THE AFFIDAVIT SET OUT BELOW GOVERNS MY WATCHING OF YOUR STUFF AND SETS FORTH THE CONDITIONS FOR MY PROTECTION FROM PROSECUTION, RETALIATION, UNWARRANTED BITCH-SLAPPING, ET CETERA. IF YOU AGREE TO THESE CONDITIONS, WHICH ARE LAID OUT PRO FORMA, SIGN YOUR FULL LEGAL NAME ON THE SIGNATURE LINE (“___________________”) BELOW. IF YOU DO NOT AGREE TO THESE CONDITIONS, I WILL NOT WATCH YOUR STUFF, AND ALSO, FUTUE TE IPSUM.
1. Should your stuff get stolen on my watch: Assume that when you ask someone to be in loco parentis for your shit while you are in absentia, s/he is not going to drop everything and stare, unblinking, at your purse that looks like a rainbow purged onto a deceased alligator. Some kind of quid pro quo arrangement will be enacted if I’m going to shit-sit pro bono and divert one ounce of my energy from eye-fucking the tattooed barista or watching videos of babies eating lemons for the first time.
2. If your “stuff” is a dog: If it is a canis legitimus that weighs over 45 pounds and does not have the word “toy” or the suffix “poo” in the name of its breed, and it does not bare its teeth at me, and its modus operandi is to neither nuzzle my crotch nor lick my mouth, and it responds when I call it Buster Balogna, then you forfeit your ownership of the canis legitimus, and I retain the right to tie a red bandana around its neck and care for it for the rest of her/his days like you never could, without a trace of mens rea.
3. If I disapprove of the reason you are leaving your stuff unattended ex facie: If you are leaving your seat to text and drive, to get an inner lip tattoo that says “peace” in Chinese/Hebrew/Sanskrit, to buy a next generation iPhone with higher-resolution selfie potential, or to attend a casting call for a new reality show for hoarders going undercover as nannies who make naughty children clean up their hoarded homes, and in so doing, reform both themselves and the children, and I catch you doing one of these things in flagrante delicto, your stuff is mine, bitch.
4. If someone else asks, “Is anyone sitting here?” when you are temporarily absent: I will say sarcastically, “What does it look like?” and s/he might say, “It looks like someone’s stuff is sitting here in situ, but it does not look like someone is physically, de facto, sitting here right now,” and I will most likely reply, “Well, then, like, ergo, no one is sitting there.” If and only if the questioner is the aforementioned tattooed barista, in which case in all likelihood he will retort, “Actually, you wanna get out of here?” then we will get out of there. Ipso facto, your stuff has just become the most inconsequential item(s) that has/have ever existed.
5. If there is an incident of chemical or biological warfare: I will begin to scream, “I’M NOT GOING ANYWHERE WITHOUT BUSTER BALOGNA!” I will trample every person between me and the door and proceed to follow the evacuation plan I developed for this situation, where I row my rowboat to New Jersey, and two days later, when I am hiding out beneath the Palisades cliffs, weary and hopeless, I will be very grateful for the granola bar and Wedding Planning Guide for Single Girls Who Are Planning Their Weddings Anyway you left in your bag. Should you survive the attack, you will deal with the loss of your shit—and probably commend me for my resourcefulness, because you have nothing against me ad hominem, and really, in the end, when you’re totally and brutally honest with yourself, you have only yourself to blame for asking me to watch your stuff in the first place. Q.E.D.
BY SIGNING HERE YOU AGREE THAT THIS AGREEMENT IS LEGALLY BINDING. THIS AGREEMENT IS DESIGNED TO PREVENT MISUNDERSTANDINGS, MISPLACED BLAME, AND IN THE UNLIKELY EVENT THINGS GET PHYSICAL, MISDEMEANORS. NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS TO YOUR STUFF, YOU WILL NOT BRING ME ON DAYTIME COURTROOM TV OR STEAL MY NEW TATTOOED BARISTA BOYFRIEND WHO PROMISED TO MAKE HEART-SHAPED DESIGNS IN MY CAPPUCCINOS AD INFINITUM. IF YOU DO NOT SIGN HERE, THEN YOU WILL ASK SOMEONE ELSE TO WATCH YOUR STUFF, OR BETTER YET, WATCH YOUR OWN FUCKING STUFF.
Sign here, bitch: ___________________
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Rumpus original art by Annie Daly.
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