For too long, we have suffered under various regimes whose priorities are utterly out of touch with the lives of normal Americans. It’s time to change that. Like you, I have a much more down-to-earth, everyman’s attitude when it comes to legislation. Here are the issues that are closest to my heart.
I will support legislation making it your roommate’s job to plunge the toilet. I will veto your roommate’s insistence that it is your turn.
While I do appreciate the depth in which you feel things, specifically objects, more specifically plastic phallic objects, I do not understand why you feel the need to lick them in such a manner. While I am perfectly accepting of exploring oneself, I do not see the purpose in tasting oneself. If you happen to be in a lesbian experiment, and you wish to explore the flavors of your new friend, perhaps she would find it more reasonable to go straight to the source.
I have a bed. It’s sitting in the back of the somewhat derelict van that is parked in front of my house. I have actively chosen not to put it together since the end of July, because I, through my own sloth, accidentally discovered the greatest sleep-apparatus short of a hammock. Mattress on the floor is divine for the following reasons.
1: Endless nightstand. Do you really want to fuck around with a two-by-one-and-a-half-foot space for your alarm clock, cellphone, and everything else you’re way too lazy to put where it belongs? Stop, then! Your nightstand just became the floor within arm’s reach of your mattress. You have been liberated.
So, my roommate and I have an unusually large amount of plates for two guys in college thanks to bundled packages from Target. As a result, doing the dishes is never a pressing concern since if we run out of plates, there are always bowls. Run out of those, there are always mugs and teacups.
So I’ve been sharing my room with this guy for a few months. Wanna know how that went? Dope as shit, man, dope as shit. Seriously, this guy is balls awesome, I’d definitely take his cock in my mouth in some mad respect fellatio. Seriously, if he was a chick, I’d superman that ho. Here’s why he’s the shit.
So… I have returned from behind the Great Firewall, a bit shorter and a bit more slanty-eyed, and with the distinct inability to pronounce words like “bus” and “campus” without inserting a mysterious “r” sound after the “u”. In China I learned many things, from how to properly use a car horn while driving (as a signal that there is something within 50 feet of the front of the car), to how to avoid getting hit by a child happily cannoning streams of urine into the street. Two months of endless diarrhea at the hands of Wuhan food, all of which contains loads of chili peppers, coupled with the inevitable circumstance that non-potable tap water would somehow end up in my stomach, have turned my rectum into the strongest muscle in my body, and lost me about 15 pounds. A week in Beijing renewed my appreciation for being able to see more than half a mile in any direction. Two months in Wuhan, where heat indexes routinely cleared 120 degrees Fahrenheit, renewed my appreciation for more temperate climes. Okay, that last bit’s not true at all, Pittsburgh weather is still comparable to diving into an olympic-sized pool full of mayonnaise-filled water balloons. I think the point of all this is, the Chinese are awful at English.
I’m sorry, but I couldn’t save your husband.
I WAS BUSY WATCHING MY TESTICLES DESCEND.
Few television shows directly cause domestic abuse. It is rare to find one that actually forces anyone to clock the nearest person in a fit of pure rage. But there is some evidence that television does cause violence.
In the course of researching this article, my roommate was hospitalized for more wounds than I can count. He was suffering from a fractured collarbone, a split pelvis, a dislocated bladder, and an extra spinal cord. (For the life of me I can’t remember where I got that extra spinal cord.) And then he made the mistake to have Dougie Howser on when I came to visit his ward. God rest his soul… but I believe my point was, Dougie Howser makes you want to kill.
According to well-placed sources, Phil Higgins of Omaha, Nebraska, would rather live with a perpetually-clogged toilet than deal with the problem. And when he is forced to deal with it, instead of plunging it, he just flushes, waits five minutes for the water to drain, and flushes again, repeating ad nauseum until it either fixes itself or his roommate fixes it for him.