The "Youth" Hostel

Last weekend some of my roommate's friends came down to visit. The group consisted of two guys and two girls. Since we have so much room here, this was absolutely no bother at all, and the people turned out to be very funny and cool to hang out with. Plus they loved the krupnikas I made. I mean... who wouldn't. They wanted the recipe though, and that just isn't happening.

Anyhow, the blog-worthy events happened on Saturday evening, after I had called it quits on a particularly lame party and come home to pick away at the veritable mountain of bullshit work I had to do. As I was sitting in my room reading some article about "what does it mean to be a nation?" or some other maddeningly abstract question with no answer, I hear the group of rowdy almost-30s come back from their night of revelry. The star of this story is... well let's name him Joe.

Almost immediately upon entering, I hear a cacophony of "All right, take off your [insert item of clothing here], Joe, take off your [insert item of clothing here]." As soon as they moved past "shoes" and "socks," I was somewhat interested in why this man was being stripped in my kitchen. But certainly not interested enough to figure it out. I think to myself, all right, it's possible this is just an incidence of having a bit too much to drink and perhaps booting on one's clothing. Not completely out of the ordinary. Then I hear them all asking each other, "what do we do with [insert item of clothing here]?" "Down the trash chute! Down the trash chute!" I didn't want to believe what I was thinking in my head. After all, it could just be a case of Joe wanting to revisit the taste of his dinner.

Then I hear one of the girls tell Joe to "get in the shower and wash your butt." Now, this wasn't a "Get in there and wash your ass up" kind of remark. I assume you can see where this is going. On the way home from the restaurant, poor Joe had dropped his meatloaf well short of the porcelain saucepan -- yes, defecated in his pantaloons, and come back to our apartment.

On his way to the bathroom, he yells slurredly "Ohhhh maaaaaan! Someone's already in there!" At this point I'm thinking, oh God, I offered my bathroom earlier for them to shower in. PLEASE DON'T REMEMBER THAT! PLEASE DON'T REMEMBER THAT! I scream, in my head. The territorial integrity of my room remained intact, but then all of a sudden I hear a crescendo of "oh God... oh God... NO! JOE! NOT ON THE BED!" and a salvo of hurried footsteps into my roommate's room. I can only assume he was stopped just short of his target.

Eventually Joe made it in and out of the shower and passed out in an appropriate place, manner, and level of cleanliness. I refused to get up from my desk to survey the damage, but politely closed my door, and hoped that my always-responsible roommate would have the room cleaned up and poo-free come morning time. I was not disappointed. Thank god for having two bathrooms.

Oh, and I guess I didn't mention this, but these two couples... yeah they were married. Joe and the girl corralling him throughout the ordeal were married. So if God forbid one of my audience members gets such crazy ideas as tying the knot, ask yourself... would you be willing to clean up after your spouse if he/she pinched off a nice Havana omelet walking down the street?