My roommate proceeded to get plastered last night, coming home with a shit-faced grin, rubbery lips and fumbly stutter. Ah, the language of a drunkard.
And last night as I dozed to sleep and committed myself to a dream about the Rolling Stone intern, I could detect the faint blubbering from his room across the hall. It sounded like a sputtering car.
Since my roommate is a world renowned douche, I chalked it up to his being a drunken idiot.
"If you don't shut the fuck up, so help me God, I'm going to come across the hall and beat your ass," I hollered.
The blubbering continued followed by a high-pitched whine. He sounded like a kitty going through a vasectomy.
Again, I didn't know he was puking his guts out in a bag perched beside his bed. I thought he was just trying to piss me off, and keep me from hazy homosex.
"Motherfucker," I yelled again, "you need to shut that shit up! Nobody wants to hear your goddamned drunken horseshit."
I didn't hear from him the rest of the night. Sadly, I couldn't return to dreamland.
And thank Oprah that I apologized to him the next morning.

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