DO I LOOK LIKE SOMEONE WHO OWNS A GARBAGE DISPOSAL?

It's 11:09 a.m. I wake up to my cell phone rumbling on my desk. Damn it. Who would be calling me at this ungodly hour? 

I stumble out of bed. It's a number I don't know. We're on the third ring already. 970 area code means Colorado. Fourth ring. I've got two left. Maybe it's someone calling to offer me a job. I should probably pick up. Awesome possibilities go through my mind:

--"Captain Cheddarstorm, it's Christopher Crisci from the Appleseed Cast. Our bass player broke his leg and we need a replacement for our tour. Can you fill in?"

--"Captain Cheddarstorm, it's Tom Coughlin. I'm the New York Giants coach and I'm screaming uncontrollably. Kevin Boss's ankle is acting up. We need a new tight end. Can you be at practice tomorrow morning?"

--"Captain Cheddarstorm, it's Frank Messer, editor for The Onion. I've been tracking your posts on your Fantasy Football League message board. They're hilarious. We want to give you a job. Do you want to move to San Francisco"

--"Captain Cheddarstorm, it's Barack Obama. You're the best! We're giving you the 'Awesome Citizen of the Year Award.' Come to Washington D.C. so we can give you a million dollars in cash and complimentary all-you-can eat Pizza Hut Lunch Buffet."

Last ring. With possibilities like this, how could I not pick up? This is going to be the best Tuesday ever. I go for it. 

"Hello?" I put on my best phone voice, as if to say, "Yeah, I've been awake since 9 a.m., what the fuck are you looking at?"

"Hi, Captain? This is Christie from Hillcrest!"

Hillcrest? What the fuck is that? Christie? My substitute teacher coordinator (I am a substitute teacher now) is named Christie. Maybe Hillcrest is the name of an elementary school. 

"Oh, hey Christie!" I make my voice sound really cheerful and excited, the way I do when I call my Grandmas on Sunday nights. 

"Captain, we've been showing some people the apartments on the ground floor. They're currently unoccupied. But there's just a few problems down there, and we wanted to tell you that the pipes are getting all clogged down there. They can't handle all the garbage that's been going into the disposals. The pipes are connected directly to your apartment, so you need to just be careful with what you put down the drain."

My head slumps to the desk. This is what I woke up for?  A call from my landlord telling me to go easy on the garbage disposal?

"Oh, sorry, Christie. I'll try to throw more stuff in the trash."

Then she delivers the clincher. 

"Not a problem, Captain. It's just that our disposals aren't very good. They're pretty cheap. Probably not as good as the nice ones you have back at home."

Back at home? Where does she think I'm from, Denver? 

Motherfucker, I was raised on the streets of N.P., (rollin' rhymes, drinkin' forties, chasin' puss', smokin' weed). I don't have a fucking garbage disposal at home. I put my garbage in a can and carry it up the driveway so the guys in the truck can come pick it up. Does an orthodox Jewish couple know how to have sex without putting a white sheet between each other? No. And I don't know how to use a garbage disposal. Give me a break. 

"I'll work on it, Christie. Thanks."

"Well, that's great, Captain. Other than that, you're doing a great job. Thanks for your time!"

Not quite a call from Obama, but it's great to hear from my landlord that I'm "doing a great job" at living in an apartment.

Today is going to be a great day.

CAPTAIN CHEDDARSTORM