Cleanliness on campus next to — impossible

My Sentiments Exactly

Well, it’s about time I came clean.

I mean, as clean as possible under the circumstances.

Oh, no, it’s got nothing to do with quarantine or lockdown or limited access to cleaning supplies or anything like that. I mean to say, that’s not the dirty little secret I’m keeping.

What I am trying to freshen the air about is the stain, soiled and seriously sullied spot I found myself in last weekend.

And when I say “spot” I mean “sea of swill” aka, my son’s home-away-from-home for the past year.

But, let’s be real, people, there’s only so much clean you can muster from a century home being occupied by three 20-year-old men — and apparently Pig Pen from “Peanuts” and trashcan resident Oscar the Grouch from “Sesame Street,” who also must reside there.

Cause casa cluttered — and possibly kinda contaminated — was clearly in need of colossal cleaning?

Look, it may be next to godliness but, even on a Jesuit Catholic college campus, cleanliness ain’t “next to” so much as it is “down the road a piece” from canonization, ‘kay?

Suffice it to say, what I unearthed while trying to scrape off the sordid scum was nothing short of squalid. As I slashed through the sludge — and tried salvaging the security deposit — I sought to squash down the swelling … of the chunks … in my throat.

HARD, HARD GULP. Several of them, actually.

For example, what I found when I slid the Keurig over on the counter to clean beneath it? Some sort of gyrating, gelatinous, gooey glob of grossness that gagged me nearly into the ground.

Only pure fear of the belly-busting bacteria bestrewn about the baseboards buoyed my buckling. BLECH.

Methodically moving from blender to toaster oven to lazy Susan, I planted my flag. It was open warfare between me and salmonella, et al.

I could feel myself begin to sway from the noxious ammonia fumes … but just when they thought they had me, BACK TO THE BLEACH, BABY — and BAM!

After a brief breather of literal fresh air, I zeroed in on the miniblinds. And now I know why they’re called that.

My eyes were swollen nearly shut after repeatedly slathering those slats in soap. I looked like Rocky after Apollo pounded the poo outta his peepers.

As for the bathroom, what can I say? I strapped an oxygen tank to my back, slipped a diver’s helmet over my head and entered E. coli’s headquarters.

It wasn’t for the faint of heart, my friends. All I can tell you is, my preemptive tetanus shot the week prior was a well-played move in this chess game of crapola, capisce?

Then there were the hundreds of handprints on family room windows. And the bedroom windows. And the dining room windows.


It looked like the entire cast of extras from every single episode of the 10 seasons of “The Walking Dead” had been trying to claw their way outta that place, yo.

Speaking of “The Walking Dead,” there was a piece of petrified pepperoni pizza I’m pretty sure I purged previously taunting me from the window sill.

“Hey, what’s up?” I swear I heard it say, smirking as I said sayonara to the soot and scum.

Doused and dirty — and in desperate desire of delouser deluge — I dashed for the door.

It might have just been the fumes, but I swear I heard it say, “See ya in September, sucker!”


— Kimerer is a columnist sleeping with one puffy eye open — at least for another week or so. View her other ramblings at www.patriciakimerer.com.


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