“F” is for FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!

Ok I’m done. So here’s the update:

I called the landlord, Harold, on Tuesday and introduced myself.

“Hi I’m Eric Schneider, I live at your property in Scottsdale. Do you know who I am?”

“No.”

“Have you ever heard my name before?”

“No.”

“Well then we have a little problem.”

I told him the whole story about how the crazy ass bitch rented out both rooms of his condo, using a fake name, pretending to be the owner, and now she’s living on the couch, has no job, and she’s selling his furniture for extra cash.

Well good ole’ Harold almost had a heart attack. He really liked the part about the furniture.

“WHAT?!?! THAT’S MY FURNITURE!!! YOU CAN’T SELL IT!!! WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON OVER THERE?!?!”

“I’m sorry, Harold… it’s gone. Sold, paid for, picked up, and gone.”

I thought he was going to cry. Harold confirmed that Jools was supposed to be renting the place while his sister was away, but he hadn’t received a single penny of rent in over two months. The funny thing is Jools has been charging me $550 and Rob $450 per month, and guess what? Her rent to Harold is $800. She’s been pocketing all the money and using it to buy $50 meals every night and cocaine! I was actually relieved to find this out because there’s no way this story would be complete without a fucking drug addict. Did I forget to tell you she hasn’t paid the utilities either?

During my conversation with Harold, I told him, “Harold, I can only imagine what might be going through your head right now. However, I want you to know I am willing to do whatever I can to help you out. If you need me to make a statement to the police, or whatever, just let me know. In fact, if you want to have someone take over the lease on your condo; someone responsible, with a job, and references, I wouldn’t mind staying. Whatever you need.”

And what do I get for my efforts? What do I get for doing this fuck the favor of informing him of the scandalous shit going down here? What do I get for saving him from further financial loss and having to spend time and money finding a new tenant? A giant, straight on, full force kick to the fucking ball sack. Well, that and he also threatened to call the cops and change the locks, and informed me I’d be receiving an  eviction order. That’s odd, my birthday isn’t for another 11 days, but one should never underestimate the generosity of your fellow man.

So I have to move out of here as soon as possible; preferably before that nut job, Jools gets back from Lake Havasu.

Before I moved in here, my father warned me to make sure these roommates were alright, and I told him “Yeah yeah… I know. They’re fine.” Needless to say, I didn’t take his advice. What fun would that have been?

Excuse me, can you pass me the cyanide?

Flashback to a few months ago (maybe October): I’m at work. I’m still a Transaction Coordinator, not a Sales Agent. I’m in a meeting. The boss says, “February 26th – March 3rd is the RE/MAX International Conference in Vegas. Everyone is required to attend. I will be paying for the The Transaction Coordinators, and of course, the Agents are responsible for their own travel expenses.”

Fast forward to December: The boss offers me the opportunity to become an Agent. As soon as I accept the offer the boss says, “Great! Now you can pay for your own trip to Vegas.” This is an extremely shitty little trick if you ask me. We’re going to Vegas to receive awards for our accomplishments in 2005, during which I was a Transaction Coordinator. Nevertheless, I suck it up, and I book my own travel plans.

Fast forward all the way to the first part of February: Everyone is bitching and moaning because we have to stay in Vegas for a whole friggin week. It’s going to cost $200 to go to two awards dinners, plus hotel, food, and flight. That’s not including additional fees for the mandatory seminars we have sit through. Essentially, we’re paying about $1200 per person in order to give ourselves a $30 award plaque. It’s really just a way for RE/MAX to make more money on their employees while having an excuse to go on a tax deductible drinking and gambling binge. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no stick in the mud, but going to Vegas to sit in seminars and talk to your co-workers about work is like going to the strip club with a blindfold on. What’s the point?

Fast forward again, and stop when you get to February 12th: I’m in another meeting. The boss says, “I don’t know what everyone else’s plans are, but I’m only staying in Vegas until Wednesday. I’m attending the awards dinners on Sunday and Tuesday, and flying back on Wednesday morning.”

All of the Agents look at each other like, “Ain’t this a bitch!?!” At the end of the meeting everyone scrambles to change their flights to Wednesday as well. Being the thorough little worker bee that I am, I decided to first double check the dates for the Awards Dinners. Just as I suspected! The second dinner isn’t on Tuesday it’s on Wednesday. What to do, what to do? Do I play dumb and hope the oversight isn’t discovered until it’s too late to make changes, or do I tell the boss she made a mistake and force everyone to stay an extra day. I play dumb.

Fast forward to February 16th. Incoming email:
FROM: The Boss
TO: The Team
SUBJECT: Big Mistake!
Awards banquet is on Wednesday. We need to reschedule flights. Sorry.

SHIT!

Fast forward to yesterday, Feb 25th: My boss and I are in a meeting with a developer regarding a group of condos we’re trying to sell. The meeting is drawing to a close, and boss tells the developer, “We’re going to be in Las Vegas the next few days receiving awards, so I’ll contact you when I get back. Which reminds me… Eric, I have to talk to you about Vegas. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. Only one person is attending the dinner on Sunday and the rest of the team isn’t even going to Vegas.”

Me: “You are aware we’re leaving tomorrow?”

Boss: “Yes, but no one can afford to go.”

Me: “Great so we’re supposed to go to Vegas to receive an award for being the most successful real estate team in the country and no one has any money??? That makes sense.”

The boss is clearly disappointed because she lives to brag about how successful she is. Showing up in Vegas alone, without her team, would be a total embarrassment. So, being the diplomatic little worker bee that I am, I tell the Boss I will attend the first dinner and then figure out if I want to stay longer when I get there.

Fast forward to about 3 hours ago (2am): I call up the MGM Grand:

Me: “Hi, I’m booked for 4 nights there, and I’m calling to find out what sort of fee I might have to pay for shortening my stay.”

Girl: “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir. I’m going to need your name.”

Me: “Eric Schneider”

Girl: “Sir, the only Eric Schneider I have in the system was supposed to check in on the 26th, but that was canceled by RE/MAX.”

Me: “Canceled?”

Girl: “Yes.”

SILENCE

Me: “Soooo… can I un-cancel it?”

Girl: “No.”

SILENCE

Me: “You’re all booked up?”

Girl: “No.”

SILENCE

Me: “So I can still get a room?”

Girl: “No.”

Me: “What do you mean?”

Girl: “Sir, you can’t get a room under the RE/MAX group pricing.”

Me: “But I can get a room at the regular rate?”

Girl: “Yes.”

Me: “Um… you know what? Never mind. Thanks!”

I hang up the phone, hop online and cancel my flight. No Vegas for me! Yippie!!!

Just for fun, I go back to the MGM Grand website to check and see what their regular room rate is. Guess what? It’s $40 less than the “special” RE/MAX group rate. Fuckers!

Well that’s today’s trivia question!

HINT: Some people will recognize the song right off the bat!

The first person to get it right wins a full-size, naked, walking, talking Eric Schneider action figure.

Good luck!

If you want to cheat, feel free to go here for the answer.

Tonight, I was on my way out to a basketball game, got into my car, turned the key, and…. nothing. Well not nothing nothing. Just not the something I wanted. Dead battery. 2nd time this summer.

I wondered what were the chances one of my neighbors would help me out and give me a jump. These are the same neighbors who watched me try to move an 8 foot couch into my apartment all by myself and didn’t bother to ask if I needed help. Dirty coxuckers!

So I grabbed my jumper cables, and knocked on this Mexican dude’s door. I guess I don’t really need to specify he’s Mexican since all my neighbors are Mexican. Anyway I asked him if he would give me a jump. He said he had no cables and tried to close the door in my face. So I pushed the door back open and held my cables up to show him I was fully equipped. He rolled his eyes, sucked his teeth, and yelled back to his girlfriend, in Spanish, that he was going outside to help the asshole from across the way. There wo need to tell him I understand Spanish considering how generous he was being.

A few moments later, we got my car started. Thankfully it went a lot smoother than the last time I had to jump my car when I painfully discovered someone mounted my battery backwards. I ended up crossing the negative and the positive contacts, and melted the jumper cables and burnt my hand.

Anyway, I said to my neighbor, “Thank you sooo much! I really appreciate it!” I never felt so white in my life.

I really didn’t have time stick around and let the battery recharge,  so I got in the car and took off right away. I managed to make it three blocks away from my apartment before the car died again. I happen to live in one of those shitty ass neighborhoods located right next to a really nice neighborhood. Lucky for me, my car took a shit on the good side, and someone actually jumped out of their car and helped me push my car to a safe area.

I was about to pull my hair out when I looked up and saw a Checker Auto Parts right across the street!!! Yippie!!!

I ran across the street and burst into the store like I was in an old western, barging into the saloon after being lost in the desert for 3 days. Well guess what? Those fuckers wouldn’t help me change my battery because I broke down across the street, and their policy forbids them from leaving the premises. They wouldn’t even lend me a fucking wrench to change the battery myself. So, I bought a wrench and a battery and hauled my ass back to my car. Of course the wrench only worked on 3 of the 4 nuts I needed to un-nut. The 4th one was different because a few months ago, someone broke into my car and stole all my stereo equipment and they severed the battery cable in order to disable the alarm. Because they don’t make the battery harness for that car anymore, I had someone custom make a new one for me, and he happened to use a different size nut.

So I went back to the store to try to guess what size wrench I would need, but this time there were more people in the store, and it took forever to get up to the counter. When I finally did, the guy told me I was in the line for people who needed parts from the back. I needed to be in the check out line which was the long line next to me. FUCK!!!

Guess what? I bought the wrong size wrench again. There was no way for me know what size wrench I needed because I’m just not tooly that way!!! Well, I decided I wasn’t going back to the store, and instead I started pummeling the nut with the wrench while I called it a motherfucker over and over. I ended up cutting my hand, but I also managed to loosen the nut, and even change the battery!

It was smooth sailing from there, except for the fact that, in my complete rage, I spaced out and drove to work instead of the arena.

Eventually I did get to the game at around halftime. Oh and I ran into that girl who bought my old couch! I’m sure being covered in sweat, grease, dirt, and a little bit of blood really turned her on. Doh!

Stay tuned for the next episode of The Eric Schneider Show.

P.S. We lost the game.

I just got back from performing at Rula Bula Irish Pub in Tempe, AZ, and it was fucking hilarious!

It was open-mic night, but for musicians… not comedians. That didn’t discourage me. My goal, actually, was to see how long I could stay on stage before getting kicked off. I hadn’t performed in over a month, and wanted to do something that would leave a lasting impression, so I dressed up as the Arab, Mohammed Hameet Nazir, and with guitar in hand, I set out for Rula Bula.

When I got there, there was already some guy on stage playing guitar in front of a crowd of about 10 diners. He looked up and saw me standing there with my guitar and acknowledged me by giving some sorta “Musician’s Solidarity Nod”. The dude played a few more songs, and when he was done he motioned to me that it was my turn to go on. As I got set up, he asked me what kind of music I played. Trying to keep a straight face, I said, in my “authentic” Arab accent, “Mostly cultural pieces… sort of new age.”

“Cool, man.”

As soon as the musician packed up his gear, and made his way off stage, I grabbed the mic and said, “So, how about that guy? My God, he sucked! I never heard such horrible music in my life.” The musician turned his attention back towards the stage and I addressed him directly, “My friend, your singing sounds like two cats having sex! I’m kidding, I’m kidding… it sounds like three cats having sex!”

Well it was all down hill from there. I proceeded to tell audience that I initially thought the pub was an Arab restaurant because Rula Bula, “…in my language, means goat’s penis. Which is very tasty, by the way, but only if you cook it right. The key is to leave the foreskin on.” Of course, after embarrassingly admitting my mistake, I was quick to compliment Irish cuisine by letting them know my favorite Irish dish was Lucky Charms. “They’re magically delicious!”

The Lucky Charms comment caused the owner of the pub to come flying out of the kitchen. He raced over to the bartender, and although I couldn’t hear what he was saying, he was frantically pointing at the stage and was visibly pissed off. The bartender, of course, had no answers for the owner and just kept shrugging his shoulders and forming the words “I don’t know” with his mouth.

Unfazed, I forged on! It was time to commence with the musical segment of my act. I picked up my guitar and started strumming away at the strings. Keep in mind, I don’t know how to play a single chord on the guitar. I then began to serenade the audience with my original lyrics:

I love jihad!
I love jihad!
Yalah yah ala leh chem mach salaam amah sahib!
George Bush I spit… *PATOOIE!!!*
I love jihad!”

(My CD comes out in the fall by the way).

I think the audience liked the song, but I could tell they were still trying to figure out if I was for real or not. The owner, on the other hand, did not appreciate my musical talents. He pointed at me to get my attention, then made a throat-cutting gesture, and called out, “MOHAMMED!!! YOU HAVE ONE MORE MINUTE, AND THAT’S IT!!!!” Then he turned to no one in particular and said, “Who the hell is this guy?”

I used the first part of my last minute to sing a classic Arab favorite: “I Feel For You” by Chaka Kahn.

Finally, I closed with my rendition of “Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off!”

You say Alqueda
I say Alkida
You say Virginia
I say vagina
Alqueda, Alkida
Virginia, vagina
Let’s call the whole thing off!

“Thank you very much! I’m Mohammed Hameet Nazir. Have a good night!”

I quickly packed my guitar and made my way towards the exit. On my way out the door, I thanked the owner for the opportunity to perform for his patrons. He was friggin irate! His face was the color of purple horseshoe marshmallows. He barked at me; saying that he didn’t know how I was even allowed on stage because they stopped doing open-mic night over 2 months ago. Of course that was a lie, but it was clear that he never wanted to see my face in his restaurant again!

Mission accomplished! I’ll be back next week without the costume!

Special thanks goes out to Gregory Ford, the real musician, for being such a good sport. Also, thanks for playing Hendrix for me. And of course, a gigantic thanks goes out to the owner of Rula Bula for being such a bad sport. Without him, this story wouldn’t have been funny!