Perhaps it’s time to introduce you to Eggplant Boy…
Sadly, this useless sack of shit is my stepdaughter’s boyfriend, not some lame superhero. I imagine that if he was the latter, he’d be cut from similar cloth to Florida Man. Anyway, she “met” him while playing the Call of Duty mobile game and his particular brand of toxic behavior towards the other players was just too sexy for her to ignore. I admit that I have a pretty dismal track-record when it comes to romance, but my stepdaughter takes it to the next level. She simply can’t resist picking the absolute worst barrel-scrapings that life has to offer. It’s almost impressive, to be honest.
I call him Eggplant Boy (or alternatively, Aubergino) not because he has the dynamic, vibrant personality of your typical brinjal, but rather that he would be a lot easier to tolerate if he was sliced thinly, then covered in salt and subsequently deep-fried.
It doesn’t bother him in the slightest that he is a pathetic, unemployed layabout with no plan for self-improvement whatsoever. He is content to lounge around all day sponging off the goodwill of others indefinitely. His excuse for his bone-idleness is that he allegedly has social anxiety which makes it impossible for him to find a job. Apparently, social anxiety also makes him incapable of actually looking for a job, picking up after himself, or even taking a shower. I’m not 100% sure if he manages to wipe his own arse, but that’s one of those things you’re probably better off not knowing.
I was blissfully unaware of just how unpleasant he was when I agreed to let stepdaughter and Eggplant Boy stay at the flat “for a few days”. This was supposed to be for the period between Christmas and New Year and although I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of having a stranger in my home for a week, I had no idea how dire it would turn out to be. Within a day of their arrival, they had managed to turn the flat into a complete tip: food-encrusted plates were left lying around; the sink became a Jenga-stack of greasy crockery; piles of dirty laundry and wet towels covered the bathroom floor; and an unstable heap of additional rubbish was dumped on top of the overflowing bin. I dragged them off the couch to harangue them for their complete lack of consideration and I made it absolutely clear that I wasn’t prepared to be their domestic servant. Since they were both (technically) adults, I expected them to clean up after themselves. Stepdaughter tearfully agreed while Aubergino did his best soft bitch impression and conducted a detailed examination of his shoes.
It turned out that my stepdaughter had only being paying me lip-service, because in the days that followed, I kept on having to confront them about their disgusting habits and the filthy state of the flat. Then, to add insult to injury, I was told – not asked – that Eggplant Boy had decided to extend his stay.
I spent a considerable amount of time ranting to my shrink about how intolerable the situation was before he pointed out that since I hadn’t agreed to the extension, it wouldn’t be unreasonable for me to toss the annoying leech out on his crusty buttocks (I’m paraphrasing).
“B-but where will he go?” stammered stepdaughter when I broke the bad news. I responded with, “Don’t care. Sounds like a you problem”. This earned me stepdaughter’s Death Stare(TM) and I am reliably informed that now I rank higher than Satan in Hell’s hierarchy. Time to update my CV then.
Stepdaughter and Aubergino are currently infesting her father’s house. Her dad has large property, a fondness for alcohol and a propensity to choose violence when he’s blotto. Hopefully we’ll see a suspicious verdant mound occupying the bottom of the garden in the near future. Fingers crossed.
