Eviction Notice

No one thinks it's funny or charming when someone gets kicked out of their home.

You try your best to find some place where you and your family can prosper, where you can flourish, where, at the very minimum, you can come home and hang up your hat after a tough day slogging away for The Man, flop down on the well-loved couch, and let your hostility and tension melt away into its cushions for a couple hours as your eyes float away in a sea of mindless television. Maybe you prefer those... singing contest shows. Or perhaps it's "America's Most Wanted" on a Saturday night for you. Maybe you spend a half-hour with Diane Sawyer (could be worse, eh?) after walking through the door at 6:30.

Whatever the program, whatever your program, these shows are all punctuated by advertising that seeks to mock eviction: the forcible, heartbreaking, violent expulsion of a family from their dwelling, tossing them into the cold, bleak unknown.

Don't know what I'm talking about? Maybe you recognize these newlyweds.

That's right. Mr. & Mrs. Mucus. They look happy enough, don't they? And they were, living inside of your chest cavity, very innocuous and comfortable-- even though there were no chair-rails or sconces or wall-to-wall Berber carpeting. But, for this quaint couple, it was home.

Home.

Sure, you coughed. You complained that you felt, oh-- what was it... tight? Whoa. You poor, poor baby. Not man enough to just suck it up and go to work and plod through the day feeling a tad under the weather, you decide to stay home and throw a little pity party for yourself. Of course, instead of pulling out the Stradivarius and playing yourself a maudlin little funeral dirge-- you know, because you're on your fucking death bed-- you go to the medicine chest and haul out the big guns. Mucinex-D.

And. You. Evicted. The. Mucus. Family.

No warning. No courtesy call from the sheriff's office. No warrant. No nothing. I mean-- what the fuck is that? Mrs. Mucus is vacuuming up your lungs-- trying to keep everything nice and tidy (it's not like you ever go clean in there) and you just break up their happy family and expectorate them out into... into what? A tissue? Jesus. They're a family. They're not cum, you know.

And now we come to Digger.

You know Digger, right? He lives in ya nailbeds, unda ya nails. And he's, apparently, from Brooklyn. Just like, um, Mr. & Mrs. Mucus. What the fuck's up with that?

Well, I don't know. All I know is that he's going to be lookin' to take the Chinatown Bus back to that shit because you, apparently, don't want him living in ya nailbeds, unda ya nails. No, I guess there's no room at the inn, right? Nope. Not leavin' the light on for ol' Digger, are ya? Well, that's hurtful. I mean, look at the guy. Do you think a community residential program or halfway house is going to be jumping up and down to accept him into their facility? Would you want to room with this guy-- even if you were a spazzed out, schizophrenic drug addict named Lester? Probably not. Where the hell else is Digger going to go, but, you know, unda ya nails?

Yes. Athlete's Foot is itchy. I get it. It's unpleasant. I had it. And I... used.... um... Lamisil.

Oh. Uh, oh, boy. This... this is awkward....

And while it is uncomfortable for me to admit that I, too, displaced Digger and/or some of his friends, relatives and classmates, it only underscores the point of this blog post: there is clearly an urgent need for caseworkers and social services to assist in the relocation and rehabilitation of displaced fungal and mucosal advertising icons. Because, let's face it-- you may think they're icky and gross and schnarsty or whatever you want to call them, but the fact remains that, unless these homeless (and that's what they are-- fucking homeless) disease emblems are found suitable housing, they are simply going to go out into society and find another host body inside of which to squat-- maybe permeating your body with fungus or phlegm, and then, you'll be phucked.