I finally did it.  I left him.  And her.

Mister and Missus are in the rearview mirror.

It was actually a tough decision to make, and in the end, all went well.  We left each other on good terms and as friends.  I was an adult.  A professional.  I didn’t tell anybody to kiss my fat, white ass.  They didn’t tell me to get the fuck out and never come back.

So, tomorrow morning, I start my new job.  Although I couldn’t come up with the money to buy it, I’ve got the next best thing…

…I’m gonna be the front desk clerk at the Clermont Motor Hotel on Ponce de Leon Avenue in Midtown Atlanta!

I auditioned to be one of the strippers, but they told me no one wanted to see me crush beer cans with my man boobs, and I told them they could go get fucked and they said that based on my audition, I could probably bring a little class to the joint as the front desk clerk.

I then told them I couldn’t possibly do it for less than $150,000 a year, because I had to keep up the lifestyle and drinking habit to which I have become accustomed.  They then asked if I minded getting paid in Confederate money.

Now, those fuckers thought they was pullin’ a fast one, but I told ‘em I needed to go outside and think about it for a minute, so I walked outside and sat down with some homeless people, drank some Night Train with ‘em, then got on my Crackberry and looked up the current exchange rate for Confederate dollars versus United States of America dollars and discovered that One Confederates States of America Dollar is currently equal to approximately 4,521 United States of America Dollars (and about a bajillion pesos), so I went inside and said I’d take the job.

Those dumb assholes actually think somebody still wants U.S. money.

Idiots.

Of course, I cain’t pay none of my bills to Yankee creditors with Confederate money, but the liquor store down the street accepts it, and there’s a place around the corner where I can exchange it for WIC vouchers, and if I buy a case of baby formula, I get a free carton of cigarettes, so I’m all set.

Also, Willy Ray, the crack dealer that works the lobby of the Clermont, said he’d work out an exchange deal with me, and as everybody knows, even mortgage companies these days are happy to be paid in crack rock.

So, starting tomorrow morning, I’m filthy-fucking rich.

The owners of the Clermont axed me if I minded dealin’ with society’s less desirables - you know, crack ho’s, homeless people, folks just out of the pen, other folks who got kicked out of Grady after their 72 hours of observation was over, and I said, “Why?  Is my high school havin’ a reunion up in this motherfucker?”

They also axed me if I knew what to do in case of a fire on the top floor, ’cause apparently that’s where they keep all the bootlegged booze that they ain’t paid tax on.  I shrugged and said, “The roof is on fire.  We don’t need no roof, let the motherfucker burn.  Burn, motherfucker, burn.”

And that was the end of the interview.  I’m now safety certified and everything.

So, wish me luck, ya’ll.  I’m real excited.