if i Lyle was my roomate,
the last possible thing i'd want to know before i died
would be to know why he is dragging in late.
Lyle reminds me vaguely of an old roomate,
Sampson, who would periodically be around
when other housemates were present.
He'd pop his head into the living room and
present his: "Hey ya'll" and proceed to let us
know what insane thing he did just this very moment:
"Hey ya'll! i just dyed my pubes! Look!"
Except the rather than show his pubes,
i'd imagine Lyle would say:
"I just emptied this bottle!" *CRASH*
I postulate that Blog-Chris is a roomie,
and possibly in the past was enamored
by the fact that his roomates are Alive
Stuffed Animals, but the shiny-shiny-new
has since rubbed off, and he just wants
the fuck*ng piano not to play at 4:30 in
the AM if that's all right with the rest of
the house and GODDAM why is the kitchen
floor STICKY AGAIN!
I further postulate that i'd imagine that Pat doesn't
think that Nice Pete Fellow is quite as Nice as his
name Makes Him Out To Be,
but that whenever Pat get's into a rant,
that Nice Pete can taste the rabidness of it
and actually submits to the sheer pompeistic
potential energy of Pat's impedning aenyrism,
and gives a righteous "right on!" and nods his
head soundly as Pat sputters on about the
utter impossibilities of eating the Fried Chicken
with the inferior and inadaquate Plastic Spork,
all the while agreeing ostensibly with Pat,
yet in his head imaging how difficult it would be
to saw through Bone with the poorly serrated edge
of the spork, and that a metal utensile would work much better.