Archive for House-mates

11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck – #11

Posted in 11 Shit Things That Make Share-house Living Suck. with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 23, 2008 by Buck Frain

pennywise

#11. Other People’s Psychos

 

So, you’re a pretty good judge of character, huh? You’ve been around the share-house world long enough to know a few probing questions to ask of potentials, you’ve read books on body language and psychology and you know how to pick house-mates. Good work. Congratulations! You may well be great at telling what sort of people you want living in your house but how the fuck can you tell what sort of people they let into their lives? Ah, you didn’t think about that did you?

 

With every house-mate who’s not a complete nut-job-loner themselves, comes a horde of acquaintances, friends and relatives, some of whom may or may not be completely unhinged. And the best thing is that you’ll never know until you experience them first hand.

 

It’s 11:30pm I answer the door to a mournful, unsunned, waif.

 

Is Stephen in?

 

Stephen. Maybe I should have known. He wasn’t much of a ladies man but I didn’t think he was this depressed.

 

No, he’s…

 

I’ll just wait for him!

 

Stephen’s bedroom door slammed shut behind her. I was still standing at the door amazed at the nimble stealth that had propelled her under my arm and up the hallway. This definitely wasn’t a good sign. Welcome friends don’t scam their way in like that. No, this was bad. This was really, really bad. I’d let a complete stranger, a very sketchy-looking complete stranger into my housemate’s bedroom. Bad. Bad. Bad.

 

I shut the front door in case she was just the first of a legion of emo-zombies ravenous for the taste of non-suicidal brains. She’d only been in my house for seconds and already my will to live was ebbing away. I phoned Stephen and described his visitor.

 

You cunt, why did you let her in?

 

I fucking didn’t! She just dodged past me. Who the fuck does that?

 

Well, tell her to get out.

 

Fuck you, cunt, you get her to go, she’s your fucking girlfriend!

 

SHE’S NOT MY FUCKING GIRLFRIEND! WHAT’S SHE FUCKING DOING? FUCK!!!

 

He hung up. The girl had locked herself in his room and wouldn’t answer me when I tried to speak to her. This was becoming a cuntfully unpleasant scenario. Stephen rang back and swore at me and told me he wasn’t coming home for a couple of days in the hope she’d just leave. I told him he was piss-weak and that her being in our house at all was unacceptable, let alone for a few days, that she had locked herself in his room, wasn’t coming out and wasn’t talking, and that if he didn’t get his stupid arse home and get rid of her I would call the police. I added that if they got her out and he wasn’t back it was my firm intent to have a shit in his bed.

 

The police indeed came, they had to break the bedroom door to get in. The silly bitch had taken a bunch of pills and was unconscious in a big pile of vomit on his bed. The vomit made me feel a bit better about the situation. The ambulance came and they took her off to hospital and, yes, she was fine, and yes it may be sad and I don’t mean to treat suicide lightly but that wasn’t what this was. She wasn’t trying to kill herself, it turns out she just does this shit! This was her fucking schtick! Her equivalent to a shitting chat-up line, if you will! When she likes someone she has a bit of a failed-suicide at their house to illicit sympathy and create emotional ties based on a shared crisis and the lay foundations for a chronically unhealthy relationship. Personally I think she should fucking top herself, everyone would be better off, she’d be happier and, really, it’s not like the planet’s short of people, is it?

 

That’s just one story, though, there are fucking psychos everywhere. If you’re not already, you should be terrified…of everyone…all the time – people are fucked! A former house-mate of mine had a friend who seemed fine, just like a normal bloke…except…he liked to shit in weird places. You’d get up after having had a party the night before and you’d find a massive human turd in the driveway…or on the balcony…OR IN THE FUCKING FRIDGE!!! We thought someone had a serious grudge against one of us but then it started happening to people we knew at their parties as well. There was a phantom shitter at large. It took years of freak-outs and an eventual triangulation between circles of friends to work out that it was Cam and he just likes to pinch one off at parties– like it was some kind of satanic house-warming gift. Hey, he wasn’t my fucking friend!

 

There was the six months after Dion moved out when we realised that he’d been dealing speed the whole time because his crazy, junkie, scum-bag clients kept coming ‘round in the middle of the night to score.

 

Then there was Trish, she was a kinda cool rock-chick but her hardcore-militant-feminist friends made Romper Stomper look like Sesame Street and made me put a massive cunting lock on my bedroom door for fear of being emasculated in my sleep.

romper_stomper 

So that’s it – 11 shit things that make share-house living suck! My hand is a lot better, I still live on my own, I will continue to do so and, Peter, you’re still a pathetic ballbag! People, don’t be fooled – Bill Hicks was right about human beings – We’re a virus with shoes! People are completely fucked and if you’ve any sense at all you won’t live with any of them, EVER!!!

11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck – #3

Posted in 11 Shit Things That Make Share-house Living Suck. with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 26, 2008 by Buck Frain


#3. Bio-hazard Bathroom

Let me make this clear: I am not a clean freak. I’m not like the former emergency room nurse I lived with for a while who used to disinfect everything including the walls on a daily basis. Incidentally, she was great, I never lived in a house so clean – it’s just a shame she was also a paranoid schizophrenic, we were on a good wicket for a while.

I am realistic – I get that there is dirt and I tolerate it in moderation but seriously, what the chewed-off-piss-flaps is wrong with people? Why do these pigs insist on living in their own filth? It makes me want to vomit in their beds, and I mean a really good cheese-fondue-and-red-wine vomit that stains and stinks with equal power. Fuck it – the bathroom is where you come to get clean. When the floor of the shower is slick with a layer of – what the shit is that? Algae? – when black mould is climbing up the soap-crusted glass of the shower screen, it’s just revolting. How can I get clean in filth? It’s impossible. 

I try anyway but when I reach for the soap I see it is covered with pubes. Not just one or two, although that would be bad enough, but fucking hundreds of them. Is there actually any soap underneath? I don’t fucking know I’m just trying not to throw up. The Soap Pube Bandit has struck again. It bewilders me how anyone can lose this many pubes regularly. Does one of my house-mates have cancer? The bastard better fucking well die from it if they’re going to keep being such a filthy maggot. Surely you can see the pubes when you put the soap back in its dish! I wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t my  soap. Buy your fucking own, you cunting great shit-smeared gorilla! I’d buy shower gel except I can’t find one with a lockable lid to prevent wasteful borrowers from using half the bottle in one day. How dirty can you possibly get? What the fuck needed that much lathering? No, no, don’t answer that!!! 

The shower is just a part of it. There’s the scum-tide rings in the bath, there’s the dribbly nob. Most houses have a dribbly nob. Someone who just can’t get all their piss in the toilet bowl. I’m not talking about the occasional incidence of a house-mate being too rat-arsed to aim straight, although that too is pretty offensive – How did you get piss there? Were you lying down? – I’m talking about the guy who lets the last dribble of piss land on the floor just in front of the bowl. He does it every single time and when do I become aware of it? At 3am when I drowsily stumble barefoot into the bathroom and awaken myself by stepping in someone else’s cold urine. WHAT THE CUNT IS WRONG WITH YOU? ARE YOU 80 YEARS OLD??? DIE, YOU STINKING FUCKER, DIE!!! 

But it never ends, there’s the chalky layer of spat toothpaste speckled with beard stubble in the hand basin – what the fuck? Then, has someone been using my toothbrush? What sort of ballbag uses someone else’s toothbrush? Can’t you tell the difference between them? Aren’t the primary colours and variations in design and bristle pattern vivid enough distinctions? Excuse me, do you have Hepatitis C?

Quick fact: Hey, filth-mongers, you can get Hep C from sharing a toothbrush and there is NO cure for it!

Have you used my razor as well? It was brand new and now it’s duller than Peter Costello‘s autobiography. Let’s hope you don’t have HIV either, you cock-rotting fucktard! Yes, there are lots of things you can get from sharing razors and most people don’t demand blood tests from the people they share houses with but perhaps they should – when you think about it seriously the stakes are pretty damn high. So, how did you get HIV? Unprotected, anonymous bum sex? Oh no, I once shared a house with a complete cunt! 

The stand-off between pigs and bitches reaches fever pitch in the bathroom. This can be the room where the battle is lost or won. It’s personal and the stakes are very high, it will provoke many a lively discussion but if the players are stubborn and no-one gives it can be the deciding factor in people leaving a house. 

I fucking refuse to share my bathroom with pigs. I live on my own, I’m happy and clean and I don’t take my life in my hands every time I use the shitting bathroom!

11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck – #2

Posted in 11 Shit Things That Make Share-house Living Suck. with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 20, 2008 by Buck Frain

#2. Dishes Jenga

 

The aftermath of dishes berserker is clean but no less treacherous. Given the marathon effort of cleaning every dish in the house over two-plus hours, the idea of drying them all and putting them away is too much of a cruel and unusual punishment for most to consider. So the unusable kitchen filled with dirty dishes is now an unusable kitchen filled with precariously balanced clean ones. A new stand-off begins, it’s the game of Dishes Jenga.

 

Dishes Jenga is never spoken about but it invariably happens unless, of course, a bitch can be found. It takes its name from the Hasbro game which in turn takes its name from the Swahili word for build. The game is this: Any player may remove the dish(es) they need and use them as they see fit without putting the clean dishes away providing no-one else sees them with the dishes and most importantly, so long as the pile of dishes remains intact and no re-organisation of said dishes is required to remove the desired articles. This can be done because while the clean dish piles are undisturbed there is a fog of plausible deniability that shrouds the kitchen in mystery. Any player can quite believably claim:

Oh, I didn’t see them there.

Or

I haven’t used any dishes, I haven’t even been in the kitchen for days.

Or even

Fuck off, man, who the fuck are you?

 

Whilst everyone secretly knows that everyone else is playing the game, no-one is confronted with direct, incontrovertible evidence of the game’s existence, therefore it can continue unimpeded. As soon as someone creates evidence of the game’s existence they lose and must put all the dishes away. Such causes for losing the game are:

 

  • Getting caught using dishes while the pile remains – This will be met with patronising, even hostile responses from your house-mates as it indicates your extreme selfishness.
  • Disrupting the pile and sending an avalanche of dishes crashing to the floor – This is met with even more hostile responses as not only are you a conniving, selfish cunt-rag, but you just smashed a pile your house-mates’ crockery whilst attempting to scam your way out of a minimal gesture towards communal life.  

Usually the game is lost without any such drama. You’ll just be trying to get a knife out so you can butter a piece of toast when the plates shift and you know it’s all over. You replace the knife with surgical precision, quietly acknowledge defeat and spend half an hour putting the dishes away. That is unless you don’t really want the toast buttered, in which case you replace the knife, eat dry toast and leave the pile for someone else…you cunt! No-one ever wins Dishes Jenga – it only has losers.

11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck.

Posted in 11 Shit Things That Make Share-house Living Suck. with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 17, 2008 by Buck Frain

 

If it wasn’t bad enough that I have had to endure the indignity of disability and the smug, well-humoured Hoh hoh, what have you done to yourself?s  that go along with it, I had a particularly malignant acquaintance capitalise on my misfortune in order to prove his bullshit neo-hippy thesis that my living alone makes me an elitist fuck and that I should get over my self-importance and live in a share-house like a real person, thus helping save the planet by being more economical with energy and water and, of course, breaking less crockery by having house-mates who’d do the dishes.

 

Peter,

Fuck you! You are a complete cunt! If I thought I could get away with it I would chop your head off and stuff it in your fucking worm farm, you patronising perma-culture-shit-freak. Everyone hates you, did you know that? Everyone at work also suspects you are a chronic masturbator because you always look vaguely sweaty and glassy eyed and you’re too anal to just be stoned at work. In addition, you know how you shagged Emma from accounts after the Christmas party? And how you bragged about it like a complete wank-stain? She told me and Shane that you couldn’t get it up, and that then you cried and said it was because you’d really fancied her for ages and you were just overwhelmed by the moment. Ha ha ha ha ha!!! She told us this the next night at the pub and since then we’ve been gradually shopping the tale around to everyone, that’s why the new girls always smile at you! Ah, you suck!

DON’T EVER TALK TO ME AGAIN OR I’LL BURN YOUR FUCKING HOUSE DOWN!!!

 

Sorry. Back to my point. Peter had made me really angry. How dare he suggest I go back to share-house life? I beat the nightmare of shared accommodation and I vowed never to go back. The more I thought about how much of a cunt Peter is and why I hate share-house living, the more reasons I found to stick to my guns. So for your entertainment, in no particular order I will share 11 Shit Things That Make Share-House Living Suck.

 

#1 Pigs, Bitches & Dishes Berserker.

 

OK, so that’s three shit things. I only really wanted to talk about dishes berserker but in order to do that it’s important that everyone understand the nature of pigs and bitches.

 

In a perfect world the inhabitants of a share-house would distribute household duties evenly between them, there would be no need of rosters, reminders, snide remarks or passive-aggressive notes. It would be an anarchic utopia where the people would organize themselves and live in equitable harmony. I imagine most people who have endured shared accommodation will have found that life is rarely so idyllic.

 

In my experience every share-house has a pig. This is the dirtiest person in the house and they will determine the dirt level the rest of the occupants have to endure unless a bitch can be found. A bitch is anyone who’s filth tolerance is lower than their resistance to becoming everyone else’s mum. They will end up cleaning up everyone else’s crap because they can’t stomach living in an open sewer. Pigs prey on this characteristic and wait it out until the bitch reveals themselves. They don’t necessarily enjoy living in filth, they just have an aversion to cleaning. The bitch mantle once earned is hard to shed.

 

If no bitch appears, sooner or later  the house runs out of dishes which presents a problem. In my experience this precipitates a discussion in which everyone eventually agrees to take turns at doing the dishes, whilst secretly hoping that a bitch can still be found. So a stand-off develops, the dishes pile up and no-one does them until there are no more and every surface of the kitchen is covered in dirty, smelly, crusted-up dishes, then the person whose turn it is relents and does dishes berserker*. That is, unless they’re on tour in Queensland for a month with their stupid band like a total cunt, in which case the remaining occupants have to fight it out amongst themselves.

 

I fucking hate doing the dishes. I don’t imagine there are too many people who truly love it but it’s one of many things that really shits me off. Unfortunately, I also really despise dirt. I make a strong distinction between dirt and mess. I don’t mind a place being a bit messy and other people’s things lying around as long as it’s not dirty (within reason, of course – don’t leave your rubber fist on the coffee table no matter how clean it is, that’s just wrong). Dirt is disgusting, but as much as I hate dirt, I’m fucked if I’ll just lie down and be bitch just because the cock-rotting fuck-pigs I live with have no sense of domestic hygiene. Dishes berserker is completely fucked and so are pigs and bitches.

 

*Dishes Berserker is so called because it is a truly epic undertaking. Where doing the dishes for anyone in a normal household takes 10-15 minutes, dishes berserker can cover the entire tracklist of three CDs and still leaves in its wake another, potentially more hazardous, problem.