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House hits rock bottom

How the other half lives

By Zach Parks, Senior Staff Writer

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Published: Thursday, April 21, 2005

Updated: Monday, February 15, 2010

I live in a slum. For the last 20 years my house has been a pass down in the loving hands of caring sorostitutes. The furniture matched. It had pretty wallpaper. It had a breakfast nook. Then last year it was ransacked by socially unacceptable cavemen. Consequently, in the last two years this house has got its sh*t ruined. Our furniture matches in the sense that everything is covered in a dust/urine combination. The pretty wallpaper has been replaced with fist-shaped holes. The breakfast nook looks like a junkyard sprung to life and rolled around in a landfill. In short, the house looks like herpes. It is nothing short of wooden and plaster diarrhea. The windows are broken and boarded up. There's garbage everywhere. But one eventful Friday night the house would hit an all time low. That being said, the following event is based on a true story. My roommate, who I'll call Boston Jake, had just returned from Indiana with a dangerous amount of fireworks and an unhealthy amount of booze. The combination of the poor decision-making induced by the booze and the destructive power/awesomeness of explosives is more than any toilet can possibly handle. What followed was a porcelain and urine abortion. The curious thing is that it looked nothing like it does in the movies. No dramatic geysers of water, no dirty clouds of smoke, just a sharp cracking sound followed by a profuse layering of obscenities on the part of yours truly. Boston Jake had blown up our toilet. I hadn't been this upset since I learned that 4/20, the biggest drughappy fun holiday since Easter, fell right in the middle of the job search drug test season. Water flowed out the door and down the stairs. Not just regular water, toilet water. In the ultimate act of betrayal, a device designed to dispose of excrement was now spilling it all over our damn floor. Here's a minute-by-minute recap of what would happen next. 10:15 p.m. In a feeble attempt to salvage the remaining shards of our security deposit Boston Jake looks up toilet prices online. 10:16 p.m. Boston Jake realizes toilets are ass expensive. 10:17 p.m. Boston Jake decides to steal someone else's toilet. A mere three blocks from our house there is an abandoned elementary school (read: graveyard of forgotten toilets). Not only does this give us a cornucopia of turd disposers, it gives us a cornucopia of high-powered industrial turd disposers. These toilets can swallow baseballs and rip phone books in half. We had to have one. After entering the moldy condemned building with two accomplices and a toolbox full of dreams, Boston Jake managed to hijack a replacement. The next morning, sitting atop a bicycle, wrapped up in a garbage bag, the coveted toilet was pushed into my front yard. He had succeeded. Long story short, this is why I can't have nice things. Not that anyone in my house could afford nice things anyway. The purpose of the preceding anecdote is to give the rich white kids of Miami a brief window into how the poor white kids live. It's really not as different as it sounds though. We put Band-Aids on our boo-boos just like you, except rather than pay retail and have the Band-Aids delivered to our doorstep, we dig through your garbage cans for used Band-Aids. The same holds true for condoms. Just kidding. Poor students don't wear condoms. When you rich kids are at the bar pounding $6 Jager-bombs, we're drinking cooking wine and fermented toothpaste. When you rich kids are talking about how cute your $500 purebred dog is, all we talk about is how delicious that dog must taste. My house has become a Crysler LeBaron in the parking lot of life. In short, it's like a third world country minus the malaria and leprosy. But on the plus side, at least we know the plumbing works.

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