigs. I’ve tried to go home twice, but the bear man prevents me from entering. I tried my landlord, and he told me “sucks bro, lease says no sublets.” I have purchased meth and am actively considering consuming it with Rosie and Ricki. I need your help pronto or else I will resort to my old ways. I do have an offer from MS-13 to re-enter the gang life.
Here are my suggestions:
Look, I’m not a fan of urban camping in Hollywood to be honest, Mr. Stein. Neither is my dog or iguana. So let’s get this settled up quickly. We need baths.
Don’t front,
Delroy Miller
I’m calling to tell you about the Craigslist Creep and what she’s done to my sobriety.
Full disclosure, I spent my boyhood, teens, and most of my 20s as a gang member. I was the first and only white member of MS-13. I used to run crack cocaine and meth across Los Angeles on my Huffy in the early 90s. True story. The cops didn’t mess with a nice boy on a Huffy with carrying a Ninja Turtles duffel bag. But soon that kid wasn’t too nice. He needed more energy to ride that Huffy through the hills to get to the valley, and soon, he was looking for something a little stronger than Mountain Dew to fuel his rides. The next thing you know he was up for nine days tweaking on meth.
Next thing after that last thing I told you, I’m carrying a sawed-off smoke pole seven days a week and executing rival gang members by the hundreds. Just riding up to their houses on my Huffy dressed like a Latter Day Saint good Mormon boy, knocking on the doors. “Good señor, can interest you in a BLAM!” Buckshot to the face. You know the rest. If you didn’t, I’ll explain: What I’d do next was get back on my Huffy and ride into the distance.
But that’s not the point here, Mr. Stein. The point is I’ve got my shit together now. I now live in Hollywood with my Maltese named Rosie and my iguana, Ricki. We're all sober and keep a low profile, simply going on walks and taking baths a few times a day while I collect my MS-13 pension (tweaked my knee on a job in ’09). But times have been tough. Neither Rosie nor Ricki contribute to the rent so we decided to get a new roommate.
I went to Craigslist and made an ad. “Single homie with dog and iguana looking for a tight roommate.” I received one response from a woman who simply called herself Big Mac. I invited her over for crackers and cheese. She seemed pleasant and agreeable to Rosie and Ricki so we invited her to live on the couch.
The first night was a pleasure. She treated me and my girls to a wonderful supreme DiGiorno pizza. We drank wine, and it all seemed truly platonic (side note: I haven’t been sexually active since the late aughts when I was dressing like a Latter Day Saint good Mormon boy.) But the following week was hell for me. On Tuesday, while I was sleeping with Rosie and Rick I heard a creak, then felt the stale breath of a warlock on my neck. My bed began to sink. Someone had gotten in and was cuddling up with me. I was terrified. Rosie let out a yelp. Rick crawled up near my head. I laid in silence for four hours until the sun rose. Finally, I could see that there in my bed was a hairy, bearish man and on the floor was Big Mac lusting over us, eating the rest of a fresh pepperoni DiGiorno. I questioned what was happening, and Big Mac threw a slice at me. The thick cardboard-like pie pasted to my arm, scalding me. I was then informed I had 20 minutes to vacate the premises. Scared for my life, I put Rosie and Ricki on their leashes, and we fled.
We’ve been living in a small tent in Hollywood for the last week. Ricki, Rosie, nor I have bathed in the time. We stink like pigs. I’ve tried to go home twice, but the bear man prevents me from entering. I tried my landlord, and he told me “sucks bro, lease says no sublets.” I have purchased meth and am actively considering consuming it with Rosie and Ricki. I need your help pronto or else I will resort to my old ways. I do have an offer from MS-13 to re-enter the gang life.
Here are my suggestions:
- Let’s sue DiGiorno off the bat. No hot pizza should stick to an arm like a bandaid and rip off flesh. That is unacceptable by most standards.
- Big Mac. AKA the Craigslist Creep. Theft of apartment must be a crime of the highest order. I’d go to the police for this, but I would likely be caught for murders from my earlier career. No-can-do on that. A civil suit will have to take care of it.
- MS-13 for the aforementioned knee injury. That’s a story for another time, but it involves a shootout with a group of Irish Catholic leppers in the LA Basin.
Look, I’m not a fan of urban camping in Hollywood to be honest, Mr. Stein. Neither is my dog or iguana. So let’s get this settled up quickly. We need baths.
Don’t front,
Delroy Miller