Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Neglected Backyard Patio
Welcome to “Things In His House That Make Me Sad,” a regular series from the blog Shmitten Kitten that we’ll be featuring on The Frisky, about the stuff seen in so many guys’ apartments that just make you shake your head and sigh.
There are several things in his house that I want nothing to do with. I’d rather kiss a cockroach then step foot in his musty basement. I’d rather eat a bowl of scabs than smell the inside of his microwave. But, what really sends chills down my spine is stepping foot outside onto his neglected backyard patio. It’s not even that big. We’re talking, what, like, 10 square feet? I have no idea how he managed to corral so many terrifying items in one place. It’s like a 1993 garage sale barfed out here.
For one thing, opening the door to get outside takes all of my upper body strength. For some reason, that door is a total motherf**ker that is heavy and gets stuck easily. It’s as if the patio itself is telling me to stay away, like it’s a teenager that doesn’t want his parents coming into his room because it reeks of pot. It knows.
Once I bust through the door, I’ll stand still as I survey the damage. It’s a graveyard of smashed beer bottles, dented cat food cans and mangled tricycles. Why are there tricycles out there? He doesn’t even have a kid! There’s a metal trash bin that even Oscar the Grouch would turn his nose up at. It’s filled to the brim with garbage and the lid is hanging on top of the heap like a dirty, stiff beret. There’s a doll’s arm and a deflated dog’s toy tossed in the dirt. A couch cushion is on the ground like a war casualty. GOD FORBID I’m wearing flip-flops because who knows what kind of toxic liquids my toes would squish into.
Did Britney Spears’ “I’m A Slave 4 U” video take place in here because this feels like a third-world slum. This patio makes “Children of Men” look like “Couples Retreat.” I wouldn’t be surprised if you told me that this is where monkey pox originated because it feels like a cauldron of disease out here. Basically, I’m in “District 9.”
There’s a rusty shovel leaning against the fence leering at me like the bikers at the bar Pee-Wee Herman walks into. It’s eying me up and down like I shouldn’t be “in these parts” in the first place. I’ll spin around on my heels and scurry back inside. F**k his neglected backyard patio foreverrrrrr!
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