Another Party-Pooper at the American Potluck: now that don't make no kind of sense.

Ok, it's been a minute but most stories--like the lives of Welfare recipients--are in need of ending. And, I hate to be a spoiler here, but by the several months later that it is now, let's just say that I ain't on no Welfare. Is this a happy or a sad finish? I dunno. Sure the potluck means free grub. But you're gonna get some dirty looks if you signed up to bring lasagna and just show up with a fork.

Anyway, to pick up where I left off, and get this story moving unlike the lines at the Welfare office, let us do this.

The second time around with my gal, Linda Brown, goes much smoother. She is smartly dressed, in a well-accessorized, high-end swap meet sort of way.

I try to make conversation. Things are going better--once I start complimenting her, that is. In this way of throwing out bullshit compliments while groveling before a woman in hopesthat she show me some love, I can empathize with men. I mean, check out Ms. Linda Brown with her attitude switch-hips all the way back to her cubicle: she irritates me. She intimidates me. Maybe I can give compliments and wait for things to get better. It kind of does, but after it's all said and done, I can't wait to get the fuck out of there. Men, I understand you. But shit, I don't see no rings on these fingers, and if I did, I'd have to document their worth to Linda Brown.

We are going through paperwork. Trees have died for this. Forests for foodstamps--now that's a cause.

"Everything must be documented," she says, when I ask her why it's a problem if I'm missing one of my daughter's three paycheck stubs she made inbetween running up my phone bills.

Linda Brown explains that my daughter's income is exempt anyway. That it will not be calculated into any sort of qualification process. And, that I must bring in every single stub, or basically, fuck off. Ah, I see the logic--floating right out the window like a paper airplane.


Speaking of paper airplaine crashes, Linda Brown's list of required paperwork makes for a briefcase of LAX. She "soon" hands me a slip of paper--and the only thing I'm feeling less that having more paperslips to tout about would be the appointment. Instantly, I feel clammy. I would ask questions, but i think I just heard her crack her knuckles.

Fifty bucks later spent on government documents along with fourteen unreturned phonecalls, Linda Brown actually gives ME a call. And I am on it like cavities on uninsured teeth.

Oh no, it seems application has been rejected. Due to a missing exempt Dominoes paycheck stub. She begins an additional explanation of what rejections mean.

Three weeks later I get a food stamp card in the mail.