that baton was on fire

There’s a knock on the door of apartment #3B.  You open the door.  It’s Party Dog.  He’s carrying a six pack of Budweiser tall boys.  “Let’s get this party started!” he exclaims, his tone drifting somewhere between serious and sarcastic and you never do figure out which way to interpret it.

Party Dog leaves the Budweiser on the counter and goes immediately for the “good beer” sitting in your fridge.  He criticizes your ipod playlist, insults your friends.  Party Dog laughs a little too loud.  He rubs his ass on your carpet and openly flirts with your roommate.  Every time you go to the bathroom, you notice his piss always seems to miss the bowl.  You never see Party Dog leave until the next morning when he staggers out of your roommate’s bedroom and exits the apartment without saying a word.