Two Bits

This is what you get when you steal. The other morning, I went into the kitchen to fix myself some cereal for fast-breaking purposes. After emptying the remainder of my own, personal milk container into the bowl, I noted that it was still a little light in the overall milk department.

So, being of a communal (read: thieving) spirit, I decided that my magnanimous roommates wouldn't mind too terribly if I topped off my Raisin Bran with just the smallest little smidgen of their milk.

Being thusly decided of goal and means, I began the process of selecting the milk container that was most impervious to the visible effects of shrinkage (i. e. the one with the most milk, so no one would notice). One jug stood head and shoulders above the rest, being the only one more than two-thirds full.

Naturally, I picked that one and, according to my original purpose, topped off my cereal.

However, a funny thing happened then. You see, I noticed that the milk wasn't so much a liquid as it was a semi-gelatinous solid. This intrigued me, and I decided to investigate further. Turns out the stuff was over a month past its expiration date and I had basically just poured sour cream all over my bran.

End result: no breakfast for the Two Bits Man and a rough time of it for the apartment's garbage disposal sink thingie.

Now, a simple mind might tell you that the moral of this story is not to steal. This is patently false. The moral of the story is to keep track of your damned milk so that you don't nearly poison your beloved roommate with the resulting cheese-product. Seriously, dude, what is this? A morality play?

My roommates and I are what one would colloquially refer to as slobs or, more accurately, " filthy savage heathen beast-men wallowing in our own filth for days or even weeks on end. "

For instance, our bathroom? Foul. Unspeakably fowl. Foul in such a way that I wouldn't wish that toilet on my worst enemy. You know those crazy Turkish toilets that are basically holes in the ground with foot rests? Those are vastly superior to the crapping arrangements that we have 'round Two Bits Man way.

And while I'm at it, our counters are looking pretty funky too. I mean, if I'm making a sandwich and the bread touches the bare tabletop, I gotta throw that bad boy out. It's like a petri dish out there.

I'd clean it myself, but given the size and complexity of some of those spore colonies, I'm afraid it might technically constitute genocide. And I just don't need any more trouble with Amnesty International this week.

This is, naturally, hardly a comprehensive catalog of all the unspeakable atrocities of hygiene which exist within the mildew-covered borders of my home. However, owing to the facts that:

A) such a compendium could easily span hundreds of pages,

B) my editor yells at me when I run long, and

C) I'm fast running low on actual funny material, as evidenced by the extremely disjointed nature of today's piece. I'm afraid that I'll have to call it a day for now.

If any of you out there would like to know more about the abject filth in which me and mine live, just follow your nose. That mildew smell ought to lead you right here in no time.