STRAIGHT FROM THE MUT

We’ve lived in our new apartment for about 6 months now, and are starting to get to know the neighbors.  It’s a pretty normal place, except for this one guy that lives upstairs from us.   He’s like the Kramer of the building.  He is always coming down to our place to see what’s going on. In his underwear.   “Hey there Tim, can I offer you a drink?  Or a robe?”  When he’s not half naked, he’s usually got something outrageous on. He actually showed up here once in a 1980’s tracksuit.  I don’t know him that well.  Maybe he’s really a pimp or something. I am pretty sure I have seen him in a leisure suit as well.  If I ever catch him in an ascott, it will confirm he is in fact... Mr. Furley.

Tonight was no different. We’re sitting on the couch watching Sportcenter Desperate Housewives, and there is a knock on the door.  I answer it, and Tim is standing there, wearing a full on neon green lycra cycling suit, complemented with a matching bike helmet.  Mind you its 8:30 at night, and raining.  It was as if Lance Armstrong had joined the Village People. Now it’s one thing if you are competing in the Tour de France, but there is no way a man should ever enter another man's home with spandex so tight you can actually make out his urethra. 

The men of apartment 2W

*Update: Randi has informed me that she has ordered me a pair of said biking shorts.  "Maybe they will make you look like you are packing."  MAYBE??