What's much more interesting than BBC Radio Nottingham's questionable mix of music is the stuff they talk about in between songs. How nobody believes in god these days, how couples split up their chores and the tits of our future queen. Have you googled those, by the way? Frankly, I was severely disappointed. I mean, Kate Middleton is dead hot and everything, but what's with the flap jacks? Maybe it's her pose, the angle or crappy image quality, but I found those pictures surprisingly difficult to masturbate to. Not impossible, but difficult.
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| Kate Middleton, topless |
If you aren't the proud owner of royal tits or a bedroom in your parents' house, there's a fair chance nobody will clean up after you and you have to take care of your own household. And if you're a lazy bastard like me, who eats his dinner right out of a can, repurposes old plastic bottles when movie night is too entertaining to be interrupted for pissing and refuses to vacuum until the cats start throwing up random dust bunnies twice a day, you might require a helping hand. Somebody whose job it is to clean up your shit for you, who puts your feet on the table whilst vacuuming around you and who picks up random cat feces, because the litterbox is so full of crap, the cat can no longer get in. I am, of course, talking about a girlfriend.
I can't wait for my next dinner conversation with my potential mother in law after she finds this blog. To be fair, I'm not at fault here. I was raised this way: My parents have always split their chores in a very strict manner. My stepmother would do the cooking, cleaning, washing, shopping and vacuuming, while my dad took care of Azeroth. Or the Algo Star System, Mushroom Kingdom or Britannia, depending on which era/marriage/step mother we're talking about.
I don't know how he manages to pull that off. Sure, I did catch him washing a dish or two or cooking an actual dinner once or twice during the first week of a relationship, but that's about it. They do say that opposites attract one another, but from my personal experience, I can't actually agree with that.
And that's a big problem right there: Turns out I attract the kind of girl, who doesn't mind eating spaghetti right out of a can, who doesn't see the need to vacuum when one can still guess the colour of the carpet with 60% accuracy and who needs nothing but her MMO subscription, some pizza and her piss bottle for a perfect weekend. To be fair, juice and milk bottles around here support female anatomy incredibly well, so it's not as spectacular a feat as some might think.
I don't have to explain why things didn't go so well when she first moved in with me. Tons of old cans, pizza boxes and other junk food related garbage would quickly eradicate the need to vacuum, sure. But rotting pizza crust and other leftovers would soon attract various rodents, which inevitably lead to stray cats and badgers invading the place until all the rats were gone and their predators moved on or turned into smelly badger skeletons behind the cupboard. Eventually, we decided to leave all the garbage behind and make a fresh start in a new home. We decided to split the chores into boy and girl jobs.
And to all the idiots and feminists, who still believe in equality and all that shit: There is no justice or equality in any relationship. As a guy, you always get stuck with the shit jobs.
Who gets to carry *all* the damn shopping, takes out the yucky garbage bags and cleans out the litter box once a month or as soon as the feline waste stacks knee-high? I do. For health and safety, I also handle the cooking. You do not want an English person touching your food! She gets all the fun, easy jobs. Doing the dishes. Alright, I can see how some might ask how that's fun or easy, but we're talking about a two person household here. Wash two pasta bowls and a fork, that's it. We happen to live in a country where people still enjoy their beverages straight out of a can, so there's no need to clean any cups, mugs, glasses, anything. It would probably take us an entire month to fill up a dishwasher.
Vacuuming was my job, because that super expensive Electrolux monster of a vacuum cleaner is so fucking heavy, she simply couldn't operate it. Until I broke it. And then I broke it again. Now it's her job to maneuver our super-light bagless noname vaccum cleaner around the house. Excellent! There is also the matter of laundry, but since you have to wear clothes in order to get them dirty, well... let's just say every day is Tits Out Sunday at the Nicholson residence! ♥
To be fair, there is one job she gets to take care of, because otherwise we would have parked our comfy leather sofa under a bridge years ago: Money. Or spending money, to be more precise. I earn 90% of our household income (which is a lie, I earn about 60%, another 30% is paid to us in social benefits), but I don't actually get to see or touch any of that. Ever. As soon as I see a few Euros magically appearing on my bank account for being a shit games critic, they go immediately to her and I don't actually know what happens next. She knows when all the bills are due, how much all the shit around the house actually costs us and how much we have available for groceries or the occasional Steam deal.
We never actually have any money by the end of the month even though I work really hard, so I suspect she's secretly saving towards a Porsche to surprise her lover Fernando. It's still a pretty good deal, because if I were in charge of the money, I'd spend everything on games, pizza and pay-per-view cartoon shows. Within less than a week. This is a fun fact, actually: I made thousands every month when I was still an accountant and I'd still somehow manage to waste everything before I had a chance to pay my rent. Which might explain why I'm no longer an accountant today.
On an unrelated note, I'm an idiot. It came to me when one of my magazine buddies sent me a note: "The lectorate tore up your column. Don't worry, we'll print it anyway." I'm guessing somebody wasn't too happy about how I compared dungeons in Guild Wars 2 to the act of handling a bear's manhood with sand paper. Interestingly enough, there were no complaints when I said playing Bullet Run is about as much fun as drinking a bottle of Tabasco through your ass. Then I scratched my epic beard in an incredibly manly fashion and wondered, "What if they don't pay me, because I'm okay at reviewing computer games, but because I'm great at bitching about stuff?"
Maybe I'm limiting myself too much when focusing solely on gaming whilst looking for additional work. Hmm...
-Cat
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