Ah, a clean apartment, I thought to myself as I looked over the living room and kitchen. I had just cleaned the entire place - aside from the guys' bedrooms - and it looked nicer than it had in quite some time. It was a nice apartment, but it was cursed by the Boob. Cursed by his presence... his being.

But not now. Now it was clean. The carpet had been vacuumed. The kitchen floor mopped.

There was no sign that the Boob had been eating frozen pizzas for weeks at a time. No sign that the Boob frequently enjoyed drowning his face in BBQ sauce. No sign... that he even lived there. And to top it all off, it smelled nice too.

I stood there, taking it all in. The apartment did look nice, afterall. There was no furniture to speak of, but the shape of the stark white room was unusual and I enjoyed looking at it. Our server hummed it's ever-present song of... well, being on. So there I stood, satisfied with my work and I thought to myself once again, my work here is done.

After a small amount of time, Kin came home from work and we decided to go out. We had fun for a little while and, as usual, came home with some beer. As we steadily approached our middle class Las Vegas apartment, our hearts sank - as they usually did. We were home... and as we could tell by the lights coming from the windows... so was the Boob. Nonetheless, we took a breath, fearlessly entered our home and made our way to the kitchen to put our beer in the fridge. Can't let the stuff get hot, after all. That's just irresponsible.

After placing our babies in the fridge, I turn around and see an opened bag of chips sitting on the Boob's trailer park dining table. They were sitting there as if there had been an emergency and the owner had quickly needed to get up and forgot about them. However, I knew this was not the case. I knew that Boob had intentionally left the bag there, opened, because he was too much of a lazy fuck to close it and walk two god damn feet into the kitchen to put the bag away. I could understand leaving it on the table. But for christ's sake, at least close the fucking bag! I grimaced a bit and took a step forward, but was not prepared for what I saw when I glanced at the floor beneath the table: large shards of chip.

"What?" I said. Kin looked over. "What the hell is this?" I pointed at what I could only describe as the wreckage of the Lay's mothership which had crashlanded in our dining room sometime while we were away. I stared, for a moment, at the large shards of chips that lay beneath the table. How could such a thing have happened while I was away? How in the world could one person... one adult... leave such a mess...?

I reconstructed the scene in my mind... (note: scene of speculative fiction) The Boob, with a copy of "Final Fantasy X-3VI: Japanese Pedophile Edition" in his hands, bounces up to the door of our immaculate home accompanied by the thunderous roar of his steps. Children who happen to be outside begin to run in terror, but quickly succumb to the noxious fumes eminating from his person. With a loud grunt and one of those ass-pop farts, he opens the door and walks inside.

The Boob lumbers over to the kitchen and ritualisticly places on the table a sack of groceries consisting of a bag of Lay's, a bottle of some off brand ginger-ale and a large loaf of french bread. He then takes a place at the table and begins to examine the spoils of his trip to the store. Should he eat the french bread, he thinks to himself. No, I'll save the good stuff for later. He smiles.

His twisted hand reaches across the table and procures the bag of Lay's which he proceeds to tear open with mad fierosiousness. He reaches into the bag, grabs a handful of chips and stuffs them into his mouth. Half the chips in his hand crash into the sides of his face and shatter, sending fragments to the floor. He does this again with the other hand.

And again.

And again.

His salty, greasy hands then seize the 2-liter bottle of ginger-ale... The ginger-ale which would scream in horror had it only a mouth with which to scream... He manages to get the cap off with some effort and, with a single claw, brings the greenish, fizzy liquid to his lips. Ginger-ale pours into his mouth and onto his shirt and wetting his chest, giving it that nice sticky feel.

BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURP!

He continues this song and dance for a few minutes until he realizes he's missing MTV's special Britney Spears Look-Alike Contest 2002 or something.

(end segment of speculative fiction)

So there I stand, staring at the shattered hopes and dreams of a bag of Lay's chips whose only goal in life was to be eaten by a decent, clean person. I could only wonder if, in their last moments as whole chips, they demanded of God to tell them what they had done wrong. Did they have too many of those green spots? Was there more air in the bag than chips? What?!... You see, the Boob... the Boob was like hell for food... And these chips now knew hell...

"You know what? Fuck this shit," and I left.