After four years with my own bedroom at home, I was computer selected to cohabit this coat closet with three best friends who had all attended high school in a Stephen King novel. The first night they taught me how to roll a wet towel so that, when snapped sharply at one's prey, the victim's femur would shatter like dry kindling. We voted and I was elected as prey. I escaped with a flying leap into my army cot only to find my knees embedded deep in my shoulders. Later that that week I discovered just how many diverse and amusing foods can be hilariously planted in a roommate's bed.
Saltines are best, of course, when pounded almost to dust.
Mustard, ketchup, Jell-O, actually any condiment or dessert will do in a pinch. At night we worked our way though the entire manual of freshman pranks guaranteed to obliterate REM sleep. If you would like to know more about these games, kill a Russian policeman and inquire at your nearest gulag. They lay shoulder to shoulder on the floor in total darkness, at first just thrashing about, then making odd croaking sounds until the sleeper wakes. Groggy, confused, the victim climbs from his bed onto an undulating carpet of human flesh.