The Ballad of Little Bighead

Bob KowchanskiBlog Posts, HumorLeave a Comment

So I moved into a new apartment a few months ago, after spending like a year and a half living with my mom, which sucked, because she’s literally always vacuuming, and I can’t watch TV in such an environment and she didn’t respect my needs.

But my new roommate is like 100 times worse, if you can believe it. I call him Little Bighead, and he is just the worst guy ever. I mean, he’s not a rapist or a murderer or anything, as far as I know, and he’s too goofy looking to be a Nazi – those guys would dribble his big round head around like a basketball – but he’s still awful in so many ways.

If you haven’t guessed, I call him Little Bighead because he has a tiny little body with a great big head. One of these days, I’m going kick it, just to see if it wobbles around on top of his skinny little neck like a Bobblehead. God, that guy has a big head.

real life bobblehead

This isn’t him, but it gives you a good idea of what he looks like.

He also does that annoying thing where he carefully cultivates two day’s worth of beard growth, so he looks like some kind of fucking asshole who doesn’t shave.

He’s always smirking, like he’s better than everyone. He’s also super phony. He’s always talking, making snide remarks about everything, while really never saying anything. And then he laughs this nasally little laugh at his unfunny observations. I just sit and take it, because nothing helps. I’ve tried passive aggressive comments, assertive comments, booby traps, even sleeping pills, but that big noggin keeps wobbling and his mouth keeps running.

When he blows his nose, it makes a sound like canned air. He does this very often. Every now and then, he makes this grunting noise, like everything in his body hurts all at once; his spine is probably compressed from that huge head of his.

Worst of all, he eats with his mouth wide open, like a cow. It sounds like a movie sound effect of hamburger being squished together. It’s so loud, I can hear it from my bedroom when he’s in his bedroom. I thought only fat guys ate like that, but I guess not.

I hate, hate, HATE that pretentious little twatface and I’m going to have to get a new place to live, because I just can’t go on like this, listening to the sound of hamburger squishing and canned air and audible smirking and that wobbly springy sound his head makes when he laughs. Also, socks aren’t cheap.

Oh, I didn’t mention the thing about the socks, yet. I swear he’s cutting my socks in half, right down the middle! I mean, who does that? Alls I know if I go into my room after I’ve done a shitload of drugs, and my bed and my floor are just covered with sock halves, like white, fluffy banana peels. I know I didn’t do this because I don’t remember doing it. I don’t remember a lot of things when I do drugs, but this is something I definitely remember not remembering so it was obviously Little Bighead.

Speaking of drugs, I accidentally spilled bong water all over the pizza he ordered. I’ve done this about eight times, never on purpose, but he just keeps flipping out. In a way, I’m glad it happened, because I never wanted to listen to him munch on his pizza and making sounds like a dog eating peanut butter mixed with potato chips in the first place.

But the last time, just went crazy. He stood up, looked me right in the eyes, and then he VICIOUSLY, AND WITH MALICIOUS INTENT, SNAPPED MY BONG IN HALF RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME!

broken bong

I didn’t even know he was that strong!

The only good thing about being hospitalized – I’m in traction at the moment – is that I’m not around Little Bighead as much. I shudder to think what he be must be doing to my socks right now, but I can always get new socks. But it’s still a problem, and I’ll tell you why.

The other day, lacking socks, I needed to go out and get the mail. It was raining, so I put a couple of those plastic bags you use for newspaper deliveries on my feet, and went outside. Well, we live on the second floor, and the steps are kind of slippery, and I was wearing wet plastic on my feet. I’ll bet you can guess what happened. I got all the way to the top, and then I slipped and fell all the way back down again.

I woke up with a concussion and two broken legs and a broken tailbone and I’m pretty sure Little Bighead peed on me. I HATE THAT MOTHERFUCKER.

falling down stairs

I fell and hurt my butt.

Or it could have been that incontinent dog I’ve been feeding.

Anyway, I’m in the hospital still, and I’m not allowed to get up and move around and I have to poop in a plastic tub – which is kind of convenient, and I’m going to ask them if I can take it home with me. I mean, I’ve gotta get SOMETHING good out of this deal, especially since I’m down a bong now.

About the Author

Bob Kowchanski

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There’s an old saying that goes, “If it doesn’t make sense, write it down. If it still doesn’t make seance, crumple it up and eat it.” I know it’s old because I invented it myself in 6th grade, and I stand by it to this very day. I don’t know what else to put here. I think my posts speak for themselves, so read those, instead. Email me at kowchanfiftyslick@gmail.com.