Tuesday, January 14, 2014

Anybody Home?

Wow, it sure is empty in here.

Oh, I guess I should tell you that my (now former) girlfriend moved out.  You might wonder why she left.  Well, for the same reason that all the other women who ever dated me left: I’m a moron when it comes to relationships.  For example, I have no idea that it’s a woman’s birthday even if she drops subtle hints such as, “Hey Ben, it’s my birthday.”  My relationship IQ is so low that it could be considered to be negative. That’s impossible, of course, because no one has a negative IQ, unless you count the Kardashians.

Before she moved in eight months ago, my home looked like a crack house.  There was nothing on my walls except rock posters, some food stains, and a little blood.  She beautified the place with paint, tasteful pictures, mosaics, and shades.  I came home one day and thought I'd wandered into my neighbor's house.  Again.

Now that she's gone my house has reverted to the shambles it always was, except the walls look good.  Well, they will when I patch them up.  You see, when I removed the nails and screws that used to hold up her pictures and mirrors, I created numerous holes, some of them the size of a large rodent.

As is normal when anyone moves, some debris was left behind.  My floors and carpeting are currently hidden by a three-inch layer of dirt, crumbs, pieces of paper, coins, pens, rubber bands, paper clips, scrunchies, rolls of tape, silverware, lint, socks, dust bunnies, dog hair tumbleweeds, batteries, nails, bags, cups, dishes, magazines, and a hammered dulcimer. The good news is that I finally found the remote.

Without her beautiful furniture and wall decorations, my house looks like it was both burglarized and vandalized.  I now eat on the floor, and there is nothing decorative on my walls, unless you consider dried pasta sauce to be art.

So, now that I no longer have a domestic companion (unless you count my dog, who would rather groom his nether region than associate with me), it is more important than ever to have friends over.  Fortunately I have 12 homemade beers on tap at all times, which causes everyone I know, including people who once sued me for personal injury, to flock to my house for desirable libations.  And by “desirable” I mean “free”.  What happens is I answer my front door and welcome them with open arms, at which point they rush past me, their feet making the same sounds that cartoon characters make when they run, to my basement.  Sometimes several of them will get stuck in the basement doorway, like the Three Stooges used to do, until the folks behind them push them through.  Then they run or tumble down the stairs because they can’t get to the taps fast enough.  I’m thinking of installing a slide.

The ensuing drinking frenzy typically lasts for hours, sometimes days.  They consume massive quantities of my brews, pausing occasionally to pee.  The crowd eventually decides, after prolonged heavy drinking, that I’m an okay guy.

Speaking of my bar, she did some amazing work.  Before her arrival it looked like a prison cell with taps.  Now ... well, let me illustrate.  Below are photos of my bar, one before and one after her slum beautification project.  See if you can tell which is which.

I know it's difficult, but I think you can figure it out.  She also did some other great stuff, including a gorgeous ceiling mural.  If I were to paint my ceiling, I'd have to take it down and hang it on my refrigerator.

Ah yes, my refrigerator.  There’s no food in it.  Oh sure, there’s stuff to put on food, such as ketchup, mustard, and petrified barbecue sauce, but there is more actual food stuck to my walls than there is in my refrigerator.  You see, my ex did most of the shopping and virtually all of the cooking because a lemur could cook better than I can.  I’m the only person I know who can burn water.  So I have become very well acquainted with the local Chinese restaurant, which delivers a plethora of dishes with names like "Moo Goo Gai Pan" and "Sum Ting Wong".  I have no idea what they are, so if I get a container full of chicken feathers, I can’t complain because that might be what I ordered.

If there’s any consolation in my new bachelorhood, it’s that I now have plenty of time to catch up on all the TV shows I never watch.  I don’t know why I pay Verizon $89 every month.  At first it seemed like a bargain for 931 channels.  Now I question the value of cable because the programs are so bad that one of the most popular shows is Duck Dynasty, where people who look like a cross between Willie Nelson and ZZ Top rebel against society by being paid large sums of money.

In summary, now would be a great time to visit me: there is a treasure trove of floor prizes, no pesky furniture to bump into, and plenty of beer.  So come on over!  Bring food.