Photo: Doug LePage
Location: Whitewater, B.C.


See also Contest 01: Chairlift Encounter

See also Contest 02: Panic

The Stinky House
By BRUCE McQUISTAN

Creak open the door and the militant mildew immediately lays its lock on your nose. The dingy, northern light seeps through the window, green with molds. Large indiscriminant insects hover next to the bathtub, rubbing their squeaky viola legs together, reminiscent of used car salesmen. The space is layered with legions of dried, dirty towels that have to be beaten into submission. The toilet is textured Jackson Pollack taupe and avocado green. More than one phone call to Ralph talking to God about Buicks has been made on that telephone. The crown jewels of the installation are the mushrooms: several clusters of four-inch long mucilaginous mycological monsters that truly define the funkiest loo ever.

The living room is jumbled with ripped couches, plastic milk crates, dilapidated chairs, reeking beer bottles, and cigarette butts. The couches are consistently strewn with one dirtbag chrysalis or another (exuding a translucent, sweaty glow), wrapped in some once glorious 800-fill portawomb, a bag of partly smoked funkweed within reach. It is fair game to attempt to lob a butt into the yawning maw of the unsuspecting snoozer. The ceiling sports an intricate Celtic knot, better entertainment than the battered TV with the coat-hanger antenna. Chunks of plaster randomly bombard the unaware. Socks of the indigent litter the scene and are burned in secretive piles in the backyard.

There is a Formica table in the dining room. There are no eating utensils, and "meals" involve beating each other with chunks of whatever beast is available and wrestling for the carcass. An old Macintosh stereo inhabits the built-in china cabinet and stacks of LPs and singles from bands like The Residents or Bush Tetras slump in the corners.

The kitchen is beyond dirty. Hazmat suits are required for the layers of festering cold cuts, rotted eggs, moldy bagels and cream cheeses. It could asphyxiate a Frenchman. It squelches any appetite, is rarely used, and never cleaned except when Dean the Weirdo has a glass-smashing tantrum and then only the shards of foot gashing glass are sought.

The cabinet doors are victims of late-night doodle fests wrought with intricately meaningless cuneiform, curlicues, cartoons, and porn. Coupled with globs of wax, p-tex, and art projects are pickled doll parts, hacked and reglommed army men, and circuit boards that have "You Are Here-->" stenciled into them.

It is home to a rainforest of new, undocumented species.

                                                                                 Next: number 1


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