Archive for January, 2010

Peanut Butter Shenanigans

Posted: January 3, 2010 by S. Trevor Swenson in Me & Mine
Tags: , , ,

Generally speaking I am pretty fond of my roommate. I enjoy our conversations about sports, politics and the state of the world. He is easy going and neat enough without being anal. He pays his rent and bills on time, and doesn’t borrow my clothes, drugs, or money and he doesn’t hit on the women who are brave enough to visit me at Cock Roach Manor. All important stuff as far as a roommate goes. There are of course things he does that annoy me, just as I am sure there are things I do that annoy him. For example, he cooks this microwave popcorn that smells like a sewer rat’s asshole. To counter this I invite Jehovah’s Witnesses in the apartment, and tell them my roommate is very interested in speaking with them . . . then I leave.

There is one thing he does that I find completely unacceptable. One major no-no where I am concerned. One step on my Blue Suede Shoes . . . the bastard steals my peanut butter.
I like to eat. I eat often and in large quantities. My strange cravings have an urgency that can’t be measured. I generally don’t care for sweets, with the exception of when I wake up several times over the course of an evening, then for some reason I need them. I have gotten out of bed and plodded to the nearest store for a Luna Bar in blizzards and torrential downpours at 3 AM. To sate my late night sweets cravings there are three primary things I require. 1. Luna Bars 2. Yogurt (blueberry, peach or cherry usually) and 3. Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwiches.
It’s bad enough when he de-flowers my virgin jars of Skippy Extra Crunchy. In doing this he deprives me of the fleeting feeling of security I get from my unopened jar. It may be a sick sad world outside, but at least for that moment, I have a full jar of peanut butter, some soft rye bread and squeezy fruit spread in the fridge that makes wonderful farty noises when I squeeze it, thus making me giggle.
This behavior is bad enough, but his coup de grace is when he eats the last bit of my peanut butter and returns the jar to the cupboard so I can go through the motions of getting the bread, the knife, the Smucker’s out of the fridge only to be DENIED. Peanut butter containers are deceptive. Even when they are empty they look and feel like they still have one sandwiches worth left. Bastard. The ironic part is that he has peanut butter of his own. Creamy all natural crap. If you want the extra chunky Skippy, go out and buy the extra chunky Skippy and leave mine alone.

Since it is three in the morning and I have rules to the contrary, I can’t very well wake him up and beat him savagely. Of course I could take the well-adjusted, adult option and ask him not to eat my peanut butter, but as we all know by now, I am neither adult nor well-adjusted. This calls for something stupid, passive-aggressive and idiotic.

The idea comes to me out of the blue as 90% of my half-baked, poor impulse control brain farts do. I will, as politicians are so fond of saying “send a real message”. I will stick my penis into his unused peanut butter (I refrained from using the term ‘virgin’ in this instance for obvious reasons) I will leave a perfect dick mold in his peanut butter and garnish it with a pubic hair origami rose. This will be the best warning/message since Don Corleone had a horse’s head put in Jack Woltz’s bed as he slept.

So, first I grab his PB unscrew the top and peel off the protective foil. Take that you thieving fuckwad. I pull down my pajama bottoms and get ready for the plunge. Then I realize, I will need an erection for this. Off to my room to for some erectile assistance. I can get it up without, but Simon, my roommate would be home at any minute and haste was of the utmost importance. The internet’s 20 sec free porn clips have made me into a terrible sex partner, but great at quickie hard-ons. I’m standing at attention in seconds flat. Then it’s back to the kitchen for the deed. I aim, and insert thinking that it’s a good thing he doesn’t buy chunky PB, as that would probably feel like getting a blow job from and epileptic piranha. This is when my half-baked plan starts to fall apart. My penis goes in wonderfully, but the all-natural peanut butter sticks to it, so my plan of a perfect penis mold is shot to hell.

I hear Simons key in the door. Shit. This is going to be really tough to explain if he catches me with my pants around my ankles and my dick violating his peanut butter. I sprint to my bedroom as best I can with my jammies around my feet and I make it in the nick of time. “Hey Man” Simon calls out to me as he enters the kitchen. “Hey Bro” I reply. “How’s life treating you” he yells to me. “Um . . . Pretty . . . good” is my reply looking down at the mess on my goodies. “That’s cool” he says and goes off to microwave his stank ass popcorn. I wait for him to finish and go to his room and I survey the damage. It’s not pretty. I pull the jar off of my penis and LOTS of it sticks. If I pull my jammies back up, I am going to get lots of peanut butter all over my jammies which concerns me in terms of laundry day. I wipe the peanut butter jar off, and it’s off to the shower for me. It’s amazing how long it takes to get peanut butter off of a penis and pubic hair. Suffice to say I ran out of hot water. I put what’s left of Simon’s PB back. I will have to think of another way to send a message.