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I have the best room ever

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A man’s home is his castle. My current home is a teeny-tiny apartment in Brooklyn that I share with two jazz musician roommates, an army of millipedes, a few families of mice and I think once I saw a seagull. Disgusting, I know, but they refuse to try rock and roll.

This makes my castle kinda the sucky kind of a castle, like those dumb ones made of sand (what are they called again? Dirt-turrets? Mud dungeons? It’ll come to me). Nevertheless it contains my room, where I do most, if not all, of my late-night carousing with loose women. Yeah, late-night carousing sure is great, though I would carouse 24/7 if it were up to me. Wouldn’t we all? Carousing is dope.

Speaking of carousing, as an open-mic comedian who specializes in non-sequitur one-liners and long drawn-out conceptual bits, I’m sure you’ve assumed that I meet my fair share of groupies. Usually the groupies coyly make their intentions known to me by making the first move. Like the the adorable way they trip me from being passed out right there on the sidewalk, although sometimes these groupies are asleep on the floor of the subway when we meet-cute. Oftentimes it takes a little memory jog to find out where they know me from (Is it from my longtime patronage of the Build-A-Bear workshop? Are you one of those hardcore fans who know my earlier work with the Rainforest Cafe?) but they almost always refer to me by my name: Mister.

Girls are always quite taken with how my room is decorated (messy, to the point of squalor), which gets them in the mood (frustrated, you know, with the squalor) even before we get down to doing “the deed” (cleaning my room before even considering sleeping with me).

But then after that, we get down to the awesome “sealing le deal” and “having le sex” part of the groupie encounter, which my room helps with too. Let me paint “el picture” for you. This is how it’s gonna go:

The first thing you might notice is the size of my room. Small. Cramped. Leaf-piles abound. Not unlike an opossum’s burrow. That, of course, turns you on for some reason. Maternal instincts probably, as opossums make great mothers and above-average babysitters.

You go to throw your coat on the bed, but where’s the bed? It’s on the floor baby, that’s where it is. “Ol’ Joe’s got the Serta on terra-firma.” I’ll slyly say. I’ll say it again a few more times throughout the night, too. It’s kind of a catchphrase I’m working on. You toss your coat onto the twin mattress, only lightly ruffling the Garfield comforter in the process.

My walls? Adorned with art. Great art. Like the dozens of amusement park caricatures of myself, riding a wakeboard or catching a pass, not to mention my favorite one, the one where I’m catching a pass while wakeboarding.

Great art, like the Whistler’s Mother print I painstakingly took the time to draw “stink lines” on.

Great art, like my watercolor paintings of the three members of the Supremes, which I will quickly and respectfully request you don’t block my sight of when we are carnally involved later.

You’ll ask me about the life-size cutout of Santa Claus that hangs behind my door. But your question will be cut short, for I will silently answer “It’s important to keep the spirit of the season with you throughout the year, isn’t it?” all with the expression in my eyes. This vulnerability no doubt excites you. I notice. “I’m so in” I think to myself, and also accidentally say aloud. “What?” you’ll say. I’ll smoothly rebound with “I’m so in-to music. Why don’t you throw on a record?”

My room houses my record collection. Your fingers gently drag along the spines of my LPs as you are no doubt impressed that one man could own so many vinyl copies of so many train and railroad sound-effects compilations. You keep perusing. You blaze past the Stockhausen, the Tiny Tim, and the apparently endless 45s of different versions of “Here Comes Peter Cottontail.” You select Prince’s Purple Rain and put the needle on the record. Turns out the Purple Rain sleeve contained a Bob Newhart album. The hilarious one-way phone calls of the button-down buffoon boom from my speakers.

Now I’m excited…

We make our way the six inches to the bed. You yank away the Garfield comforter, flinging my open copy of Charlotte’s Web across the room. It’s alright, baby, I’ll remember what page I’m on. You pull away the blanket with the football helmets on it. NFC only, of course. Hope that’s not a problem. We begin to disrobe on the fitted McDonaldland characters sheet. “Vintage,” I whisper. You’re too busy moaning to hear. Or belching. But, y’know, probably moaning. I brush the ‘Nilla Wafer crumbs off the pile of dirty laundry I typically use as a pillow, and we clock into, like, a hour of passion.

After much love-making and some time replaying the best bits off the Newhart album, we lay in a post-coital malaise, no doubt noshing on some ‘Nilla Wafers. You can’t help but knock over some of my figurines and choir trophies in your reach to switch on the lamp. “I think I knocked over this… guy?” you say drowsily. I pause the Gameboy (or Game-man as I refer to it, now that I’m a mature adult) that I began playing only after our primal tryst ended, I swear. To my horror, it becomes apparent that I just unknowingly had intercourse with someone who didn’t know an action figure replica of Sweetums, the full-body Muppet monster performed by Richard Hunt before his untimely demise in 1992, when she saw it. Not in my room, I think to myself. I choke back a few more ‘Nilla wafers and usher you out, post-haste, not knowing whether to be more disgusted with myself or you.

Oh yeah, there’s one more thing about my room I tell you as I hurry you out the door. “I have crabs,” I sneer. You are taken aback and hurt that I would relay this information in such a cold-hearted way. It sinks in that you’ll never get to meet my two hermit crabs, Trishawn and Itty-Bitty Aaron. And that’s too damn bad because those two are practically the coolest. It burns, but that’s life, baby. My terrarium, my rules. (Another catchphrase I’m giving a whirl.)

So anyway, that’s my room. My sanctuary away from the world. Perfectly suited for wooing the opposite sex, and also, from equal experience, for art-and-crafts projects. Mostly Spirograph, homemade pinatas, and I even designed the dirt-turret Itty-Bitty Aaron takes his naps in. (Trishawn slumbers next to the water dish, which is, heh, just…so Trishawn.)

Ah, dang. Speaking of dirt-turrets, I think that seagull’s back.


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