I mildly changed your post, kid. I detest incorrect quotes or song lyrics.
Speaking of singing, my housemate, who moved out a month ago to live with his girlfriend, has returned.
When he first left, there was in his wake a dirty house, an unpaid bill and the lingering aroma of weed and tobacco. In the short time he was gone, the 3 remaining housemates (including myself) kept the place tidy, kept our music to respectable levels and enjoyed meals we'd cooked as a group while listening to fine classical music. We'd buy beer or wine and watch movies, followed by sitting on our second floor roof and talking about girls. We had fun together, relaxed together and the house was in a state that could have happily housed a Buhdist monk in our spare-room, whose only problem with our lifestyle would have been lack of rice paddies and the "unfair appropriation of his FHM collection". Damn Monks.

Our house was the epitome of manly bliss, with a clean lounge with fragrant scents and a fine Mens Magazine featuring the latest in fashion on our coffee table. Indeed, our house was envied by all and the few girls we seduced into it all commented on our perfect lifestyle. Here, truly, 3 was not a crowd, but Company.
Followed by our housemates return this last Monday, his girlfriend "dumped" (although he's dumped her approximately weekly since I've known him). Returning are the smoke, the day-time drinking (him, not us), the drunken shouts of "What's the time, mate?" ("It's approximately GET-A-FUCKING-WATCH") and the singing of lyrics he doesn't know in order to get attention. He burps loudly and farts even louder, all in order to achieve some kind of Alpha Male status, something we'd moved from. It's not that I don't like the guy (liar), it's that I just plain want to kill him. With a shovel. And then cut up the pieces. And dance on the various graves.

And the worst part is that, somehow, he seems to regard me as his "confidant" within the house. Like it's US versus THEM. I blame my Nice-Guy demeanour.
On the other hand, I have a respectable amount of photos of him drunk and passed out on our couch, chair, the floor, the stairs and the landing. And, unfailingly, all with his hand in his pants.
There's some things money can't buy. For everything else there's blackmail.