My Landlady Linda called this morning and asked if it was OK if she dropped by tomorrow with a carbon monoxide detector.  I was like, yeah, sure.  I mean, the brain damage is done by now. 

I decided I wasn't going to spend the morning cleaning the apartment like I have been, so that when the landlady did show up, she could see what happens when you rent to frat rats who wait for their gay roommates to clean up after them and their dogs.  Not once in two-and-a-half months has this kid beat me to it.

And it doesn't take long for the doggie dust bunnies to turn into furry tumbleweeds in the long hallway to the back of the flat.  And you'd have to vacuum three times a day to keep the dark blue living room carpet clean.  Oscar tears out the equivalent of a chihuahua in fur every day and leaves it strewn about the room.

The landlady was very fussy about things when we moved in.  She expressed concern about the dog.  Jake assured both of us that he was on top of it.  I thought, OK, she's gonna swallow her tongue when she walks in and sees the place now. 

But I gave fair warning, because that's the kind of guy I am.  I'm not one of those mean gays you always hear about.  So I left a little post-it for Jake.  "Just FYI," it read. "Linda will be dropping by tomorrow..."

Well, I came in just now from the gym.  I thought I was in the wrong place.  I have never seen it this clean.  Every surface sparkled.  You wouldn't even know there was an Oscar at all.  This is the kind of kid you want hiding you if the Nazis ever come for you, let me tell you.   

If I had known that's all it took, I'd have been inviting the landlady over twice a week for cribbage and carry-out.

Ladies, let this be a lesson to you. Maybe you already suspected, but your man is not as stupid as he is lazy.