You Have A Problem

Dear Josh's Girlfriend's Ex-Husband:

You have a problem. Nobody buys $200 blocks of cable pornography for single-serving consumption. At least you had the decency to try to blame it on your children, which shows signs of healthy brain usage.

Seriously, though. I can't imagine the kind of manual dexterity endurance session that must have taken. You must be built like a fucking auto detailer. Do people shy away in aversion from your one massive Popeye arm? Did you put an anchor tattoo on it? Did you give it a girl's name?

Josh: I'm sorry for your loss, and the fact that you're stuck on DSL because you can't afford to pay off the bill so you can afford real internet. You really shouldn't let ex-anythings onto your property unless you're packing a shotgun. Trust me on this. Nothing smells better than sawed-off in the morning, and nothing gets the testosterone flowing like threatening someone who could probably kick your ass with a hefty firearm. That is, unless you're the kind of person who needs a decathlon of shitty cable porn to rub off some crotchfruit.

Also, I suggest you buy a black light. And don't let your kids eat anything that's dropped on the floor. If the carpet sticks to your heel when you walk over to change the channel, that's the sign that there's some rancid man-batter somewhere nearby. Touching you. I'll let that sink in for a bit.

Okay. So, in conclusion, do not skimp on renting a carpet steam cleaner. Because there is another man's angel-food cake mix somewhere in your cruddy shag. Imagine the blob. Imagine it growing and consuming everything it touches. This should be triggering your primal retch reflexes right now. Nobody wants to think about some guy's tapioca in the space they have laid claim to. Fucking clean your carpet. And your couch. And if you have a dog, clean that too.

Wear gloves,
Me.