An Open Apology To My House

By Will Hayes

I watched a weatherproofing commercial the other day that asked the question: “Do you know what your house would say if it could talk?”

IF it could talk? Sorry pal, my house DOES talk, and it tells me some weird shit from time to time. Like yesterday I got home pretty late from my 3rd shift plant-watering duties at Home Depot, horny as nads and just wanting to fire out a quick batch of love into my Rosie O’Donnell pillowcase before going to bed. But no, my House decides to start whispering to me — going off on a tangent about how he thinks the Living Room might be gay. I don’t believe him, of course (he once claimed the Attic was a cross-dressing mule), so thus demand proof. “Well,” he says, “I saw the Living Room staring at the Bathroom’s ass right after lunch.”

“So what?” I say. “That doesn’t make the Living Room gay.” (Secretly, my interest is piqued as the Bathroom does indeed have a pretty nice ass.) Anyway, I tell him I need more than that, and instantly turn over to finish strangling my crooked half-footer. He must be serious though, as my House now starts whispering again, telling me to look in the top drawer if I want real proof. So, I get up — just before my milky mischief is about to fly — and open the dresser. I pick up a stack of pictures that my House tells me he took while I was gone, start flipping through them, and can’t believe what I see — my Living Room has the Stairwell tied up, ball-gagged and bent over an oblivious coffee table, taking it from behind with due force and odd lyric.

“Jesus Christmas!” I scream, and quickly run to the Living Room for answers. Not knowing what to do or who to believe, I can only think of one way to settle this mystery. I must pose as bait. I quickly jack down my Gap relaxed-fits and bend over on the rug. I wait. I wait. I swivel my backdoor a bit, ”let the fish see the lure” as I say. Nothing. I smile at my metaphor. Nothing. I wonder if I meant “simile.” Still nothing. “See!” I yell to my House. “I told you the Living Room isn’t—”

But then it hits me. Hard. Real hard. Right in the front teeth of my chocolate factory. 40 cubic feet of semi-furnished Living Room suddenly decides to spread apart my flesh mountains and begin drilling for pleasure. I scream. I cry. I laugh. I kinda scream. I kinda laugh. I get a comfortable rhythm going. I believe. I understand. I smile.


Yes, Mr. Weatherproofing Commercial, I do know what my House would say if it could talk — and lately, I’ve been listening with one ass open. I’m sorry I ever doubted you, House. I love you. I need you. I love to need you. And I now hope you accept this apology.


Will Hayes
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