Roomate Chronicles – Part III

I just realized that I’m misspelling roommate by the way. Anyways, last time we had started the breaking point, the point of no return to which the hatred really started building.

They say its the little things that count in life. So when Chaz started trying to sell weed out of our apartment, it was that tiny straw that broke the camels back.

Unfortunately, you cannot (and I can’t stress this enough) be both a pot seller, and a pot head. So when a pot head goes and buys an ounce of weed for the purpose of selling it, often times very little makes it past his own fat ass.

Now, from living with a few pot heads in my day, there’s one thing that I can conclusively say: People that are high are quite fun to fuck with. People that are high that you contempuously dispise are incredibly fun to fuck with.

The first things to deal with were those fucking shoes. You see, the only clothes Chaz owned were about 4 solid colored sweat suits, and those 4 ‘per’ of Air Force Ones. He had them lined up in the living room for all to see. He would match the shoes with whatever color sweats he had on that day (typically whatever he wore the day before), then like an overplump penguin, waddle outside, each step a mile of effort.

So you can image the joy I had when I took a single orange shoe and threw it in the dumpster outside.

Hey dog…you seen a shoe anywhere? Man, I can’t remember where I left that shoe.

Who throws a shoe? I mean seriously. If you can imagine a 350lb sloth moving around our 100 sq. ft. apartment everyday looking for his shoe, then you imagine what our first victory felt like.

The next decisive victory was slightly more apparent….