Hey Daddy, Tell Me I’m a Dumb, Naughty Millennial for Buying This Shit Instead of Getting My Own Place (Because Someone Should Get Off on This)
Erika Lindquist, Contributor
Oh daddy, this bimbo isn’t like other girls; I poop. And what do you think that stinky, dirty poop is made of? Yeah…food. Hey, you’re pretty smart! But I’m not eating caviar. Guess what fuels this pair of cans with legs. Ooh, yes! Yes, more cans! Lots and lots of cans of Progresso. You don’t get to be in your late twenties with a complexion this spotty on just anything, you know.
Say what? Am I just another nitwit with an emotional support animal? Well, you tell me. Science says having a pet makes you happier but my cat also bolts out of my arms if I breathe too loud, taking bits of skin as souvenirs. But since I’ll never be able to afford a child, it’ll have to do. Come here, sugar, let me pull that cat hair off your sweater.
Annoyingly, like a human child, my cat requires things like love, attention, and food. So you’ll find this ditz in the kitchen, stacking can after brightly colored can of tuna chunks and chicken pate. This 10 for $5 buffet is so wiggly, rich, and luxurious and splatters all over my hand as I plop it out. Would you like to lick it off as we sit at this rickety, sticky kitchen table I share with five people?
You better bet this silly butthead just can’t help turning on the lights, heating up my room on a chilly night, and Googling. That’s right, I Google hard and fast until my fingers go numb. Want to see what I’m Interneting? Is it a job listing or..something else? Why don’t you come in here and see, big boy? Oh, yeah, sorry, my door is actually on crooked so you have to give it a hard shove with your shoulder.
I might just be a nincompoop, but I think cars are a lot like people. They need constant maintenance, lubrication, and they’re full of old french fries. Did I go too far? Did I go about 3,000 miles too far? Well then, it’s time for an…oil change. You better get underneath this chassis and make sure you give me a new rubber washer. No seriously, I can’t afford to come back to this garage for another year so don’t muck this up.
When I, certified holder of a B.A. in bullshit, pay my student loan bill, I wonder why I did this to myself. Just how dumb is my degree? I studied film because I was obsessed with The Lord of the Rings. Haha! My parents had kids and a mortgage at my age. Hey babe, do you want to play house? No, you’re not doing it right! Pretend we live in a hobbit hole! This is the only fantasy I have left!
Whenever I remember I have a vagina (and that’s every day), this moron can’t help but think about the luxury taxes on pads and tampons. What is it about suffocating your cooch with chemicals and fluff that’s so luxurious? And then there are those costly check-ups, the ones where your doctor sniffs your junk and says, “All good.” Right? No, honey, seriously, is that supposed to happen?
I am such an asshole that when I was a kid, I assumed that I would have my own place one day, just like they do on television. Instead, I share an apartment with a lot of people. I would tell you how many but it seems to change every week. I can’t get the faint smell of vomit out of the bathroom, and there are so many open beer cans in the kitchen that a colony of fruit flies has taken it over. This lovely abode costs a third of my paycheck a month and I can’t imagine a future where I could afford to live alone or buy my own house. But hey, hot lips, do you want to get real cozy in my secondhand bed and watch a Netflix show about people spending millions of dollars to build the homes of their dreams? No? But it will be fun! I swear! Where are you going?
Erika Lindquist is a recent New York City transplant from Boston. She’s a stand up comic who studied satire writing at Second City and her work has appeared on Robot Butt.