I couldn’t help but feel a little bit awkward in court the other day as my divorce was finalized.  I was listening to a list of reasons as to why my marriage didn’t work, as read by the judge…..lazy, drug problem, doesn’t clean up after himself, unreliable…these were all things she wrote on the paperwork.  I for some reason had to sit there and listen to these out loud in a crowded court and listen as the people in court laughed….at me.  It was a completely new experience for me, to completely be the butt of jokes and have complete strangers look at me and know I’m a slob.  Of course I’m going on the for instance that they didn’t notice the ripped sweats and vans with a beanie hat and the classic stained T-shirt.  Sometimes my shirt’s so bad it looks like the apron of a fry cook at KFC.  But, I digress.  I guess the reason I wasn’t in such good spirits about it is because I could for the first time in my short-lived marriage identify with the person whom I had deemed unfit to carry the Larsen name.  Some people go through life concerned with the fact that they might turn into their parents one day.  I’m truly scared I might have already turned into my Ex-wife. 

    You see, I had a lot of big money gigs in the month of April, which just happened to be the same month I had to move out from my house and separate from my wife.  All this money that I earned made the transition a little bit too easy.  I was able to, and I still don’t know why, pay to live in hotels for about four months.  At one time I lived at the Econo-Lodge for about two weeks straight.  I and my friends would work on my cabin out at the river and then we’d come into town and party it up.  Well I’m sure you can guess that at one point the high priced hotel living had to come to a stop before the money did. 

    I decided to buy a house, but soon figured out that I wouldn’t have enough money to adequately live every month.  I needed to get room-mates.  I will for the sake of their reputations leave names out of this.  I instead will make up other names that will be hard for anyone to decipher.  I have a two bedroom two story house on the hilltop of Tacoma.  It is one of the most crime-ridden areas of all Tacoma.  Of the two bedrooms I have, the big one is upstairs…mine, and the other one I decided to rent out to my friend Trevor Simmons.  You see Trevor, was like me, no place to stay.  Only thing I didn’t ask myself is why he didn’t have a place to stay.   I had a very valid reason, with the divorce and all.  It just never crossed my mind at all to ask.  Hindsight is 20/20.  The other room-mate is a friend of mine who’s getting back into comedy.  He’s not getting a lot of work yet so we cover the bills for him; it’s not a big deal.  His name is J.C. Bluitt.  It’s an interesting marriage of bachelordom and drug addiction at my house.  Everyone always has some sort of new contraption to smoke the green with, some new way to push the boundaries of highness.  When their isn’t any herb around, J.C. never seems to mind getting a paper clip and scraping a pipe…or bong….or knives….basically anything he thinks that might have some resin on it.  He is the left over king.  If I’m smoking out of my bong and leave a couple hits in there because I fall asleep, I can be assured it’ll be the last time I’ll see those couple of hits.  Like a tide that’s been out too long he sweeps in to the area covering up all the smoke and dragging it back to the sea.  He’s even been known to scrape a pipe when he wasn’t supposed to.  One time he asked me if he could borrow my pipe to use because he and his friend didn’t have one.  I was hesitant.  My pipe had never been scraped.  I had kept it for almost a year without breaking down and scavenging.  Surely there were three and half grams of solid resin.  I relented though.  I sent my pipe away…saying goodbye to the resin for I was to never see it again.  When J.C. returned my pipe I don’t think the boys at CSI could have found a trace of resin on it.  The worst part is he just laughed about it.  So I nagged him about it.  That’s right, me, a grown man, and nagging.  I was starting to turn. 

    The next time I had been keeping my one hitter, the only pipe he had been unable to scrape, in my car.  I brought it in late one night when he was asleep not even thinking about it.  I smoked the small amount that was in there, and went off to bed.  When I awoke four hours later it was clean as a whistle, and J.C. was snug as a bug on the couch.   I mean the precision and speed at which he can dismantle a stash is on par with no other.  The only other thing J.C. does that’s weird is he smokes.  Not to big of a deal, except he smokes inside the house.  It’s always been a rule in any house I’ve lived in that people smoke outside.  J.C. for some reason doesn’t understand this.  He smokes in the bathroom when he’s shitting.  He doesn’t think it’s bad because one time while trying to open up the bathroom window so he could smoke when he shits, he busted the bottom of the window and now it is permanently opened.  This makes him think that’s its ok to smoke inside now because the windows open.  I ask politely for people not to smoke in the bathroom.  The response I get is that all smokers smoke when they shit.  It’s apparently something that helps the movement.  I don’t smoke and therefore am shitting without any performance enhancing narcotics.  For me to not like the smell of smoke and now have to sit in it longer than they would because I’m not smoking to improve my time is completely unfair.  So, they said they wouldn’t do it anymore.  But from time to time I go in the bathroom and there’ll be evidence like ashes in the sink, ashes in the toilet, cigarettes in the sink and cigarettes in the toilet.  I’ve even been on the side of some dishonesty about it.  I can remember two times in particular when I was in the bathroom looking at a cigarette in the toilet with ashes all around the rim.  I asked J.C. if he had smoked in the bathroom and he said that no, nobody did that anymore.  I then opened the door and asked him about how someone keeps breaking into my house and smoking in the bathroom and none of us ever seem to see the little fucker.  He shakes his head and says “Damnit, I thought I cleaned that up.”  So then here’s what I’m up against.  They are actively trying to deceive me about this smoking and shitting thing.  It’s like it’s worth it to smoke and then spend ten minutes trying to clean it up, rather than just wait and go outside right afterwards.  Maybe that’s what they meant when they said that each cigarette takes ten minutes off your life.  But here’s the shitty thing, pardon the pun, not smoking and losing more time off of your life cleaning up after smokers who didn’t want to lose that ten minutes off of their life.  J.C. though, underneath all the deceit and pipe scraping, is a good person and he does one thing that Trevor never has…..Clean. 

    Trevor as I have grown to know and love has a cleaning fuse that’s blown in his box.  He has and continues to avoid cleaning at all.  It’s mid-November now and he has not cleaned one time in almost four months of living here.  I’m not just talking about his room folks, nor the kitchen, or living room or even the yard, or taking out the trash, the bathroom, his car, or even his body……Trevor refuses to clean anything.  There is Styrofoam in the back yard from the second day we lived here.  He got an entertainment center for his room and left the Styrofoam in the living room and didn’t clean it up.  I said “Trevor, you need to clean this shit up.  I don’t want a girl coming over here and you fucking up pussy for being a slob.”  He assured me that it wouldn’t be like that and then he did what any sane individual with Styrofoam that needs to be disposed of would do, he threw it in the back yard.  That was almost four months ago.  Trevor also has an extreme hatred for showering.  I think and don’t quote me on this, he has only showered at our house less that ten times, in almost four months.  I’m being quite generous when I say ten too.  I count in my head only about six times where there has been proof, and by proof I mean being able to walk within ten feet of him with out burning your nostrils and falling down like a water buffalo after a tranquilizer.  He is the smelliest person I’ve ever met in my life.  This is coming from me too.  I’m not going to try to hide the fact that if I can logically argue that I haven’t sweated enough in one day that I don’t need a shower.  But, I never let it go more than two days…..or so.  I have a showering handicap though.  Just like in golf, the worse you are at it, theres a system for deducting strokes or adding them.  If I shower only four or five times a week, to complete my handicap I have to have not only use deodorant but cologne too.  If I only missed one day a week I could get by with just deodorant.  Trevor not only misses every day of the week, he has no cleaning products that would adjust his score.  Instead he says fuck it, I’m not good at golf, but I’m not taking a mulligan either, I’m going to keep going til I get it right, even if it does mean you need smelling salts to get my smell out of your nose.  Trevor could actually be an event on Fear Factor that’s how smelly and disgusting he is.  Joe Rogan would point out Trevor and tell them he’s the next stunt and someone would for sure say “Isn’t there any way we could just eat the hundred year old cow-ball-eggnogg??”  I bug him all the time about it.  People in public joke about it.  He shows up to business meetings in Tye-died shirts, smelling like B.O. run over twice.  When he sits on the couch or lazy boy, he leaves an ora with it that makes you not be able to sit on it for some time.  All this and he still doesn’t even clean up after himself.  He dirties dishes and leaves them in his room for weeks at a time and then brings them out once they’ve been petrified and we’re supposed to clean them.  Last week, J.C. and I cleaned the whole place up.  When Trevor came out of his dungeon, he made a couple microwave pizzas, and left one of the boxes in the middle of the floor and went back to bed.  It was  a freshly cleaned and mopped floor too.  One time he walked in his bare feet on the kitchen floor just after it was mopped and layers of meatloaf looking substance stuck on the floor every time he took a step.  I’ve come to complain about these things so much that I almost feel like a housewife now.  And, my friends, that shit isn’t cool.  Both J.C. and Trevor like to use all the toilet paper and then not go get more or even refill the roll if we have one.  I have bought the toilet paper the last three times.  I came home from a trip just yesterday to find out that they had been wiping their asses with the phone book for over a day instead of going to seven eleven and getting some TP.  Let’s say just for shits and giggles that there is another roll of TP around when they finish off the current one.  They don’t say anything and go about their day without refilling the expired one.  This is a recipe that’s been cooked more than a couple times with me in there dropping the kids off, and finding out that there aren’t any towels at the pool.  I nag and nag and nag, yet still I don’t see any light at the end of this comedy tunnel.  I will tell you that it sucks living with comics sometimes.  Sure it’s fun to have someone around to help you with premises and all, but when they make you think it sucks to be a roommate with someone like you its way too Freudian to get into.  So as I sit there in court and hear the judge tell me why my ex-wife doesn’t want to be married to me anymore, I can’t help but think, I wouldn’t want to live with me anymore either, knowing what it’s like now anyway.  Until Next time Buffalo.