Men are Disgusting

You know full well it's true.

I don’t want to speak for 50% of the planet, but all men are disgusting. If you are that one outlier, suspending outrage for fear of rimpling his jade indoors turtleneck, my apologies. 

Single young men, especially, only make a fair show of general hygiene and togetherness. Even then, the behaviour is not learned out of any fundamental self-respect. As their frontal lobes fill out, blokes slowly realise they have two clear routes: clean, tidy and eligible or smelly, dishevelled and not. 

As a young pothead, I really was the peeling-poster boy for bumbling slobbery. Once I didn’t pay rent for five months, so it’s fair to say that housekeeping wasn’t top of my priorities.

That was weed. There certainly was not time in my hectic smoking schedule for the likes of washing up. I had places to be, people to see: my couch, my other couch, my roommate, my other roommate.

Instead, I would simply eat dinner off the same gradually thickening plate. After a week or so, each dish would resemble a model battlefield. Upon which, a bustling fusion of flavours fought for my attention. The victor: contemporary cuisine. 

Lifehack: tonight’s weekly special looking a little too adventurous for ya? Simply stretch cling film across the mottled grime - and, hey presto: new plate. 

Here’s another one: if a carton of eggs doesn’t fit in the fridge, quickly rearrange the shelf contents by closing the door - like slamming the boot on an awkward corpse, you know? Real time-saver - would 100% recommend. 

Now, you should be made aware, this approach can place the next visitor at risk from these spring-loaded perishables. In a shared house, the chances of a refrigerator artillerist getting fingered - or, worse still, catching friendly fire from a dozen free/short-range missiles - are pretty low. However, within a 1-on-1 live-in relationship, the only possible outcome is egg on your face.

Deeply single and deeply high, my hygiene wasn’t so much personal anymore. After that breakfast bong hit, try as I might - a pretty low bar for commitment - I never would seem to make it to the shower. 

Now, bear with me here. For a few paranoid weeks, I believed wearing a semeny t-shirt was the secret to successfully getting my overdraft extended. In my eternal defence, after two very gainful trips to Barclays, I had absolutely no evidence to the contrary.

As a control, I went back with an upper-body sperm count of none. The banker had never seen someone so delighted with a rejected application. Smiling sagely, I thanked him for his support of my great seminal theory. 

Just like every last radical and visionary since time immemorial - mad, they called me. “For the last time, Sam, your stale fucking ejaculate has no bearing on the whims of bank clerks,” mates laughed. 

“We’ll see about that.”

Only after a final and cum-caked appointment was my hypothesis disproved. It would appear that the checks and balances of local bank branches are, indeed, not swayed by the presence of my semen. 

That or the bank teller can somehow sense the intentionality of the insemination - but, frankly, that seems a bit mental. More importantly, for a man of science, such as myself - impossible to test. 

Or maybe wandering into a financial institution, all jizzy and high, affected my biweekly pleas for drug money in some other way. I fear we’ll now never know.

As a career sloven, living in an enclosed relationship has been really eye-opening. So this is how the other half live. 

With maturity, I now see that the most convenient resting state of a cupboard is: closed. A full arsenal of cutlery beats dredging for noodles with a smudged knife. After a long day, digging your toes into a well-made bed, unencumbered, is really actually kind of nice. 

Pathetically, every time I take the bins out I have to suppress the self-righteousness of an earth-bound demigod. Behold this great sacrifice I have made for the betterment of the household. Slowly but surely, I am working basic human living standards into my routine - by Oden’s good grace, I’ll be wiping my own arse by first frost.  

Although, left alone, I soon revert to factory setting. Slopping around satisfied in a pit of my own filthy making - before seeing the time and scrambling to cover it up. Always leaving some incriminating laundry buried shallow in the basket. What’s this?

As shameful as it is, even the most housetrained manchild is only ever one free weekend away from going to seed. It’s a fact of life, all men are disgusting… especially this one.