I Hate My Roommate - Part IV

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 Hate My Roommate - Part III

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...