I’ve worked hard to provide a good life for my family. Forty years of blood, sweat, and tears were poured on that factory floor so that I could put this roof over our heads and ensure we have food on the table every night. No fancy sports cars or nothing. The only luxury I strive to afford is some peace and quiet. That’s why, for the last time, I don’t care what that damn flyer says; this is not a punkhouse, so you need to get the hell out of here and tell all your friends to stop walking in on my family during dinner!
I don’t even know what the hell a “Macaroni House” is. This ain’t it, though. This is my house. My name’s on the lease and it ain’t Macaroni. I actually find it pretty offensive that people see my house and think this might be some sort of gross, run-down punk rock hang out. Sure, the exterior could use a paint job, and the lawn could stand a mow, but with how often I’m on the phone with Google trying to get our address taken off the search results for that damn house, I haven’t had the time!
People can’t just go around walking into strangers’ homes. That’s a home invasion! I know my rights, and you’re lucky I don’t keep any guns in this house. I’m telling ya, if I didn’t suffer from severe depression and PTSD triggered by the many horrors I witnessed during my time working in the factory, I’d have at least twelve guns that would blow you back to Kingdom Come, which I assume is another one of your punk homes.
That’s all besides the point. Look, I’m a nice guy. It’s just extremely troubling how often strangers with spiked hair and black jackets just walk in around dinner time smoking a cigarette. And I thought telemarketers were bad! Heh. See, I still got a sense of humor about it. But my wife does not. In fact, she’s lost faith in my ability to protect her, and it’s beginning to put a strain on our marriage. So, for the love of everything decent in this world, please stop walking into my house.
