Strange Man Passes Out On My Couch. "What The Fuck?," says Anthony

So this wasn’t a recent event, in fact it happened one of the first weeks during my time in Cork, but seeing how I have said fuck all to chronology anyway I felt like writing this story instead of working on my other one that is dragging a bit. Not that it will suck, I just am feeling lazy.

I got out of bed to use the bathroom. My roommate Brendan comes out and asks “is one of you friends staying here or something?”
“No”, I reply.
“Then who is that dude on the couch?”
“Huh?”
I peered into the living room, and sure enough, there was a dude asleep on out couch. We happened to have left the door open that night. Brendan went over to him and had to shake him rather hard to get him up, I think he might have even needed to punch the guy. Eventually the guy sat up like a shot
“FOOOK!”
The dialect of the Irish accent that calls Cork County its home is one of the most difficult accents to understand in the county (the other is a thick Dublin accent). When a person with this accent becomes drunk, they are totally incomprehensible. Even for other Irish people. This was such a case.
I kinda felt bad for the guy, and figured, shit, that’s probably going to happen to me someday. It would have perhaps been more funny if it were some decrepit crotchety old man, but it was a young guy. I figured I’d give him a glass of water so he didn’t die, and then get him the fuck out of out apartment. Brendan thought I was crazy for doing it. I couldn’t understand a fucking word, but from what I could gather he was trying to go back to sleep and we kept having to explain to him he couldn’t stay. I at one point I asked him if he had a jacket, he said yes, and I think he said it was black, but he could have said “uuuuuuuuhghhhghhghg fook ufuguguguuweeee whiskey.” He then proceeded to pick up every jacket in the room identifying it as his own. Each time, Brendan said “no, that’s mine.” When he knocked over my guitar, I reached my breaking point and we told him to get the fuck out of our apartment. He kept repeating “very cool, very cool.” “We know, we’re not going to fight you, but you have to leave.” Then he would sort of raise his hand as a request for us to pause for a moment, the way drunken people sometimes do when they think they have something really important to say, that usually just comes out “uuuuuuuuhghhhghhghg fook ufuguguguuweeee whiskey.”
He finally left, and we locked the door.
For a good while afterwards, we could here him stumbling around the halls trying to open doors. Our land lord has still never really fixed the door to the apartment building that would otherwise keep out the rif raf. Fascist.