Phildo and the Boondock Stains

Ask anybody that knows me and they’ll tell you I’m a huge fan of Craigslist. Perusing the Personal ads would make for a better first date then dinner and a movie. You can buy anything under the For Sale tab from pussy to a used Porsche, and one cannot forget the Rooms/Shared section. This is where I acquired a very special roommate in 2012. His name was Phil, and he was well, kind of a dildo. And that’s how eventually earned the name Phildo.

There’s nothing Phil liked more than talking about how shitty his life was and spending all his hard earned unemployment money on drugs and alcohol (and sometimes, rent). He was 53 years old with hollow eyes, a pock marked covered red nose, and a large wart that graced his left cheek leaving him looking like the male version of a drunk witch. He had no real family or friends and had a few lumps on his body that were apparently cancer. I felt bad for the guy but there wasn’t much fixing him; he was set in his ways.

Every morning started out with a six pack of Natural Light, a finally rolled joint (of weed from my stash that fucking mooch), and a half hearted attempt to find a job in the classifieds. (Let’s be real Phildo, you weren’t fooling anybody… we all know you had no intention of getting a job.)By afternoon Phil could usually be found passing out on the living room couch, still reeling over the Marmaduke he read six hours before. He was a simple man. Before crashing he’d always slink down to my basement bedroom to tell me a tall tale from his life, like that time he was supposed to be cast as one of the brothers in “Boondock Saints”, or the real secret to growing your penis four inches. I didn’t believe anything he said but did keenly listen to the penis thing… you know… just in case.

I would like to add that for the record, I lived in a nice carpeted basement bedroom, with a full bath included. I say basement bedroom and what usually comes to mind is a creepy, concrete dungeon with a single swinging light bulb. Well, I don’t have any windows, but it’s definitely not the kind of bedroom that makes you think, “It puts the lotion on its skin…” My dad came for a visit once and commented that my room had the stench of “Two wasted college degrees and fifty thousand dollars down the drain.” I think what he meant to say was, “Pot.” Also, he was not impressed by Phildo. “That guy is a loser.” I believe were his exact words. Such a hard ass.

Phil wasn’t a bad guy and there are things that I do miss about him. First off, he could find any drug you wanted; I don’t know how because the motherfucker never had any money, but he managed to come home with some very stellar items on more than one occasion. Not to mention, some of the best cocaine I’d ever smelled. (Get it? Smelled... ah, you don’t get it.)

                                                  

Second, the guy would run errands for cigarettes. Here’s how it’d work: I would ask for a gallon of milk and a box of HBO’s (Honey Bunches of Oat’s, fool) then watch as he’d fall halfway down the front steps and hobble like a pirate down the hill towards the grocery store moving in a way that I can only assume was a brisk jog. All it’d cost me was a couple menthol cigarettes and a dollar in quarters for the daily newspaper. That man loved his cigarettes, and he loved his Marmaduke. (And I loved to get high and not go to the grocery store.)

Well, with every good comes a bad, and with every rambling, should-be-homeless, drug addict roommate comes a negative. Phil only had one problem I could think of, that being he was the worst wingman in history. Seriously, a genital wart could have done a better job. A pubic hair desperately clinging to the edge of your toilet seat could get you more pussy than this guy.

TUESDAY: 11:00PM (I know it was a Tuesday, because that’s half price beer night and nothing gets my dick hard like a good deal.)

               

 “You want to go back to my place?” I drunkenly propose.

“Oh, you’re just saying that because you’re drunk!” Bonnie chimes.

“No… well, maybe. But come home with me now and let’s fuck! This is my final offer.” I reply.

“You are so forward, but okay… I’ll drive us.” Bonnie finally concedes.

               

Down the hill from our house sits a killer brewery that has two specialties: Great craft beer and hot waitresses. I enjoy a nice craft brew on occasion, but I really enjoy checking out a dozen beautiful girls. I’m too much of a puss to converse with any of them with the exception of the bartender, Bonnie. She stands just shy of 5’ tall and is… well rounded, both physically and in general. For being short, she has a rather long face with slightly sunken eyes complete with darkish bags underneath. Her smile gives way to an unhealthy ratio teeth and way too big of gums. Actually, let’s face it, the girl has a horse face.

Bonnie isn’t particularly attractive but this has made her develop an outstanding personality. Also, I feel it’s pertinent to mention that she has some sort of over active sweat glands. And this is not just me being an asshole, the girl sweats like a fucking hog. She’s bartends in a doo rag similar to Bret Michaels, she gets yellow pit stains in her work shirts, and twice now we’ve talked about prescription strength antiperspirant. (With conversations like this, how am I not sleeping with every girl I meet?) Bonnie is quite the sweaty, little tater tot, and really, the only unattractive girl at the bar. Most importantly though, she’s wants a short order of this sub-par penis and I’m ready to deliver. 

Fortunately for me, I find that a girl with a genetic flaw or two to be a turn on. Not because I have a deep rooted fetish for disabilities, crossed eyes or animal like features, but generally they have low self-esteem and never get any attention from guys. I’ll talk their (most-likely deaf) ears off. (Plus, I’ll take what I can get! Everybody knows that.)

I grin from ear to ear as Bonnie pulls in to our driveway. I rode shotgun, sitting on my hands, as I rocked back and forth in sexual anticipation. Slamming the passenger door, I meet her in front of our stairs and pick her up in my arms. Her greasy body is no match for me in my drunken state. Her clammy body slips from my grasp and slams to the concrete. Thank God she’s ugly or this could have been bad. She bounces (almost literally) to her feet and sweeps the dirt off her ass.

“Whoopsie daisies! I think I can just walk…” She says sheepishly.

This is her fault, I think to myself. Maybe had she fucking toweled herself off a little bit I could have vaulted her oily ass up there. It was like lifting a bowling ball covered in Vaseline with a horse face. 

Brushing off the incident, we run up the stairs and plow through the front door where lo and behold, there’s Phildo sitting on the couch, smoking a cigarette, watching Man vs. Wild reruns. He stands up and begins to  tell us something new and depressing about his life, I stop him in his tracks with a Shaq-esk box out.

“Not now, Phil!”

I point towards my bedroom and Bonnie bolts that way. I’m following in suit as a drunk Phildo begins a rant about how he could outlast Bear Grylls in a survival situation and hobbles behind me down the stairway. I ignore him assuming he’ll shut the hell up and stop pursuit.

I’m wrong.

He follows us in to my bedroom. Fuck this guy doesn’t give up. He begs me for fifteen minutes worth of company so he can get high (with my weed) before he passes out (for probably the fourth time today). I hesitantly agree after Bonnie gives me a shrug with a cheeky giggle, exposing those boner-killing gums of hers. I shudder in dismay and load a bowl.

“What about the hash?” Phil asks.

“What about it Phil?” I angrily reply. By this point, I am very annoyed.

“Well, can you just crush a little bit on top? I’ve had a rough day.” He claims.

“Oh for fucks sake.” I respond, sounding like my father when he found out I forgot my backpack on the drive to school.

My right eye twitches with irritation as I pull out my vile of hash and daydream of beating the old man to death with his Croc sandals. The old man being Phildo, not my dad. In my opinion, any seven year old that forgets his backpack two days in a row deserves a “For fucks sake!” Either that, or the ol’ Adrian Peterson ‘switchin’ treatment, which is certified by every grandmother in the lower 48.

While I load the pipe, I glance at Phildo. He is staring at me, licking his lips and rubbing his hands together like Tom used to while waiting for Jerry to exit his arch shaped mouse hole. I hand the pipe and lighter to him and he squeals with joy. Lifting it to his lips, he flicks the Bic and sucks on the pipe like I can only imagine a hooker sucks on a dick, long, hard, and deep.

The moment came and went as quick as a bullet and killed my sexual conquest in the same manner, Phildo took too big of a hit.

Mid inhale, his eyes roll back in his head as he drops the pipe and clinches his fists to his chest. He’s seizing. His body begins to quiver as he falls over, stiff as a board.  His skull collides with the wooden arm rest on my couch and he lies motionless on the floor with his fists still clinched at his chest. Bonnie shrieks in terror as I bend over with hands on knees frantically analyzing the situation.

My first thought: I need to drag him to the bottom of the stairs then call 9-1-1. “My roommate is drunk and he fell down the stairwell, I think he hit his head!” I rehearse the line in my head as I grab Phildo by the ankles.

Second thought: Bonnie will still want to fuck after the ambulance leaves, right? RIGHT??

“We need to call 9-1-1, we need to call 9-1-1!” Bonnie whines, sobbing through her hands mashed against her face. (Definitely not getting laid.)

“Shut up and open my door!” I retort, slowly tugging Phildo in that direction.

Just then, Phildo begins to flutter kick his legs like a child in a pool or perhaps, a woman in a Pilates class. I look to his face and see him blinking as he begins to glance around the room. “What the hell are you doing?” he asks.

“He’s alive, he’s alive!!” Bonnie yelps. (There’s still potential for a lay here!)

I drop his legs to the floor and slowly help him to his feet. Phildo is shocked at the story we tell him and is having a tough time grasping the situation at hand. He refuses a trip to the hospital even though Bonnie pleads for him to go. I know the son of a bitch has a concussion but there’s no way he’s going to the hospital, I’m not going to beg him to go. Instead, I pick up the pipe from the floor and offer it to him like a true friend. He declines it.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight.” Phildo says, carefully placing a hand on my shoulder.
“I understand buddy, you can sleep down here. Bonnie….”

“Yes, I better go… next Tuesday you come to the bar and I’ll buy you a beer, okay?” She cut me off mid sentence.

I comply and escort her to the front door. I give her a hug goodnight and reaffirm plans for next Tuesday. I shake my head walking down the stairs, “Fucking cock block…” I murmur to myself.

Phil eventually ran out of his unemployment and got evicted from the house we lived in. Every now and gain I think about him and miss his crazy tales and his uncanny ability to find drugs. I like to think he’s out there somewhere in a warm jacket with a Natty Light pounder, panhandling for money like a true survivor. And for the record, if Man vs. Wild was filmed on the streets of New York City, I think my man Phil could beat that cheatin’ son of a bitch any day.

Oh, and I ended up beating Bonnies guts in the following Tuesday. She laid there sprawled out like a starfish for the whole three minutes as I sexually ravaged her. It was boring, I’ve had better. Then again, I’m sure she has too.