The Roommate Horror Picture Show (Part 1)

Part 1

I usually don’t like being wrong, and usually don’t admit flat-out that I was wrong, when I am wrong. However, when I am wrong on the same exact fucking scenario 2 times in about 1 year, something is wrong. I am not talking about being having the wrong answer to Jeopardy!, or incorrectly solving a Wheel of Fortune puzzle. I am talking, wrong wrong… Like, hooking up with the ugly girl that you knew was ugly, wrong. And going way to far with her, wrong. That is the wrong I am talking about.

Anyway, I was wrong when I decided to move in with my current roommate September 1, 2003. It was after we both graduated and I just locked down a decent, but horrendous job, while (we’ll call him Mr. Ignoramus) Mr. Ignoramus was selling life insurance. This guy couldn’t sell the lame runner in the marathon on mile marker 19 dieing of thirst a bottle of water. He couldn’t talk a person into opening their door if Ed McMahon had the Publishers Prize Clearing House check (the big one) in his hand. Yet, he took a job selling insurance. And I will admit that I was right (I do, however, admit when I am right…) when I told him it was dumb to do that and just because someone in his office makes $100K, doesn’t mean he will (remember, the guy is 23 at this time, and I am talking to him like I am his father). Anyway, he takes it, does not get paid for training and makes 0 sales. NONE. Zippo. This is the best part, when we filled out the application for the apartment, Mr. Ignoramus had to fill out the salary section. His annual salary was $100,000. ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS!!! I laugh to this day when I think about it…

So, anyway, I am not sure how long he was with those guys, but he finally takes a job at State Street where he is guaranteed a paycheck. Anyway, it is September 1 and we move in, and the guy goes home the first weekend, for some reason. No partying that weekend to break in the apartment. So, over the course of the week we unload all of the boxes and there are about 30 of them in this area in the dining room. I was working late and asked him if he could help take them out to the curb. I get home and they are there. His reasoning: “There are too many for me to take them all out at once.” No shit. Seriously. I’ll let that soak in your mind for a while.



Ok, that is when I knew I had a problem. I then proceeded to show him up and cut the boxes down and fit them into 2 boxes and took them all out at once. To which he replied with, and I am telling the truth, “I didn’t know I could cut them up. What if we wanted to use some of them?” I was tempted to ask him the definition of “recycling” at that point. Maybe it was, “After I through something out, I will go to the landfill and use it again.” Anyway, after he said that, I was amazed. We are throwing out trash… I didn’t know that concept is that hard. But, as you will now bear witness to, it is.

599 days – that is how long I have lived with Mr. Ignoramus. Our trash bucket that the garbage men take is in our garage, which is about 20 steps out our front door. Mr. Ignoramus has taken out the trash 1 time since 9/1/2003. Once. And the sad thing? I forced him to do this. Once. (Cue up the Wyclef Jean, “One Time” line from “Killing me Softly,” please.) The trash will be overflowing and he will pile stuff on top of it. The bag will be tied and he will pile stuff on top of it, or just take it out and place it down next to the trashcan… He is 25 years old now and doesn’t do take out the trash. But, he also doesn’t do his laundry, and he is… 25 years old. Sad.

So, enough with the trash, let’s go to his room. He is all about his new HDTV for some reason. He loves TV. He watches every sporting event possible. Watches ESPN in the evening, late night, morning, afternoon, early afternoon, afternoon afternoon, late afternoon, etc… you get the point. He calls his friends to discuss 80% of every Red Sox game. From, “That slider was awesome, dude, nice fastball, oh nice play at third…” to, “I like his follow through on the catch in the outfield.” First of all, follow through on a catch? Anyway, not only is he annoying from that standpoint, his TV is probably one click below MAX on volume. I hear everything when his door is closed and my TV is on.

I really have to stop the rants now, but here are some coming attractions – his bathroom habits which include, brushing his teeth 6 times a night, using Listerine enough that Listerine has Mr. Ignoramus as a top customer over Wal-Mart, spitting in the sink (and kitchen sink, this is awful)… Oh, and to get back to why I was wrong twice – Most of these instances occurred prior (and some still go on) to September 1, 2004, and I renewed my lease. I’d rather hook up with the ugly girl that I knew was ugly, and now know I regret, again.