Henry and I have many recurring arguments, usually over his unwillingness to put the seat down or let touring bands crash at our place.
(He at least picks up his socks now, either that or he just stopped wearing them since I retaliated by throwing away every sock I found of his on the floor, and now he just doesn’t have any left.)
The other night, we live-acted another episode of The Things We Fight About Most: Season 15, Episode “Henry Eats An Orange Again.”
We were standing in the kitchen together, peacefully co-existing, when it happened. The initial SQUIRT SMOOSH SMACK SLURP of his teeth and tongue tag-teaming in a juicy mastication match, wet nectar spraying through the air like a carefully choreographed money shot.
I’ve never felt more uncomfortable around someone eating a piece of fruit; it feels like walking in on your parents fucking. This should be done in private or at least not until others in the house are provided a pair of ear plugs. He sounds like he’s performing oral sex in citrus porn EVERY TIME HE EATS ORANGES. Must be how some of you feel when you hear the word MOIST or OINTMENT, like nails on a chalkboard that’s also being used to administer a pelvic exam on you.
Just imagine his beard glistening with post-coital orange jizz interwoven between those grizzled bristles.
I just can’t stand it.
And every time, it comes as a shock to him, being called out for being the sleaziest Sunkist gourmand this side of the fucking Green Door.
UGHHHH go fuck yourself with that orange! YOU ALREADY SOUND LIKE YOU ARE.
HENRY. So full of faults. He puts your life at risk at rest areas. He makes smoothies where carrots have to rest or some shit. And seeing that door reminds me of when I was last in Pittsburgh, and I knocked on it, and he YELLED AT ME THROUGH IT. (Because he thought it was you, haha!)