You may be adorable and, at one time, played a starring role on my desktop. But now, even though you are flirting with a place on the endangered species list, I feel absolutely no remorse in saying that you, sir, are a son of a bitch. That’s right. You heard me correctly: You’re a son of a bitch. And I expect you to make amends for all the shenanigans and tomfoolery you have bestowed upon me for the majority of the past year.
I don’t need to remind of how it all began. It was the day you showed up unannounced and claimed squatters rights on a piece of property that clearly had another owner. Though I should have kicked you out on the spot, after you batted your koala eyes at me, I kindly agreed to let you stay while you, in your words, “looked for something a little more tree-like.” (I guess the tree in my backyard didn’t meet your lofty standards of tree-ness.) In retrospect, I’m pretty sure you never intended to move into a tree and just said that to get me off your back.
As if that lie wasn’t enough, when I said you could stay provided you pay a small amount of rent, you showed your gratitude by throwing shit at me while simultaneously complaining about your “lack of chedda” and recommending I suck on a certain organ of yours.
Even though you cleaned up after yourself (I guess that was your way of apologizing) I was somewhat disturbed that your idea of cleaning was to eat all the poo. Nonetheless, I took that gesture as a peace offering of sorts and quietly hoped it would spark an Oscar and Felix-type friendship between us. Alas, it merely foreshadowed the manic depressive behavior to come.
Which, in hindsight, seemed to be rooted in your money issues. Which start and end with your lack of work ethic. Case in point: the job I set up for you. It would make perfect sense for a marsupial herbivore such as yourself to have a job in landscaping. One where you get to spend the entire day climbing trees and eating all the leaves and other delicious herbivore-y things like that in said trees. But no. You wouldn’t have it. Not even for $17.50 an hour. An honest day’s work just wasn’t for you. Instead, you chose to stay home and smoke weed all day long.
Speaking of, I was always amazed at the quality, and quantity, of weed you endlessly produced from your koala pouch. As someone who spent the day, and most nights, eating all my food and drinking all my alcohol, I was curious as to how you procured this stash. Then one day I accidently left a camera running in my bedroom. And do you know what I captured on tape? Yes, that. If you also said you stealing my stash, ding ding ding, you’re correct. (I guess I was too stoned to realize I was smoking was own shit.) Anyway, after this discovery, I decided to leave the camera running. And do you know what else I caught you doing? Pooping in my shoes. Humping my baseball glove. Stealing my money. Surfing animal porn on my computer. Then there’s the whole hand in a warm bowl of water. (Though I’m still pissed at you for that, I was glad to learn I hadn’t started wetting the bed again.) Again, you son of a bitch.
Now that’s not to say we didn’t have fun. You’re cuteness made you one hell of a wingman. You drink like an elephant after a drought. You can hit a bong like no one I’ve ever seen. And we’ll always have that Christmas. But unfortunately, as I learned a little too late, when you’re not stoned or drunk, you’re a total dick. A dickness which I ended up on the side of too many times.
I could go on, but I think I’ve made my point. So, I present you with this final ultimatum. If you don’t leave my apartment in the next week, I’ll be forced to call PETA and cancel my membership. That will be followed by a call to INS or the zoo. Whoever answers first, well, you’ll find out in 7 days you son of a bitch.