Do you have a friend or relative who is slightly recluse or introverted? Or, perhaps you are greedy with your space like I am. If so, you can relate to the anxiety caused by playing the hotel keeper. If not, there are things you need to know about this special person before you spend the night.

He doesn’t want you there.

Sorry if that’s harsh. Honesty is the best policy, right? If you stay, you’ll raise my blood pressure, and that’s unhealthy. So, come on over, watch the game, drink your frosty beverage, have a crisp, and am-scray.

There are exceptions. If I’m having sex with a guest, well, sure, she’s welcome to spend the night—one night. If someone is too drunk to drive, he can spend the night—on the sofa or lawn (preferable). If you’re Keira Knightly, you get a guest key—an eternally irrevocable guest key.

You people who enjoy hosting parties and sleepovers have simply caved. You’ve given in to social pressures. Perhaps you have children (drunken dwarfs) who have left nothing pristine and sacred in your abode. Well, that sucks for you. I have zero children, and a vasectomy scar to remind me of how blissfully quiet my mornings are.

These are the annoyances created by female guests:

  • The disappearance of toilet paper. A case of TP lasts me almost a month. If I have a woman here, I lose two rolls a day … a DAY! WTF? Where does it go? How fucking wet is your pee hole? Jesus! Are you wiping properly? If you just roll it around your fingers and wipe, you are wasting the sheets behind your knuckles. Quit it! Three times (not ten) around your fingers, remove, place in palm, and wipe. That gives you six layers of insulation.
  • Unidentifiable things in the trash.
  • Hair things and hair everywhere.
  • Water bottles—six or more one-third full fucking bottles everywhere, including rolling around the backseat of my car.
  • Phone noises.

On the very rare occasion that I allow a male to stay, he also creates annoyances such as:

  • Stank—internal and external from both ends.
  • The disappearance of beer.
  • Dead soldiers—empty beer bottles everywhere.
  • Crumbs.
  • Skid marks in the entrance from dirty shoes, and in the toilet from dirty ass.

My cats, Syd and Symon, are also recluse. In fact, here’s Syd’s reaction to a recent guest.

“Pop, what is that? Is it a toy?”

“It’s Brian.”

“Can I eat it?”


“Ew. Throw it away, please.”

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.
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