Who Wants to Live With Scott?

A couple of years ago, I wrote about how I needed a roommate, and that article very nearly landed me one. So the time has come once again to invite the public into my home. Except this time, it’s not to live with me, but to replace me.

As you may have read, a couple of months ago I bought a condo. It’s proven to be a fine purchase. Instead of riding the mechanical bull at the Liquor Store until I throw up my tequila shots all over the girls from the escort service, I now spend my free time smoking pipes and building birdhouses in the basement. I own insurance, which covers me against falling spacecraft but not against volcano damage (this is true), so I’m keeping my fingers crossed that Mount St. Southie remains dormant. It’s nice to know, though, that after the Russian satellite obliterates my kitchen, my policy provides $20,000 for improvements. Fridge with a built-in icemaker? Yes, please!

The only unfortunate aspect of this deal is that I haven’t found a roommate to replace myself in my old apartment in Bay Village. Thus, I’ve got a mortgage payment and a rent payment. And paying $700 per month for a place you don’t live in is about as much fun as falling down in such a manner that you stub your toe on your own nuts. A few weekends ago Roommate Scott had a party, and at the end of the night I had to take a cab from my place home to my place. If there are financial advantages to owning, I’m doing fine job of totally negating them.

Having a second home is a frivolous indulgence I can ill afford, what with the crushing cost of ascots and pipe tobacco these days. So I need someone to take over my old room. I know what you’re thinking, and I’d just like to say that everything I’ve written about the place—the prostitutes and drug dealers on my street; next-door neighbor, Elmer, who makes the CIA seem laid back; the people upstairs peeing on our patio; the building management installing backwards sink handles; and the guy who sits at the end of the street in a folding chair all the time—was an exaggeration. Seriously, I haven’t heard a pimp reprimand his ho’ outside my window in months.

Let’s talk about the positives: My apartment has excellent water pressure. Anyone who’s ever been hit with a water cannon at a riot is going to feel right at home in my shower. You’ll never have to worry about whether you washed out all the conditioner again! (You might have to worry, however, about whether you have any hair left on your scalp).

And the apartment is large. How many square feet? I don’t know—you think I measure my apartment? Anybody who knows the exact size of their apartment is either lying or really insecure. Let’s just say my apartment is big enough to get the job done and leave it at that.

What else? Scott! Another bonus. If you choose to live in my old apartment, I can assure you that Scott will be a faithful manservant. He’s not only very neat himself, but he’ll pick up after you as well. If he starts to mouth off or refuses to do your dishes, you should make direct eye contact and threaten to take away his bicycle privileges. (Did I mention that one corner of the apartment looks like a stage finish on the Tour de France?) I do recommend that you and Scott work out a better system of bill payment—ours was to each pay certain bills, without keeping track of the amounts, and then get mad at each other roughly every six months.

If you’re looking to make extra money while living at my old place, you could sell hair extensions made from the remnants you find in the drain after Scott’s girlfriend, Jen, takes a shower. Often I would climb into the shower after Jen and shriek in horror because I thought Johnny Damon was stuck in our drain. If you’re like me, you’ll look past this foible because Jen is hot.

I originally planned to be choosy about who would replace me, but at this point I’m just interested in not paying rent anymore. So if you’re a human between the ages of 18 and 98 (this excludes you, Elmer, so don’t try to lie), you suffer from fewer than three “-manias” (pyromania, kleptomania, drugging-Scott-and-molesting-him mania), you could be in! In fact, the only person in the Boston area I won’t consider is Bob from Bob’s Discount Furniture. The last thing I want to do is go visit Scott and have to listen to that guy talk about his stools.