They say all good things must come to an end. Well so, too, must the terribly mediocre things.
It seems like I’ve been posting meaningles crap here for the better part of a decade. In reality, it’s been just nine months. (Seriously, you women are amazing creatures. Pregnancy must feel like a fucking eternity.) Still, they were nine very productive months that produced a handful of awesome really good good decent posts and six obligatory chuckles.
Still, after roughly 270 days, the Apartment 718 doors will be closing.
I’ve decided to focus my writing efforts elsewhere. The first place you can find my work, as always, is at Bright Orange Seats. I talk sports and crack jokes and use a bunch of words that your parents probably don’t want you to hear. It’s good times for all.
I’m also working on another project. One that will get the majority of my attention. And while I won’t get into what it is, exactly, I’ll just say that it’s something my mom would be proud of.
To the 3 people who read this on a regular basis, I thank you for the support. To anyone just finding this for the first time, feel free to browse the archive and send me an email. As a token of my appreciation, I leave to you a list of my favorite posts. Enjoy.
- Black Friday and the $37 Beverage
- Woman’s Intuition is a Load of Horseshit
- Smoot Learns He’s a Failure at Spelling Bees… and Life
- A Brief Moment of Seriousness on a Merry Holiday
- Smoot Enjoys the X-Mas Spirit So Much, He Offers to Help Out
- My Love/Hate Relationship with the Dolphins
- The One Where I Tell Reebok How Much I Love Them
- Clearly, I’m a Huge Dork Who Loves Zelda Way Too Much
- My Engagement Party Will Not Be Gay
- Holy shit! There’s a Black Guy in Office!
- This is How Much I Care About Steroids…
- Oh, Hi. My Name is Dennis Bunnicelli
- Smoot Takes You Back to His Childhood
- Dennis Rodman Depresses Me
- The Real Apartment 718 is No More
- My Final Meal Will Be Awesome
- The 4AM Project or How I Almost Shit Myself
- What the Hell is Wrong with the World? Oh, Right. MySpace.
- Strippers! Strippers! Strippers!
- Disney World is Only for Happy People
And with that, I bid you adieu.
Not 1,100 sq. ft. Not an in-unit washer/dryer. Not the proximity to the nearest Publix.
Nope. So far, the thing that has placed one apartment complex ahead of all the rest, in my hunt for a place to live this summer, is a cookie.
Not even joking about this.
All decent apartments are pretty much the same. They’re all around the same price, offer the same ammenities and have the same creepy neighbors. Usually, after a few weeks of apartment hunting, you wind up deciding by throwing a dart at a list of all the apartments that didn’t have rats.
I was getting to that point on Saturday. I had seen 3 different apartments that were all pretty nice, but none of them really stood out any more than the others. After a full day’s search I was ready to bust out the dart board. Then I remembered that one leasing office set themselves apart from the others and really left an impression…on my stomach. And really, that’s the part of my body that makes most of my decisions anyway, so it was a smart move on their part.
Otis Spunkmeyer Buttercrunch Toffee cookies. Baked fresh, daily.
Smart move, leasing lady. Smart. Move.
For the last two years, I’ve called this shithole of an apartment complex my home. Since it was the first place I’ve ever lived without my parents, I put up with a lot of ridiculous things that I would’ve otherwise flipped my shit about. But now, after turning over 21 rent checks, I’ve decided to let it all out and finally vent. What follows is a list of things I won’t miss about this place…
The laundry room. If one more person opens that dryer before my clothes are done, I’ll shove a fucking tire iron down their throat. The rules of the laundry room are simple: you put your stuff in, you take it out when it’s done. There’s never a need for someone else to touch my shit. Ever.
My shower drain, which clogs for inexplicable reasons. I have no hair. What exactly is clogging the drain, even after I pour an entire bottle of cleaning shit down there?
My sink, which does the same. See above.
The dishwasher. If it’s not too much trouble, do you think maybe you could actually clean the dishes? I mean, it’s not that I don’t absolutely love two-day old peanut butter, but if I’m already cleaning most of it off to begin with, is it too much to ask that you do the rest?
The cats in the parking lot. I hate you. I wish nothing but road kill and Chinese food for your future. You do nothing but clutter the parking lot and walk on top of my new car. If I catch you on top of my car again, you’ll be sweet and sour chicken by morning.
The fucktard on the 8th floor who keeps feeding the cats. Stop. If you continue to feed them, I will cut your penis off and hang you with it. You need a hobby. Or a girlfriend. Or both. Whatever it takes to keep you from befriending 15 stray cats like you’re the creepy old lady in the corner house. Jesus, I hate you.
The fire alarm. You don’t go off enough. No, really. If I don’t see the fire department outside of my building at least twice a month, then I know something is wrong. Hey management, don’t be afraid to fix that, eh? And speaking of management…
Management. Three months to fix an elevator? I think I might be able to build one from fucking scratch in that time.
My neighbors above. Thanks for letting your water heater go to shit and leak into my apartment. That was fun.
My neighbors to the right. The next time your dog shits on my balcony, I’m rubbing it in his eyes and throwing him off the ledge.
My neighbors across the hall. You don’t speak english and I don’t speak spanish, so cursing you out would be a collosal waste of time. Just know that you’re nothing like the people who lived there before you, which sucks, because those guys were quiet. And also because they offered my roommate a job selling weed, so at least I knew they worked.
I wont miss this place. I won’t miss the people, the management, the constant problems or the giant fucking pitbulls.
I will miss the short distance to Aventura Mall and the Target across the street, though, so there’s that.
Filed under: Apartment 718
Sometimes I sit around and wonder how random people stumble upon my blog. Are they finding me through Facebook? Stalking me on Pipl? Perhaps looking for an in-depth look at bird poop? Well the fine folks at WordPress have given me this fancy-shmancy stats page that tells me all of that stuff. I know if when you viewed my page, what porn you were looking at just before you came here and which hand you were rubbing one out with. It’s that sofisticated.
The best part about that nifty tool, though, is getting to see what keywords were used to find my blog, because sometimes that shit is downright hilarious. Observe.
Filed under: Angry Smoot Will Stab You In The Eye, Apartment 718, Open Letters
Dear Guy in the Short-Sleeved T-Shirt,
It’ was roughly 40° in Miami this morning when I left for work. I saw you snicker at my sweater as we passed; frankly, you were pretty obvious. Well, fuck you. I’m cold.
I’m sure you’re a pretty big badass, what, with your flimsy t-shirt offering almost zero protection from the elements. I’m also sure you’re a pretty big douchebag who needs to make it known to everyone he sees in a jacket, that people in Miami don’t know what cold is.
Oh, I wonder how many people have stopped you on the streets to marvel at your incredible powers of self-insulation. One? Two? My guess would be none, because nobody wants to hear your mindless dribble about being born in New York and how much colder it is, up there, in the winter. Dude, you lived there till you were 3 and your mom dressed you like a fucking eskimo every time the wind blew. Now, go put on a fucking coat.
Fact is, we live in Miami and it’s below 60°. Because of that, I’m wearing a sweater and I’m comfortable. Really, really comfortable, mind you. Now, go away and try to hide the fact that your teeth are chattering and your body is shaking worse than a San Francisco aftershock. Michael J. Fox is more subtle than you.
Enjoy pneumonia, fuckface.
Up until a month ago, I had no idea what it was. Then I came across the most fascinating page in the history of the internet.
Shaq has convinced me that this Twitter thing could be fun. Besides, with Facebook, Myspace, Friendster, Flickster, Twister, Sister, Twisted Sister and every other social networking site designed to make stalking people you barely know, as easy as possible, how much of my life is actually private anymore? Announcing your every bowel movement is the new privacy. (As evidenced by most people’s Facebook status.)
So hey, if ya got nothing else to do during your day, and you’d like to be updated every single time I have a random thought, bookmark the ADAM SMOOT TWITTER PAGE.
I’ll do my best to keep you entertained while you toil away at the office.
Filed under: Angry Smoot Will Stab You In The Eye, Apartment 718, Open Letters, Reebok, Target
This letter was originally going to be sent to Reebok via email. It appears, however, that their complaint center only accepts messages of 500 characters. That, my friends, was not going to be enough to voice my displeasure. Here, is my full letter. (Reebok, if you’re reading this, my second complaint is that your 500 character limit is a fucking joke.)
I recently purchased your 3-pc. Curl Bar Set from Target. After opening the product, I realized it needed some assembly. No problem, seeing as how I’m a perfectly capable 27-year old man in relatively good health. It was 2 halves of the bar, with a hole in the middle and a small metal peg to connect the two sides. Nothing all that complicated.
Until you actually try and connect said pieces. You see, the peg doesn’t fit in the hole. Why one would include a peg that doesn’t actually fit the product is beyond me, but I pressed on. I looked it up on the internet and found a bunch of other people with the same problem. They recommended using vice grips, hammers, pancakes and hot sausages from the local McDonald’s. I opted to go the hammer route. Unfortunately, in the process of trying to jam that magnificently stubborn peg into the hole, the peg got jammed at a bad angle.
At that point, I threw the hammer on the couch and went to McDonald’s for the pancakes and sausages. When I got back and finished breakfast, I tried, unsuccessfully, for 15 minutes to get the peg out of the bar. When I finally did, the peg was warped.
I am no quitter, though. Armed now with 2 bar halves, a warped metal peg and the power of McDonald’s breakfast, I went back to work. After another 35 minutes of hammering, sweating, grunting and scaring my neighbors, I had a full curl bar, with a correctly placed peg.
Of course, because of all the hammering and prying and advanced construction work I had to perform to complete the task of putting this simple bar together, it wobbled and felt like it was going to fall apart anytime I lifted it.
Needless to say, it is now in the garbage.
I never write companies for faulty or shoddy equipment. It’s usually my belief that a company puts its products through a multitude of tests and experiments before they actually hit the market. This curl bar, I imagine, is the exception. Originally, when I purchased this product, it was with the idea that I would be using it get a workout. I didn’t, however, expect the majority of that workout to come in the hour and a half it took me to put it together.
My wallet is now $20 lighter, my arms are now 20% stronger and I, myself, am exhausted. I suppose I should have known what to expect from a piece of equipment that cost less than a DVD, but for some reason, I assumed a product brandished with the name Reebok would be of a respectable quality. My mistake.
While I don’t expect any sort of compensation or any form of apology, I just thought I’d write to let you know how one of your consumers feels.
And also to thank you for the awesome workout I accidentally received from your product’s assembly.