Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Hand-Washed Dishes

I spy with my little eye: the milk you drank yesterday with your lunch...in the bottom of my glass.

It was sweet to offer me a beer, even if it's 11am on a Sunday. I couldn't resist because you seemed super excited to pour me a frosty libation in a stolen pint glass. So despite feeling like hot garbage after last night's Hasselhoff-esque beer and burger jam session, I'm going to drink this cheap beer with you and even propose a toast for proving last night that you DO in fact know all the words to every song in The Little Mermaid. Bravo.

But, as adorable as you are, I simply cannot choke down a PBR with milk residue floating in it. A quick survey of your sink shows an ancient sponge that--I'm going to assume--smells like rotten Indian food, a bottle of hand lotion that you most likely mistook for soap, and a towel on the stove top serving as your "drying rack." I notice a dishwasher but you tell me it's broken and upon further inspection, I can see a deflated beach ball wedged inside. Fair enough.

At least this problem is easily resolved: I'll pick up a new sponge (or twelve) and a big ass bottle of Palmolive and teach you some moves from the Mary Poppins playbook. We all know how much you love Disney.

But first things first, let's start with a fresh beer. Just the can is fine. Thanks, doll.