Friends are great, for the most part. Take for instance my previous roomate. We'll call him Michael Ivanhoff, for now. Now Michael is a classy guy. Only guy I've met who kept a bottle of lube on top of his desk. And he used that bottle of lube like it was nobody's business, but that's a story for another time.

One day, after coming back from work, Mike goes and rips ass like it was nobody's business. I turn away from my computer and look the guy in the face. And he stares me back in the eye, and says "I think I just shat myself." Being the mature adult I am, I break out laughing. Like rolling on the floor crying-laughing. At this point our friends hear me laughing over Skype, and start asking what's going on. Mike hears this, and screams at the top of his lungs, "I just shat myself."

I stop for a second, and look at him and ask, "Why did you do that?"

"They heard me the first time."

"No! They didn't."

"Oh," he said while looking at his feet. I wish this was the end of it.

Three weeks later, Mike opens up the minifridge, and suddenly the room smells like the darkest recesses of a man's ass. So I look at him and ask, "Do you smell that?"

He looks sheepishly back at me, and says, "Yeah well, you know, there's something in here I should have thrown out three weeks ago." He kept the shit pants in the fridge for three weeks. Don't ask why. I don't know. True story.