I fled the nest a while ago. Don’t get me wrong, it was a lovely nest; I just got tired of being questioned about why I take such long showers (It’s because I jerk off in there, Dad). Since then I’ve called many places home. I started out in a dorm, complete with the Twin XL and a Wedding Crashers poster. Then I moved on to a frat house that had permanently sticky floors due to the spillage of beer and bodily fluids. Now I live in an apartment, attempting to masquerade as a fully functioning adult. All of these abodes have had their own distinctive charm, yet I’ve never been fully content with my living situation. Now I realized what was missing.
Basements. None of these spots had basements!
I know it sounds asinine, but hear me out: The basement is the arena of everything awesome that can happen in a home. Think back to high school, remember all the crazy shit that went down in your friend’s basement? Basements are like international waters; anything goes. When a man gets tranquilized and dragged to the suburbs by his wife, his first move when he regains consciousness is to outfit a man cave. A man cave? He’s just trying to recreate the bastion of freedom that was the basement! When I settle down, I don’t care if my house has bathrooms or bedrooms, as long as there are underground quarters for me to get weird. Sorry Californians and Floridians, you missed out dearly. I salute the basement for the following reasons.
When I was younger I never understood those scenes from That 70’s Show where the crew would sit in a circle, giggling amidst thick clouds of smoke. A few years later not only did I understand their behavior, but also why the circle always took place in the basement. The basement was great place to get high: You had plenty of time to hear footsteps of encroaching parents and there was a plethora of forgotten closets and crawlspaces to hide your stash. Plus, my basement was down deep enough that my brownie-induced panic attacks wouldn’t wake the rest of the house.
Gambling in basements is an extension of my “international waters” theory. I have been privy to more illegal poker tournaments in basements than I’d like to admit. 12-year-old kids stacking chips and throwin’ down cards like it ain’t no thing. Occasionally you’d get an intrusion from the host’s Dad, but he was probably proud that his son was following in his degenerate footsteps. As we got older, we grew more interested in getting ass than catching air on the river, but there was always a hardcore Saturday night poker playing crew. Kids clocked serious hours playing Hold ‘Em back in the day, no wonder everyone works in investment banking. It’s just one form of gambling to another.
Basements are like a 1920’s speakeasy. Just a hive for illicit activities. All that was missing was that slot on the door where the guy asks you for the password. But instead of smuggled Canadian Club Whiskey, it was Coors Light in red Solo cups. I had a killer setup: beer pong, turntables, even a smog machine. I remember one particular party when my best friend drank too much. As I was talking him through his first projectile vomit, a girl wouldn’t stop banging on the bathroom door. I got frustrated and shoved the door open, right onto her face. I broke her nose. It was awesome. Don’t feel bad, she went on to bang some senior in my housekeeper’s bedroom later that night.
One winter break during college, I was back home in the basement. My mom was giving her friends a tour of the house. She made her way down to my sacred lair, “And here’s where Evan lost his virginity….”. I didn’t even look up from my Xbox. She knew the deal. The basement was an epic spot to get laid. There was none of that “make sure the door is open” nonsense like with my bedroom upstairs. I had ample privacy to get it in. Whenever people sleep at my parents’ house, and get stuck with my basement fuck bed, I can’t help but smirk. There’s still lube in the dresser drawer.
You may outgrow the other activities on this list, but no matter the age, you will no doubt watch sports in your basement. Sure a home may have a living room for quality television viewing, but everyone knows the basement is where serious business goes down. No need to worry about knocking over your wife’s antique vase or a family photo here, the basement was built for getting rowdy. Whether it’s Monday Night Football or Madden, basements are made for the consumption of athletic entertainment.
Now you understand why so many 40-year-old losers live in their mom’s basement, it’s just too good of a place to leave! Did you have a great basement? A basement story? Were you deprived of a sick cellar and wanna vent about it? Leave your thoughts in the comments section!
Krum is an NYC based comedian that aspires to basement dwell once again. Follow him on Twitter @KrumLifeDotCom