Fact: In order to have the building handyman come into my room and help me install the bridge I am going to have to clean my room to the point where it no longer resembles the town of Chernobyl in May of 1986.
Most people view cleaning a room as a minor inconvenience of life, like oral herpes or Bryan Adams fans.* Not I. I view it as a violation, an unnatural break in the order of things, like bowel cancer or David Arquette.
Men are messy. It's just something we do. If women weren't around the entirety of the earth's surface would be covered by used sweat socks in approximately 3 months. Humans would be forced to move underground to live like mole people beneath an ever accruing layer of junk on the top. When the aliens finally did get around to visiting earth they'd find evidence that an advanced civilization once existed here in the form of mile deep piles of pizza boxes and the Grand Canyon filled with self-help books uniformly bookmarked at page 14, but not much else. The men would all be deep beneath the crust of the earth, churning out more junk to send topside as fast as they could.
It's not that men are callous, stupid, or uncaring. In fact it may be that we care a little too much. A man sees a patch of unused space as a violation of nature. Chairs were made for sitting in, eyeglasses were made for looking through, and tables were made for holding things. When a big table holds nothing but a bowl of fruit and a doily it's not fulfilling its function. It's not...happy. Now you add a few layers of papers, some books, a used soup bowl, some empty soda cans, and maybe T-shirt hanging off one end, that table's in seventh heaven. It's doing what it does, happy as a clam.
Some men may stop there, but others, the Egalitarian Object Distributors, look around and realize that while the quest to cover every table and counter in assorted filth is a noble one, it is hardly enough. These men look down at the floor beneath their feet and come to the realization that it too is lonely. A floor is made for stepping on, sure, but how often does each individual spot on the floor receive the loving tread of a human foot? Once a day? A week? A month? Most of a floor's existence is wasted waiting for someone, anyone, to walk by and give it meaning.
That's no way to exist. So EODs decide to help the floors out by strewing papers and food containers over them, creating a layer of material that the floor can support 24/7. This process is very delicate and requires meticulous planning. For example you don't want to pair an empty container of Moo Shu Pork with a crushed Sunkist can. That could cause indigestion. Also you never want literary works with competing philosophies to encounter one another, so Vogue should be kept far from Atlantic Monthly.
Once a floor has been satisfyingly coated in objects the man realizes that these objects are being used as means rather than ends unto themselves, and so in a fit of Kantian largess he stacks more stuff on top of them, layering the floor with empty cans of chili and shredded newspaper until it's knee deep and starts to resemble a sort of garbage stew. As the junk starts to meld together into one solid coating of...stuff...its true purpose is reached and a utopian calm sets in around the home space.
There's another positive element to this sort of egalitarian spreading of the wealth, and that is that it acts a shrine to our society. What's the main thing America produces? Technology, media content, horrible cars? No, it's packaging. Most of what we make is packaging for other stuff. Most of that packaging gets thrown out. Is that right? No. An egalitarian object distributor doesn't discriminate based on assigned function. A 3 year old box from Amazon.com, broken and dirty, can cover a floor just as effectively as a Teach Yourself C in 21 Days book, and he knows it. He's maintaining the fruits of our labor for perpetuity. So some day when someone says "Gee, remember the way Coke cans used to look at the turn of the century? It's too bad we recycled them all to save the planet" he can say:
"No Timmy, we didn't recycle all of them. We didn't get them all" and produce an example. I mean seriously, who knows when the fate of humanity will hinge on whether someone can procure pages 2-9 of the June 1995 issue of Electronic Gamer Monthly. By preserving these items the EODs preserve our culture and our way of life. They create living museums on the floors of homes, museums that save the things most others throw away. Where else can you find an empty Duracell package from the late 80's next to a soiled 10th grade Term Paper (B+!)?
So who stands in the way of this great project? Women. Women are made for breeding and caring for babies, so they have an irrational aversion to filth. They're also so distracted by their love of shoes that they can't remember where anything is unless it's in the same place EVERY time so they demand cupboards and folded clothing and instructions simpler than "Yeah the scissors are over there, about two feet beneath the soiled bedsheets next to the nuclear waste pile. Fuckers. And women impose their demands on others around them, namely men, so that as men live with women they pick up these habits and abandon their EOD ways in pursuit of pussy. Then these men start to demand other men obey the arbitrary rules and pretty soon what you have is cleanliness, a state of blind obedience to female neuroticism where the couches are covered in decorative pillows rather than lovely filth, and the history of America is shipped off to the landfills one bag at a time.
My handyman is woman corrupted. He believes you should be able to see a patch of floor before you step on it. I am a hardcore EOD, one of the last men left uncorrupted by our womancentric society, headed towards a sadly sterile world. Before he will help me, I must clean. I must destroy my carefully collected piles of garbage and filth in the pursuit of cool air. I must betray my EOD heritage if I want to have comfort. I don't really have a choice in the matter, I've bought the air conditioner and I need to be able to breath and stay awake to write but:
Goodbye Nipps wrappers from 1984. I'll miss you.
*The last one died in 1989 of hairspray toxicity. Turns out most 80's hairsprays were made from a combination of enriched uranium and asbestos. The band Poison? , yeah, that name was literal.