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The Night I Burned Our House Down: I May Have Killed My Roommate

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To read Part 1 of this saga, click here.

Apparently ugly people are like human versions of Gremlins, multiplying through the night, as I opened the door to find Mark and this tub of lard fucking again. I wasn’t sure by what metric Mark could tell where the back fat ended and the cow’s cavern began, and I didn’t care to find out.

“Guys, Mark! Mark! You need to get the fuck up!” Mercifully the bed stilled, ending the indecipherable high-pitched squeals of both our portly houseguest and my bed frame on the verge of surrender.

“Mark I am not fucking kidding, you need to get the fuck up the house is on fire!!!”

Again, silence. It’s almost as if seeing me at the foot of the bed proclaiming fire was the personification of Mark’s guilt and/or paranoia of my eventual discovery of his unwelcomed defiling of my room.

“Mark get your fat fucking woman out of here. We need to make like our sandal-wearing ancestors and run.”

“Who the fuck are you calling fat?”


They’ve both finally acknowledged my presence.

“This is not a fucking drill. Get the fuck up.”

I flung my own sheets off of them revealing a site so horrific I sincerely would rather have unearthed whatever the fuck is going on between Caitlyn Jenner’s legs. White Precious had a bush long enough to braid and the sort of sideways, oblong mud flaps you’d expect dangling from a wildebeest (or immense mammal of comparable stature). Though, to be fair, aside from “her” questioning of my presence in my own room, I can’t be certain as to her species.

I tried not to look, but, like the end of a German vid you stumble upon on the Hub, screaming “oh no he isn’t going to… wait, wait she’s not actually… OH MY FUCK SHE IS,” the sheer lunacy of the depraved humanity is too much to ignore. Here I was, minutes from the demise of my own home, the threat of my own well-being, and I was captivated by the fist-accommodating girth of the uninvited vagina in my bed.

“You motherfuckers can burn for all I care.”

I grab my phone and call 911; in hindsight an incredibly delayed action that warranted far greater urgency. While I essentially offered my eventual firstborn for rapid assistance, Mark finally started to realize the gravity of our situation, prompting Rosie O’Donnell to mercifully dress herself and head for the stairs.

“MAAAAAARK!!” she screamed, assumedly upon seeing the inferno that was our kitchen. Mark turned to me.

“Siblings, what the fuck did you do!?”

“Look, man, it’s a long fucking story. Get your shit. The fire department will be here in a minute, it’s fine.”

“MAAAARK! I’m fucking leaving!” Mark turned to me again.

“Well, that’s one way to get rid of her.”

“I’m not even going to start with you right now,” I said, “but A. I’ve had enough of your catfish style of dating.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Mark asked.

“Total bottom feeder. And B. Keep your syphilis in your room where it belongs.”

I collect a suitcase of my shit and make my way to the stairs with a now (thankfully) dressed Mark in tow.

“Holy fuck dude, you burned the house down” Mark said as we turned the corner.

“No man, it’s fine. Really.”

I turned to look at the damage that had been done. The house was engulfed in flames. You know the scene out of Entourage where Turtle tries to throw his blunt out the window of Vince’s laundry room to hide the smell during the idiotic “Vince got out of rehab hide the drugs!” era? That’s what this was like, except instead of high, famous and rich, I was, well I was still high, but sure as fuck not famous nor was my collegiate home the epitome of wealth.

The sirens had drawn closer and the trucks finally into plain view. The entire neighborhood, awoken by the commotion or still continuing their welcome week bender, joined us on the sidewalk as smoke billowed from the upstairs windows like we’d just chosen a new Pope.

A few of our brothers lived in the house next door. Matt, the “I can’t fucking believe he got a bid” guy from our pledge class, stood next to us with the sort of shit-eating grin that warranted a swift kick to the nuts that would hopefully result in castration by trauma.

“So, which one of you fucking tards burned the house down?”

Mark immediately motioned to me.

“Ahh Siblings. Let me guess. Mark took a hundy from you in Madden again?” I’m seeing red at this point, and not just from the image of fat Wendy the burger girl’s pubic jungle that was singed into retinas.

“First of all, I laid 21 points in that game you crusty taint. And second, it’s nobody’s fault. It’s an old house, probably just an electrical issue.” Mark finally chimed in.

“Yeah, as in he left the electric oven on with a cardboard box in it for an unknown period of hours.” Matt laughed.

“And where the fuck were you, Mark?” he asked.

“Banging some hot slam I pulled tonight.” I glare at him.

“Oh, you were?”

“I mean, basically.”

Just then, my stomach almost fell out of my asshole like a tourist’s after sitting on the filter vent of a shoddy Costa Rican hot tub.

“Matt, where the fuck is Rory?” I asked.

Matt is all of a sudden serious. “What do you mean?”

“I mean he said he was going to Tri Delt’s thing downtown with you tonight. Where is he?”

“Siblings, he’s not with me.”

“What the fuck do you mean he’s not with you?!”

“I mean he slammed, I don’t know, like six Four Lokos, made it rain vomit all over Calley Wilson and got sent home.” Mark chimed in.

“Not the first time she’s been covered in puke. Get it, guys? Because she’s bulimic?”

And that’s when I realized it. Rory, our third roommate we had assumed was in the bed of his “ew, you’re in Tri Delt, how?” girlfriend, must be passed out alone in a pool of his own vomit in his basement room in our now-flaming house.

“Holy fuck, Siblings… I know Rory’s late on the rent, but you didn’t have to kill him…”

To be continued…

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Siblings of Mark Wahlberg

Sorry Mom & Dad. Follow me to prevent my suicide: @SiblingsOfTFM

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