You open the bulk closet to get some dried chickpeas, and Groucho, Chico, Harpo, and Zeppo tumble out, knocking you to the floor.
Your soy milk container makes a honking noise when you touch it.
The acoustic guitar and African drums in the living room have been replaced by a harp and a lemonade stand.
Suddenly the people you live with acquire a permanent bend in the knees when they walk. Sometimes they make eyes at you.
You wake up in the morning to a rousing rendition of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”
You come home one day to find Chico playing the piano and 40 well-fed Italian peasant women dancing in a circle around the room.
You are frequently told, dryly, that your body shape resembles that of a hunk of tofu.
Various wealthy ladies are continually being wooed in your presence.
You find the hilarity of your life interrupted by pauses for serious classical-music interludes.
Any attempt you make to have a serious dialogue about environmental sustainability is undermined by several men swinging across the ceiling above you.
You have a no-meat-in-the-house policy, but there’s always someone making duck soup.
You suggest an evening of smoking pot and listening to Pink Floyd, but all your housemates want to do is make faces at each other in their underwear.
You feel like the whole purpose of your existence is to be the butt of someone else’s joke.