Thursday, August 25, 2011

An Ode to Roommates by Dean Rice

Back in June, I wrote about some of my favorite wall posters. After I posted this, my old college roommate commented that I forgot one very important piece we hung in our apartment.

Although back in the day we did not know the author of this great essay on roommates, I found it was a writer named Dean Rice on a satirical website called Sadly, that site has since closed although the essay is posted on Everything2. Because it was so important to us, I figured I would re-post the essay here for prosperity. Everything below is Rice's work. If he ever finds this, I hope he doesn't mind.


by Dean Rice

I swear to god, every time I go home, my roommate has touched my shit.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not all about possessions, but it would be nice if the guy would have the goddamn common courtesy to get my con permiso, if you know what I mean.

I didn't spend three years in the Navy with no privacy sleeping four guys to a bunk so I could go to college and have my stuff fucked with by some sickly, pale looking socialist from Shaker Heights, I tell you what.

For example, I don't know if you are picky about this shit, but when I watch a porno, I want the god damn thing left where I stopped the tape, am I wrong?

There is nothing more frustrating than coming home from a night at the bar, finding no one home and your favorite spank tape has been forwarded to some part where they're just talking about how "these car repairs are gonna cost more than I thought" and shit. You've got precious few minutes to yourself when you share a dorm room and when you need a good whack, the last thing you need to be doing is scanning for the next doggy style when you left it cued up to the best one. Is this just me? Am I on the wrong track? Am I crazy? What country is this anyway?

Another thing I can't fucking stand is when the guy leaves his fucking water bottle in MY dorm fridge. There ain't hardly enough room in there for my sixer of Bud Ice and a chicken pot pie or two for when I come home from the bar and want a salty snack.

Get a drink out of the goddamn fountain you yuppie prick! Comes right out of the fountain colder'n shit. You telling me you need to keep water in my fridge 24-hours a day just in case you need a sip of cold H2O you fucking gel-haired puss?

I was in the Navy for four years before I came to school and I never needed ice-cold water and I WORKED for a living defending my country from barnacles and waxy build-up, you pussy college boy.

I came home from the bar one night and grabbed a potpie and the damn thing was mushy. I thought, "Oh, fuck, my fucking fridge is fucking fucked up!"

Then I checked and the fucking thing was turned down to "6." I clearly remember setting it on "7" when I got the damn thing specifically to freeze my potpies and snickers. I never turned it down. So I asked my roommate what the fuck he thought happened... he tells me he had ice in his water so he turned the temp on my fridge down.


So I told him all calm and rational that if he had ice in his bottled water, he might try letting it sit out on his fucking desk like a normal human fucking being! Then I told him he owed me 63 cents for the fucked up pie. It was only 49 cents, but I figured what the fuck, I might as well get him to pay me for a good one.

And he uses my hand towel. That's just not hygienic and I should know since I was in the Navy for three years with some of the most unhygienic specimens of humanity before they kicked me out for smoking weed on the flight deck.

I tell you, the next time that scrawny wussy boy jacks around with anything of mine, I'm gonna beat him like a bitch and throw his ass out in the hall.

Am I wrong? Am I over-reacting? Has the train left the station without any passengers?

Does John Denver shit in the woods? This is America, right? This isn't communist Russia?

I didn't get on the wrong bus back in Appleton and end up in Canada with the lumberjacks, did I?

I didn't fucking think so!