Jason loved two things in life: pizza and his couch. Not just any couch—The Couch. It was large, lumpy, and ugly as sin, but it had a perfect Jason-shaped dent that cradled him like a foam-based throne.
So, when Jason came home from work one Friday to find The Couch missing, his reaction was understandably dramatic.
“MY BUTT’S BEST FRIEND IS GONE!” he wailed, collapsing to the floor like a soap opera widow.
His roommate, Mark, peeked out of the kitchen. “Relax. I got rid of it.”
Jason stopped sobbing mid-sentence. “You what?”
“That couch was a biohazard,” Mark said, waving a rubber glove for emphasis. “I found three socks, a grilled cheese, and something that growled at me under the cushions.”
“His name is Carl. He pays rent in crumbs,” Jason muttered.
Mark ignored him. “I got us a new couch. It has lumbar support.”
Jason stared at the new couch. It was sleek, modern, and clearly designed by someone who had never experienced the joy of a full Netflix binge. It didn’t even look comfortable—it looked like a dentist’s waiting room.
“I want my couch back,” Jason said.
“Too late. It’s on the curb.”
Jason sprinted outside in his socks.
There, like a noble beast abandoned in the wild, sat The Couch. He lunged at it, hugging it like a long-lost friend.
That’s when the raccoon jumped out.
Jason screamed, fell backward, and watched in horror as the raccoon—possibly Carl—claimed the couch as his new throne.
“You see?” Mark said, watching from the porch. “Even wildlife thinks that thing’s a home.”
Jason dusted himself off. “Then I’ll live out here too. I am wildlife.”
By the next morning, Jason had set up a tarp and was holding a protest sign that read: COUCH RIGHTS NOW.
Neighbors joined in. Someone brought snacks. Local news showed up.
Mark eventually caved—not from guilt, but because he got tired of people chanting “Let him sit!” outside the apartment.
Jason dragged The Couch back inside in triumph, raccoon and all.
Carl now lives in the armrest. He’s the quietest roommate they’ve ever had.
