The Seafood Casserole

To the uppity roommate who threw out the seafood casserole that had been stored in our fridge since we moved into this place three years ago: Dude, what's your problem? Don't you have any respect for history? Don't you remember how, at the six-month mark, we all agreed it would be classic if we just left it in there 'til the lease ran out? Why did you sell us out? I'm not, like, super-pissed about it, but bro, that was so lame of you. I thought we were in this together. You, me, Shroomy, Fat Sully, and the Seafood Casserole. I guess I was wrong.

You remember the pact, right? We were gonna save it 'til our last night together at this place, get severely crunked, and then dare Mushy-P next door to scarf the whole thing. We agreed—all four of us—that we'd chip in a maximum of $20 each in order to witness this awesome sight. And don't tell me you forgot that conversation, because I brought it up the next morning, too. We were all hungover at the IHOP and Shroomy kept trying to get that hot waitress's digits. And then Fat Sully threw up all over your Belgian waffles. HA—you remember that?! I laughed so hard I snotted all over that rack of Sweet 'n' Low. That was so funny!

But don't let my nostalgic tangent fool you. I want answers, bro. Seafood Casserole-related answers. We pretty much just use that fridge to store beer, ranch dressing, and the occasional ice-ball during winter. It's not like we're all snobby about the sanctity of the fridge. (Ha, I said “'titty.”) When did you turn into Martha Stewart, bro? When did you get all limp-wristed and prissy? Not to cross the line, but you used to rave hard with us, and now it seems someone has shoved your once-treasured glow-stick up your butt. Maybe it was that fiancé of yours.

And dude, speaking of your fiancé, you're hardly ever here anymore. You're always at her house—painting Fabergé eggs or gabbing about Sex and the City DVDs or whatever it is you two do together. My point is, what right did you have to toss out our beloved three-year-old casserole that wasn't yours to begin with, especially when you only show up once or twice a week. Checkmate: Me.

What's that you say? Oh, sure. Suuurrreee. Look at the English major, using big words like rancid and noxious and unsanitary. Bro, listen, it boils down to respect for the belongings of others, and that casserole never belonged to you. And I'll have you know—that rancid casserole never tainted the flavor of one of my New Castles. The stink waves from that unsanitary seafood casserole never made my ranch sauce taste less delicious, I'll tell you that much.

Not to sound like an ass, 'cause I want to drink for free at your wedding next month and I'm not out to burn any bridges, but bro, that fiancé of yours has got you whipped. Whipped like a henchman from Raiders of the Lost Ark. Not to sling accusations or anything, but I'm pretty sure she put you up to it. I think she nagged you into throwing out the Seafood Casserole.

When I look at you now, it's hard to see five years of friendship. All I see is the food-snob who trashed a memento from our apartment. All I see is the traitor who killed the dream. And for what? For your precious fiancé? For a steady lay, the prospect of a loving family and, as you put it, “the enrichment of the soul that can only be achieved through devotion to one's soul mate”? God, you sound so gay when you say that!

Now, the best-case scenario is that we retrieve the Seafood Casserole from the dumpster, rip some shots of Cuervo, maybe spark up a doobie, and try to find a homeless guy to eat the thing. It would be pretty classic, but nowhere near as classic as seeing Mushy-P scarf it down as we had originally planned. Mushy-P said there was absolutely no way he would eat a three-year-old casserole out of a dumpster, even if he was bonkered off his ass. He said: “Three-year-old casserole when I'm wasted? Maybe. Three-year-old casserole out of a dumpster when I'm wasted? That's where I draw the line.” So I hope you're happy, bro.

Like I said, I'm not super-pissed, though. Just disappointed. If you want to set things straight in apartment 8, all you have to do is get the casserole out of the dumpster and coax a homeless guy into eating it. How does that sound?

Whoa, whoa. What was that? I'm blowing this whole thing way out of what? I'm making a mountain out of what kind of a hill because I'm addicted to what? Listen, bro, I am not the one at fault here; you're the one who changed. You haughty, self-righteous fairy. You're whipped like a henchman from Raiders of the Lost Ark by a conniving, fun-hating B-I-T-C-

What's that? You're going to beat the living WHAT our of me?! Ouch! That hurt like hell! NO, NOT AGAIN! OWWW! Shroomy, call the cops; I'm being assaulted! But hide the bong first.