the long procession of concierges

I don't know whether this was the case before I arrived, but my dorm, Smoo International House II, has recently seen the rapid turnover of its concierges. For several months, there were two guys there-- one who was very friendly, another who was something of a grinning asshole-- but they both left. Since their departure, we've seen several pairs of concierges come and go at a rate slightly faster than one switchover per month. The whole thing is a bit odd.

I sometimes wonder whether the concierges are leaving because I live right over them and can be heard shitting. My room, 201, is directly atop the concierge's bathroom, which places my defecating self diagonally above where the concierge sits, watching TV.

When the building is silent, you can easily hear the pissing and shitting going on above you. Given how lustily my ass vocalizes when it's trying to impregnate the toilet with its steaming brown seed, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that the adjoshis beneath me have been spending their evenings cowering in a fetal position, flinching like abused children in anticipation of the next outburst of sonic and olfactory cruelty.

Tonight, a new concierge adjoshi admonished me to leave my dirty dishes outside my own door instead of leaving them outside the main door. (In Korea, Chinese delivery often comes in reusable containers-- plates, bowls, etc.-- so you leave them outside for the delivery folks to pick up later in the evening.) I've been leaving my dishes outside the main door for months, initially at the request of one of the delivery people, who didn't want to be troubled with asking the concierge to let him inside. From now on, though, I'm to leave the dishes outside my own door, Door 201, the door of Rectal Rhapsody. This sudden, senseless change bugs me.

But very well. If the new pecker-- uh, adjoshi-- wills it, then So Be It: the delivery folks will have to tromp all the way up to my door to collect their reusables.

Which will bring them within earshot of my good friend, Harry Enos.

Perhaps I'll be scaring away more than just the current complement of concierges with my Chocolate Thunder from Down Under. Meanwhile, since this new adjoshi has decided to be a prick, I won't be holding anything back-- intestinally speaking-- on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. Maybe I should start singing opera, too. I know the concierge can hear me downstairs, because I can hear him when he's on the phone: his voice travels upward through the drainpipes. Ah, the advantages of two-way communication.


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