Monday, December 9, 2013

My Duck Fetish Housemates and Where it All Went Wrong (Part Two of Three)

So needless to say I was finding it hard to deal with the knowledge of the duck fetish. I could barely make eye contact with anyone and I spent my days slipping out of the kitchen to avoid mentioning it. Tensions in the house started to rise. I think they knew I was freaked out by their bedroom antics and they started cracking down on the house rules. I would stumble out of the shower to the sound of a stopwatch beeping.
I was determined to make it work. It was my week to clean the apartment and knowing I'd insulted them with my comments about the "cleansing week" being religous I decided to make amends. I was going to make the apartment squeaky clean. So squeaky and clean that they would love me forever. I donned my cleaning clothes and got to work. I broke into the cleaning routine lightly. With a little dance around the kitchen to Dirty By Christina Aguilera. It's important to note at this point that I have a terrible habit of cleaning to my own off-key renditions of terrible pop-songs.
It might also be a good idea to mention that these renditions are complete with compulsive dance moves.
My housemates steered clear of the operation. They walked in on me scaling the kitchen cupboards and belting out a motivational tune and that was enough to convince them to remain in their rooms while I scrubbed.
I was determined. I cleaned and scrubbed and sang and cleaned and scrubbed and cleaned...
Until I was sure I had cleansed places no man had ever cleansed before.
I informed my housemates. Sure we would now, finally, be friends. There would be no weirdness about the duck thing. We would be united in our dust-free apartment. I was alarmed to find that was not quite the reaction my efforts resulted in.
I was then frog-marched into the kitchen. Where my housemate walked straight to the couch and ripped the cushion cover off of one of the cushions and pointed with a look of contempt at it.
But apparently he wasn't looking for the English word for the cushion. He was simply horrified that I had not hoovered the insides of the cushions. I stood gaping at him as he donned his cleaning outfit to show me how to do things properly.
After an exhilarating tour of the various dust traps in our house and a scintillating step by step guide on how to clean a skirting board I was still in shock.
When the tour was over he told me to ask him any questions I might have. So I did.
When he didn't answer I simply went on a small rant about his duck antics. How if I could put with the duck fetish, then perhaps he could be a bit lenient if I forgot one of the several steps involved in removing dust from the skirting boards. It became clear from the look in his eyes that he was considering the best way to dispose of me.

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