I was dreaming about Lindsay Lohan snorting a line of coke from Britney Spears' snatch and my upcoming metier at Pus Weakly, when my roommate Frenchy McFrench's alarm clock blared like an Odyssean Siren. It's the most high pitched sound you'll ever hear.
I shot him a look like "turn that fucking thing off, you French sonofabitch." Mind you, he lets the blasted thing continue to screech.
So I'm trying to think about my dream and Lindsay Lohan snorting a line of coke from Britney Spears' snatch, when Frenchy McFrench decides to eat cereal in the kitchen. This also is the loudest gnawing you'll hear this side of the Catskills. I can hear him in our fucking room.
Frenchy McFrench's jaws of death flapping furiously over wheat pebbles, gulping down a carton of tainted Mexican milk he bought at the cheap-o store for $.99.
I picture him as my cat, Bitey, who likes to chomp each piece of his Kibbles & Bits into a nice puree. Like his animal carbon copy, this Bitey concentrates on each bite, deriving a sick pleasure from the act of mastication.