I Didn't Need To See That.
Tabbies,
Having a roommate is the shits. I mean, Jack is a good kid and all, but there's something about another person sharing your personal space that just gets up in the crack of your ass and starts to itch. You know?
Take the food situation. I don't like a whole lot of variety in my diet. Give me a Hot Pocket and a cold beer and I'm set for the night. I make sure I have plenty on hand so that I don't have to go to the store and stock up on those breaded delights. When I came home from work the other night, I found Jack sprawled out on the couch asleep. The crazy son of a bitch was wearing his skivvies and nothing else, a half-eaten broccoli, chicken and cheese Hot Pocket on his chest. Some of that day-glo cheese seeped out and was bonding to his three or four chest hairs.
That must've hurt like a motherfucker. Burned, at least. But no, Jack slept right through it. I don't know if I was pissed about the mess he'd made or that he'd gotten into my HP supply. Fucking kids.
Another time in the middle of the night, he came back to the apartment, piss drunk. He stumbled around the place, knocking over chairs, banging into walls and made it to the bathroom. There, he proceeded to throw up like someone was taking a rake to his insides and pulling 'em up through his throat. I lay in bed, looking at the ceiling and wishing he'd just go ahead and die already. I listened as he said:
"Oh, God Jesus. Oh, God Jesus.... Oh Gaaa-rowwwlffhfgdhu!!!!"
The poor, miserable prick was calling in a favor to God n' Jesus and they were both responding with a big 'fuck you.' He threw up for what seemed like 3 hours.
The capper was when I worked a day shift and cut out early to go and get a check up, you know, because of my fucking heart. I punched out in the early afternoon, took the goddamn bus to my appointment, got the 'change your diet this, watch your activity level that and I headed back to the apartment. When I got there, I could see the smell-ass shoes Jack wore in the entryway, alongside another pair of smaller chick-like shoes.
Great.
Thinking he was in his room probably drilling some floozy, I went into the kitchen. There, on my kitchen table, was a naked girl of about 21, attached at the vagina to Jack's fuckstick. They took no notice of me in the kitchen door way and were going at it like a couple of nymphomaniacs.
"Yeah, you like that? You like a little Jack-in-the-box?"
I couldn't believe he said that to this broad as he drilled his piss-pump home. Over and over. The broad's tits were doing pirouettes on her chest as she clutched the sides of my shitty little table.
I couldn't believe I was watching this. I also didn't realize she'd seen me.
"Oh shit," she said covering up her serviceable funbags. "Your dad is home."
Jack withdrew like it was second nature. 'Shlop.'
"Shit, Bill," Jack said, out of breath. "I didn't think you'd be home until, you know, later."
I blinked and watched as the girl scrambled to get dressed. She didn't know if she should cover her tits, her groomed snapper, or her nice round shitbox. I think she wished she had an extra arm to get the job done.
"Yeah," I think I said. "I sort of didn't think I'd have to worry about you fucking someone on my kitchen table. Where I eat my goddamn meals."
Jack turned and looked at the table as if he hadn't thought of that. He didn't bother pulling on some pants, but I really wished he would have. It's a little unsettling talking to someone with their sex-slickened dong hanging out.
"I'll call you later, Jack," the young chick said, buttoning her loose cans into a flannel shirt. She looked at me and smiled with a shrug. "Sorry."
Jack sort of stood there, not sure where to look or what to do. He started to talk and I interrupted him.
"You know I'm going to have to burn this table now, right?"
Jack looked down at his diminishing erection. He nodded to the floor.
That night, with Jack's help, I pulled my kitchen table (one of the few things I got from my 2nd divorce) and with a small axe I used to wield when I was one of those faggots that liked to camp every weekend, I chopped the table into kindling. I dropped the pieces into an empty garbage can and lit the whole fucking works up.
Jack and I stood there in front of the barrel fire like a couple of homeless assholes, shifting our weight and shuffling our feet. We didn't say anything.
We just watched the fire.
Having a roommate is the shits. I mean, Jack is a good kid and all, but there's something about another person sharing your personal space that just gets up in the crack of your ass and starts to itch. You know?
Take the food situation. I don't like a whole lot of variety in my diet. Give me a Hot Pocket and a cold beer and I'm set for the night. I make sure I have plenty on hand so that I don't have to go to the store and stock up on those breaded delights. When I came home from work the other night, I found Jack sprawled out on the couch asleep. The crazy son of a bitch was wearing his skivvies and nothing else, a half-eaten broccoli, chicken and cheese Hot Pocket on his chest. Some of that day-glo cheese seeped out and was bonding to his three or four chest hairs.
That must've hurt like a motherfucker. Burned, at least. But no, Jack slept right through it. I don't know if I was pissed about the mess he'd made or that he'd gotten into my HP supply. Fucking kids.
Another time in the middle of the night, he came back to the apartment, piss drunk. He stumbled around the place, knocking over chairs, banging into walls and made it to the bathroom. There, he proceeded to throw up like someone was taking a rake to his insides and pulling 'em up through his throat. I lay in bed, looking at the ceiling and wishing he'd just go ahead and die already. I listened as he said:
"Oh, God Jesus. Oh, God Jesus.... Oh Gaaa-rowwwlffhfgdhu!!!!"
The poor, miserable prick was calling in a favor to God n' Jesus and they were both responding with a big 'fuck you.' He threw up for what seemed like 3 hours.
The capper was when I worked a day shift and cut out early to go and get a check up, you know, because of my fucking heart. I punched out in the early afternoon, took the goddamn bus to my appointment, got the 'change your diet this, watch your activity level that and I headed back to the apartment. When I got there, I could see the smell-ass shoes Jack wore in the entryway, alongside another pair of smaller chick-like shoes.
Great.
Thinking he was in his room probably drilling some floozy, I went into the kitchen. There, on my kitchen table, was a naked girl of about 21, attached at the vagina to Jack's fuckstick. They took no notice of me in the kitchen door way and were going at it like a couple of nymphomaniacs.
"Yeah, you like that? You like a little Jack-in-the-box?"
I couldn't believe he said that to this broad as he drilled his piss-pump home. Over and over. The broad's tits were doing pirouettes on her chest as she clutched the sides of my shitty little table.
I couldn't believe I was watching this. I also didn't realize she'd seen me.
"Oh shit," she said covering up her serviceable funbags. "Your dad is home."
Jack withdrew like it was second nature. 'Shlop.'
"Shit, Bill," Jack said, out of breath. "I didn't think you'd be home until, you know, later."
I blinked and watched as the girl scrambled to get dressed. She didn't know if she should cover her tits, her groomed snapper, or her nice round shitbox. I think she wished she had an extra arm to get the job done.
"Yeah," I think I said. "I sort of didn't think I'd have to worry about you fucking someone on my kitchen table. Where I eat my goddamn meals."
Jack turned and looked at the table as if he hadn't thought of that. He didn't bother pulling on some pants, but I really wished he would have. It's a little unsettling talking to someone with their sex-slickened dong hanging out.
"I'll call you later, Jack," the young chick said, buttoning her loose cans into a flannel shirt. She looked at me and smiled with a shrug. "Sorry."
Jack sort of stood there, not sure where to look or what to do. He started to talk and I interrupted him.
"You know I'm going to have to burn this table now, right?"
Jack looked down at his diminishing erection. He nodded to the floor.
That night, with Jack's help, I pulled my kitchen table (one of the few things I got from my 2nd divorce) and with a small axe I used to wield when I was one of those faggots that liked to camp every weekend, I chopped the table into kindling. I dropped the pieces into an empty garbage can and lit the whole fucking works up.
Jack and I stood there in front of the barrel fire like a couple of homeless assholes, shifting our weight and shuffling our feet. We didn't say anything.
We just watched the fire.
posted by Bill Tabernacle at 10:14 AM
3 Comments:
Was she hot, at least?
that was disrespectful. he should've at least offered sloppy seconds to ya.
I just wanna
doo doo dooo
tape you
doo doo doo
all night
yeah
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