Dear God Almighty
 >>> Edited
For Content

By staff writer Mike Forest

April 13, 2005

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Dear God (or whatever Your Holiness is calling Him/Her/Itself these days),

I know I’ve made you promises before. Back in high school, I promised you I would go work in Africa and teach the natives to read the Bible, and that I would wear
condoms when having sex if I got into a good university.

Personally, I think we’re square on that one. Sure, I got into Michigan State, but I’ve been laboring for six years over a film degree, which only qualifies me for positions
wearing a fucking paper hat, asking the well-dressed investment banker who drives ketchup Lamborghini if he “wants fries with that car.”

Then there was the time I promised you I would dedicate my life to the children of Calcutta if you would make that cute blonde in my sociology class talk to me. Three
weeks, a restraining order and a raging case of crabs later I was finally free of her.

Did I forget to say “thank you” for that?

“I ripped the thermostat off the wall and embedded it in the head of my retarded roommate and told him to put on pants. I mean, holy
shit.”

Yeah, yeah yeah. You work in mysterious ways. I get it. You’re fricking hilarious.

And, God, I won’t pretend that I don’t remember the time I promised you I would never EVER drive even the slightest bit intoxicated again if you got me home
safely…

Damn. I guess you got me on that one.

But, seriously this time, O Lord, I promise—cross my heart, needle in the eye, yadda yadda yadda—that if you can somehow make it so that I never have to have
a roommate again
, I will stand on a corner naked every weekend wearing a sign proclaiming the end of the world.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve really enjoyed living with past roommates. Well, except for Tall Nad who told the same three super lame stories over and over and over
again. He was always using my computer too, which I didn’t mind except he downloaded three and a half gigs of Creed MP3s on my computer. (Is Scott Stapp really Jesus?
‘Cause I’m not buying it.) Then there was that time he tried to record me and a girl on my bed using MY webcam. Creepy.

And except for his huge collection of Transformers, Ken-bo was a great second roommate. It didn’t even bother me too much that he played The Sims for 24 hours at a
time and made a virtual family for him and his girlfriend using HER last name. His Sims parent’s family was busy using his last name. Again…creepy, but not too
bad.

Rouker was a great roommate except for his abnormally little-girlish fear of spiders. He called me frantically from the side of the road once:

Rouker: Hey, Beech, whatcha doing?
Me: Umm about to have sex.
Rouker: Do you think you could do me a favor?
Me: Can it wait?
Rouker: Not really.
Me: Well what is it?
Rouker: There’s a spider in my car and…
Me: Sigh…I’ll be right there.

Bros before hoes, Dear Almighty. I think you said that first.

Kasper, of course, was my favorite roommate ever. He didn’t mind that the peanut butter got ants in it and that I refused to throw it away and just scooped them out
instead. In turn, I didn’t mind that he got drunk and broke the door off the oven and voided our security deposit. If heaven is half as cool as sitting on our futon
with the paper-thin mattress eating Monday Night Special pizza from Papa John’s and watching Futurama, than I’m going to stop being such an asshole so maybe I
can make it in.

My current roommates though, God, are something of a different breed. As
you know (since you know everything), I was always the messy roommate. It was always MY clothes lying around the room. It was always MY desk that was covered in Ramen
wrappers, cookie crumbs and used condoms. If there was a funky smell coming from G8, chances are it was my fault.

But these guys I’m living with now…Jesus Christ, they’re unbelievable. I don’t really mind that I always overpay for cable, but the cleanliness of our
apartment is a totally different issue. Basically, it doesn’t happen unless I do it.

The kitchen is downright disgusting. One of my roommates routinely cooks full course meals for himself and then throws the dishes, still covered in steak and fish, into
the sink. The stove has enough food residue on it to feed Ethiopia for months. I refuse to clean it anymore; the residue is forming a union.

The sink…oh my dear God, I use the same dishes over and over, because honestly, PBJ’s and Ramen don’t really make too much of a mess. Therefore, I figure
that I should only have to do dishes a couple of times a month. Especially because my roommates use the entire cupboard every 18 hours. The ENTIRE cupboard. I know I sound
like a woman now, but I wouldn’t mind so much if they fucking rinsed the fuckers off. When I finally break down and do the dishes it smells so bad I’m gagging
for an hour.

Every once in awhile, one of my roommates takes five of his precious minutes to put four or five plates and a plastic bowl in the dishwasher. I almost wish he
wouldn’t. I can always tell which ones they “washed” because when I pull them out of the cupboard they still have food on them. God, I wish I was
kidding.

Apparently, I’m the only one in Lansing who knows how to load a dishwasher; again, I know it sounds like I have sand in my snatch, but I consider it a well-honed
skill. I can fit enough dishes to serve Rosie O’Donnell for a month (or a week of my roommate’s dishes).

We finally have real spring here in Michigan. It routinely gets into the 60’s now. I came home yesterday in the middle of the afternoon and the heat was on and set
to 80. I ripped the thermostat off the wall and embedded it in the head of my retarded roommate and told him to put on pants. I mean, holy shit, Your Holiness, I
couldn’t afford to pay for heat in the winter. I’m tired of bartering my best swimmers to keep his no-sweatshirt-owning, shorts-wearing ass warm.

I guess I should thank You that I have my own bathroom. I poked my head into the one that they share and I almost passed out. Again, I’m no Martha Stewart (mostly
because I haven’t been to jail for lying), but I had a conversation about the Pistons with the mold in their tub and they’ve named the sentient pile of hair in
the corner Timmy.

So anyway, if you could somehow find the time to grant my request, I’ll up the ante. I promise to pass out Bibles to every sororawhore I manage to sleep with.

Oh yeah, can you help me out with that too?

Amen.

Vote via feedback for next week’s column: “How to graduate without doing ANYTHING,” or “How to work for minimum wage and not kill
yourself.”

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