Home is Where the Shit Is

"We can't have people over at our place because our neighbors have been complaining about the noise."

"It's Saturday night! It's spring break! We have to do something!"

"But where?"

This is when the heads turned and faced my direction. I knew what was coming next. They were going to suggest going to my place.

"How about we go to your place, Natasha?"

Told you so.

"Uhhhhhhh..."

"I mean, we don't have to."

"No, no, it's fine. Yeah yeah. We can go to my house. Sure."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, yeah. Yeah."

No, no. No.

"Okay cool, let's go to Natasha's then."

"Just to warn you guys - it's messy."

"That's fine."

"And it smells."

"We'll bring Febreze."

"And there's no light in the living room."

"We can bring lights."

"And there's nothing to do."

"We'll bring a ping pong table and play beer pong."

"And you can't use my bathroom."

"Is it broken?"

"No. There's shit everywhere."

"Natasha, we told you, it's fine if it's messy."

"No, I mean literally. Shit."

"Like...shit shit?"

"Like cat shit."

"Cat shit?"

"Everywhere."

"Do you not have a litter box?"

"I do have a litter box."

"Then...why..."

"I don't know."

I do know.

"Is it that bad?"

"Yes."

This is where I decide not to go into detail. 

"Alright, well we'll just set up the table and play beer pong until we find somewhere else to go. I'm sure it's not that bad."

This is where I should have gone into detail.

We arrive at my house and I immediately regret the agreement. They had no idea they were about to enter the giant toilet bowl I call my home. My "polite invite" was more of a forceful pushing of all of my friends into a commode full of shit.

"Take a splash!"

This is why none of my friends want to live with me. Maybe if they came over when my place was clean, none of them would think I was never potty-trained. But nooooooooo, people only want to come over when my house is a dump. DUMP, GET IT?! Like taking a dump. Like shit. Like feces. Like turds. Like butt juice. Like a hearty smoothie freshly squeezed from the ass.

...poop.

...maturity.

...apology.

MOVING ON.

They walk up to my front door and I unintentionally go into my sneaky-weirdo-phase.

"DON'T COME THROUGH THAT DOOR! This one, this one! Come through this one!"

I shuffle them all inside. Well, I guess they shuffled themselves inside because I can't shuffle for them, can I? I'd appreciate it if you'd correct me when I say something absurd. Like when I claim that my friends are a deck of cards. (If we were cards, we'd be face cards. Or maybe the aces? I HAVE ADD.)

I start speed-cleaning my room, which really means I just start throwing everything into my closet. Then, of course:

"Is this your bathroom?"

"Yes."

"Oka---"

"BUT DON'T GO IN THERE!"

"Do you have...another...bathroom...?"

"NO GO OUTSIDE."

Then someone else needs something.

"Can I go in there to fill up these cups with water?"

"NO."

I am a horrible host. Within five minutes, I've denied them entrance into my home, yelled at them, declined their request for a basic necessity for survival, and instigated a potential bladder infection. They probably felt like prisoners. Cranberry juice, anyone?

"Let me just clean it first."

I sneak into the bathroom, opening the door as narrowly as I can and squeezing myself through the crack.

BAM!

A new shit on the tile.

BAM!

Underwear on the ground.

BAM!

A box of tampons in the sink.

(NOT used. I'm gross, but not that gross.)

I pick up the undies, hide the Pearls, and leave the shit there. I never feel like picking up shit, but I certainly don't feel like picking up shit when I'm three beers full. This is what my personal Hell would be: a dirty house that I'm forced to clean. But the more I clean, the messier it becomes. But I can't stop cleaning. Because it's Hell and they can make you do stuff there against your will. Like clean for eternity.

I start to allow people to use the bathroom, which I shouldn't have done. There wasn't just shit on the floor. There was shit in the shower. So much shit that you could barely see the lining of the tub. There was shit on the shower curtain. Shit in the litter box, which was also in the shower. It smelled like some sort of acidic substance that would either melt your nostrils or burn your eyes out. Or just kill you. Among all the entrances and exits into the restroom, I think I heard twelve "Hold your breaths," nine "I don't wanna go in theres," six untranslatable groans of disgust, and one "How do you shower?" - a question that went unanswered.

It took about an hour for my bathroom's title to be completely revoked. It had been deknighted and renamed "The Shithole." Or maybe it was "The Shitter." It also took about an hour for me to become drunk, so I really can't remember. It was probably both. It wasn't long before people started suggesting we go somewhere else. I've learned from the experience to --- you know what? I'm not even going to finish that sentence. You already know what I'm going to say and I don't want to be predictable. I can either clean it or never have people over again. 

I've had to pee for the past four hours. 

Cranberry juice, it is.

Nick with Tits

And we're back with brand new additions to the Nick Cage collection! For those of you who haven't been keeping up - sucks for you. You'll catch on quickly.

Nicolas Cage is Andre the Giant AND Demi Moore. I don't know what's more disturbing: Nick with tits or Nick in his underwear.

Nick Cage is some boy band. I haven't kept up with boy bands since 1999, but apparently they can get worse.

Is this a prequel to Moonstruck?

An alternate version to Star Wars. In this rendition, Han Solo does not have feelings for Princess Leia and she instead ends up with Jabba the Hutt. They have Jabba Babies that look like Gremlins meet Furbies meet Nick Cage.

In this version of Titanic, Jack still dies. However, the nude drawing of Rose looks much different. She has a penis. Picture it. Now. You nasty.

Nick Cage is a CAGE! Wow! How original!

Cone Burglar

It all started with a hamburger.

That isn't really how it started. There was a hamburger, yes, but it wasn't the hamburger that "started" it.  It wasn't even a hamburger; it was a cheeseburger. I guess you could say it started as a hamburger, and then became a cheeseburger, but that wasn't the start to my story. Now I don't even know where it "all" started. My birth, maybe? Really I just like the sound of, "It all started with a hamburger," but that's a lie, so I need to change it.

There was a hamburger involved.

That's better. 

I ate the hamburger, multiple events followed the burg incident, and I woke up this morning to three, giant parking cones in my backseat. This is odd, yes, but not as odd as it could be. I happen to have a giant parking cone collection. Perhaps that is where it all started...

It all started with a parking cone.

Two years ago, I was at a party. It's sad that this is on my autobiographical timeline, but these are the things my mind decides are crucial memories.

1990 - birth (which I don't even remember, but I think there were vaginas involved)

1995 - I flash a Kindergartner.

2000 - Scrunchies are purchased.

2006 - I eat a lot of Pop-Tarts and gain 40 pounds.

2010 - I live off of dumpster pizza and lose 40 pounds.

2011 - I go to a party and start a parking cone collection.

"Is this yours?" I asked someone at the party.

"The parking cone?"

"Yes."

"Yeah..."

"THIS IS AWESOME."

"Thank...you...?"

"LET ME HAVE IT."

"Okay?"

"YES!"

No bribery involved whatsoever. The guy just let me have it. Once I got home, I placed it in my lawn for my father to notice the next morning.

"Hey, there's a giant parking cone in our yard," he said to me, laughing.

"Yeah, it's mine."

"What?"

"That's my cone."

"Where'd you get that?"

"It's a souvenir."

"From where?"

"A party."

"...okay."

There's a certain age when your parents stop furthering their questions. At 21, I had finally reached the point when my parents would not ask me why I took a giant parking cone and put it in our lawn among the daffodils.

After that, I started noticing parking cones more and more. They stuck out. They called my name. Every parking cone was a potential addition to my collection.

I only took them when I drank. When I moved to Chattanooga, I left them at my parent's house, because my brother also appreciated them. He knew their value, their worth, their desirable qualities. He was 4 years old.

Since I've been in Chatt, I've taken two cones. That's a cone a semester. Not bad. You have to space out your cone-scavenging. They're everywhere, ya know. You can't just take them all. You could kill someone doing that.

"WHERE DO I GO?! THERE ARE NO CONES TO GUIDE ME!"

Crash.

See? You have to be a responsible cone thief. I seem to have forgotten that rule last night, because I woke up this morning to a backseat full of the entire Conehead family. 

"WHEN DID MY CONE COLLECTION TRIPLE?" I texted the friend who had been with me at the time.

His response was this: have you looked in your trunk?

I immediately grew paranoid, because that's a really creepy thing to say to someone who has NO recollection of the previous night. Since I have no camera, I brought the trunk-object into my room and snapped a photo of it to show you - because honestly, I don't even know what to call this.

Not a cone, but definitely part of the cone family.

I may have started a new collection.