Point/Counterpoint: Sloth v. Chunk

First of All, It Wasn’t Your Cocatiel: It Was Our Cocatiel

Let us at once set this record straight – that bird was a part of this household, as well as our shared struggles and triumphs. Or, perhaps it would be more apt to say your struggles and my triumphs. If you got off of the couch and became a little more vested in your own future, that bird wouldn’t have had to struggle with the strife of this dialectical drama which has become the pervading narrative of our relationship – a relationship that has slowly morphed from a loving kinship to the veritable dojo of passive aggressiveness that prevails today. A bird of that majesty just doesn’t just drop dead, Chunk. You may be amenable to attributing Thaddeus’ demise to my grotesque appearance and zealously embrace of his plumage, but you and I both know that a beak full of keef probably had something to do with it as well. If you were a little less careless about the narcotic flotsam you leave festooned throughout our quarters, the magnificent bird may not have languished on its perch.

Put the bong down, Chunk and turn off Ninja Warrior. This should be a call to action, a call for you to seek the world outside. Once Vassar grants my tenure, there will be a reckoning for your idleness. Our beloved cockatiel lived a courageous life but I submit, in the end could not endure your gluttony. Your wings have been clipped, sir. Your flabby little wings render you a fat flightless little butterball. Our cockatiel’s spirit could not be mended watching your protracted demise. Ultimately, the mighty Thaddeus died of a broken heart.

Fuck Off

Are you shitting me, Sloth? You're really gonna pin this one on me? Wow. I mean... Wow.

Dude, that bird partied. I know that, Thaddeus knew that... Fuck, even our landlord knew that. Or has our Arbor Day party already become a repressed memory for you? Because, as I recall, that fuckin' bird shot more blow up his beak that night than Len Bias and The Olsen Twins combined. Do the words "narcotic-fueled thrashing of my futon" mean anything to you?

Look, I know you're grieving. You're struggling to make sense of all this and, trust me, I understand this impulse. But pointing fingers isn't going to get you anywhere but the Craigslist "Roommate Wanted" posts. Because I'll blow this popstand, bro. With a quickness. I don't need this shit right now. Not when I'm trying to shed a few pounds and enroll at DeVry.

So, take a long walk, read the DSM-IV, rub one out to TiVo'd Rikki Lake episodes (again)... Whatever it takes for you to blow off some steam and put Thaddeus' memory to rest. Because I won't be your whipping boy. Not this time.