My occasional craving for a McDonald's Filet-O-Fish is probably the most filipino thing about me. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, I can't think about anything else. Yet when I do finally get my hands on one, I wonder what I found so appealing in the first place. I had one such craving today, and have decided to document the crap that I end up with from the drive trough. Did I say trough?
Southdale McDonald's So I stopped at the Southdale McDonald's and ordered a Filet-O-Fish. Seemed far more expensive than I remembered at $3.39 for that little sandwich. I open it up, and it looked like the guy that put it together was wearing a blindfold and throwing the ingredients into the box from 6 feet away. How do I know this? Perhaps I used to do it that way when I worked there in my teens. It's not even close to being a sandwich.
Kenaston McDonalds Why was my Filet-O-Fish only $3.09 at this restaurant? Oh, I see now. It's because they cook the Filet-O-Fish in the morning, and reheat it for you in some fat guy's armpit.
St. Anne's McDonalds The price here was only $2.99, but this Filet-O-Fish looked a bit off. Was my bun toasted? Did some moron put lettuce on it? Why does the fish patty look dark and funky?
Oh, that's why. My Filet-O-Fish was a Chicken. Gee, Dive in and Enjoy a Filet-O-Fish? I'd LOVE to. Why not give me one when I buy one?
I still have my craving, but after two crappy Filet-O-Fish and a mediocre McChicken, I'm having chest pains. I'll try again tomorrow I suppose...
As I watch "Two and a Half Men" on TV, I start to laugh hysterically as I exclaim, "Ha ha! Alan is a divorced, annoying parasite that slowly destroys Charlie's soul! He's just like you, Phil!" At that moment, I turn to the empty seat beside me, and I cry a little inside. I miss my roommate.
I wake up early in the morning, and giggle as I run downstairs to turn off the hot water valve. I wait to hear Phil scream in the shower like he always does as he gets blasted by icy cold water, but the sound never comes. I miss my roommate.
I go to my fridge for some strawberry jam, and it's actually there. I pick up the carton of milk, and there's milk to spare. My jar of peanut butter doesn't have any toenail clippings inside. I miss my roommate.
My guest bathroom is clean. I can watch my own tv. The kleenex shortage is over. What will I bitch and complain about now? I had so many pranks left to play on Phil. It's the end of an era. At least he moved out before anybody died. 'Anybody' being him.
As I sit at my computer, creating outlandish profiles on gay dating sites for my roommate Phil, I reflect on the events that led up to this depraved act of juvenile vengeance.
The Man Holds the Remote Every day, I come home to find Phil laying on the couch watching TV. There's usually a 3 foot radius around him littered with crumbs as he stares intently at the scantily clad women on the screen. I don't even try to watch TV in my own home anymore. When I do, Phil usually comes home and hangs around me, watching, hovering, waiting. He seems focused on me in the hopes that I will soon make the mistake of getting up for a drink, snack, or bathroom break. When I do, he pounces. I try to move as quickly as I can, waiting until I think he's not looking. But no matter how fast I am, I always come back to him lying on my spot on the couch, remote in hand, and the TV switched to MuchMusic in the hopes of seeing more half naked women gyrating around on the screen. I take a deep breath and bite my tongue...
The Pepsi Incident Although I don't drink much soda pop myself, I usually keep some on hand for guests. When some friends cracked open one of Phil's 2-litre bottles of Pepsi from the fridge, I assumed he wouldn't mind. After all, he stays here rent free, doesn't pay a dime, uses all my stuff, and even eats some of my food. I guess I was wrong. The very next day, Phil replaced the 2-litre bottle with multiple smaller bottles of Pepsi, each one already opened and sipped from. He also took all his snack food out from the pantry and started keeping elsewhere (presumably in his bedroom). Perhaps I should make a point of putting my name on all the stuff of mine that he uses. Unfortunately, that would take far too long, since I'd be putting my name on absolutely everything. Instead, I take another deep breath and bite my tongue...
It's Peanut Butter Jelly Time!!!
One good thing that Phil has done lately is reawaken memories of Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwiches. He always seemed to be eating at least one a day since he moved in... until lately. I noticed he stopped making PB&J over the last few days, and it actually made me want to make one for myself. I started to salivate in anticipation, as it had been years since I had one. As I toasted the bread, I cracked open my peanut butter jar to find it filled with piles of bread crumbs and globs of strawberry jam. I sighed, taking another deep breath. As I cleaned up the peanut butter jar mess, I was excited to see my toast was ready. I excitedly spread the peanut butter on one piece, and I quickly opened up my fridge and pulled out my jar of strawberry jam. As I set the jar on the counter, realization hits me. The jar is empty. I pulled it out of my fridge, and it's empty. Somebody put an empty jar in my fridge.Somebody ate all my strawberry jam and put the empty jar back in the fridge. I was seeing red, and it definitely wasn't strawberry jam. People have died for lesser crimes. You don't mess with a man's PB&J.
I pondered many forms of revenge. Eyedrops in his orange juice would give him nasty digestive problems, but after seeing how he uses the bathroom, I don't think he'd notice if he had more explosive diarrhea. I could do something to his bed, but that would just come back to bite me, since it's actually *my* guest bed. Putting Nair in his shampoo would be funny if he actually had a full head of hair. Unfortunately, putting his cell phone number in numerous gay personal ads seemed to be the only logical conclusion.
Check out Lavalife, Plentyoffish, Craigslist and Kijiji "Men seeking Men" sections. Look for HornyPhilWpg.
I sat down on my couch one evening, relaxing with a beer, when I felt something sharp poking my leg. I got up, looked down, and saw a big sharp toenail clipping sticking up from the cushion. I look down at my gnarly talons at the end of my feet, and realize that the clipping isn't mine. I find myself gripping the toenail in my fist while grunting and cursing Phil's name. Boy, is he ever going to get an earful.
He comes in the door and goes straight to the bathroom; no doubt another episode of explosive diarrhea. He exits the bathroom 30 minutes later, and I corner him. I'm about to pull out the kleenex wrapped toenail in my pocket, when I notice something strange.
'Phil, are you wearing guyliner?' 'huh?' he quickly rubs his eyes, checks his fingers, then shows them to me as he angrily responds 'NoOOooOOooOoo!' 'um, you had to check first?' He starts to blush furiously. I realize I can't talk to a guy wearing guyliner, so decide to instead get another beer.
3 beers later, I decide to confront him again. I go to his room, ready to shove the filthy toenail in his face, when I start to smell something from the nearby bathroom.
'Phil, what the fuck did you eat?' 'what? That's normal!' he replies. I look over at the bathroom, and realize the door is closed and the fan is on. Impressive. I run out of there while I can, and grab another 3 beers and go out on the deck for some air.
Once the dizziness and nausea subsided, I head back inside. Phil is cooking up a storm. There are two frying pans, a large pot, three plates, and two cutting boards with various veggies and grated cheese.
'Wow Phil, what the hell are you cooking?' 'I'm making a cheese quesadilla.' 'ONE quesadilla? Why do you have two pans and a pot?' 'Well, because you didn't have a third pan.' 'what about the plates?' 'its to keep the veggies separate after I cook them.' I shake my head and sigh. He seems annoyed at my critical looks, and angrily asks if I want something from him. I pull out the toenail clipping and hold it up wordlessly. 'Oh,' he says, 'I thought I got them all.' 'Why were you cutting them on my couch???' 'Well, where else am I gonna cut them?' he stares at me, wide eyed with anger and confusion. I shake my head again, wait for him to go back to his cooking, and drop the toenail in his pile of grated cheese. I should probably clip my own toenails soon. That'll be good for ten meals...
It's Day 23, and as I stare at my recycle bin, I'm horrified as memories of past events come together to form disturbing images in my mind.
On Day 4, Phil asked me if I had any spare wastebaskets. I told him there was one in the bathroom, and one in the kitchen. He asked if he could have one for his bedroom. I curiously asked why he needed one in the bedroom, and naively pointed out that I didn't have one in the bedroom. He awkwardly insisted, so I rolled my eyes and went out to buy him a wastebasket for his bedroom.
On Day 6, Phil asked me if I had any Kleenex. I shrugged, telling him that I didn't have a cold. I asked if he was sick, and he awkwardly shook his head and walked away. I went to my linen closet, and grabbed a box of kleenex and put it on the breakfast bar in my kitchen.
On Day 10, I walk into my home to see Phil watching "So You Think You Can Dance". I laugh at his lack of heterosexuality, and he replies that he only watches it because of the hot chicks. I laugh again, and he stands up somewhat crookedly, grabs a kleenex, and hobbles to his bedroom half hunched over. I assumed he went to his room to cry, since I may have been a bit mean to him.
Today, I stare at an empty box of Kleenex with the words "140 Sheets" glaring up at me. It's been less than three weeks. That's a lot of kleenex. Phil must cry a lot, since he hasn't shown any signs of having a cold the whole time he's been here. I look back over at the kitchen counter, and notice that a bottle of lotion that someone left here seems to be missing. I shrug, look around, and am suddenly hit with horrible realization.
10 minutes later, Phil finds me curled up on the kitchen floor, my eyes wide with shock and disgust. He says something to me, but all I hear is "140 Sheets". He holds his right hand out to me to help me up. I stare at it and scream.
As I walk into my home, I hear my roommate doing something in the kitchen. It's 11 at night, and I can't imagine what he's cooking at this hour. I wearily say hello without looking in his direction. He excitedly asks me if I would like to try one of his brownies. I turn to him, and am met with the sight of him half naked in my kitchen covered with chocolate. He's holding a brownie out to me with his right hand, his chest and shoulders smeared with fudge. His face is downcast, accentuating his large pointy noise, and his eyes are looking up at me while he smiles with an evil yellow grin. He looks like a half naked chocolate covered pedophile goblin. I should have kicked him out right then and there, but it was only day two. How much worse could it get?
So i'm on a road trip to regina as I type this, and I think i'm free of the pantry full of girl guide cookies at home. Lo and behold, a box appears. I swear these things multiply and follow me.
Trevor's eating the brown ones, and I'm stuck with the white ones. Wtf? That's not right. Since when do white people like brown ones better, and brown people like the white ones better?
