John Tyler, swamp monster

Most people don’t realize how vulnerable their homes are to infiltration by former president and ancient swamp monster John Tyler. Here are 10 ways that John Tyler is able to enter your house, so he can build a nest and lay his eggs. 


1. He swims up through the pipes and out through your toilet.

Remember, John Tyler can squeeze through any space wide enough to fit his head.


2. He gnaws through the floorboards.

Everyone told you not to build your house over a swamp, but you couldn’t help yourself. You wanted to be where the action is!


3. He slithers down the chimney.

This usually happens around Christmas, because that’s the only time of year that you take down your fireplace spikes.


4. He sneaks in through the mail.

Before bringing a mysterious package inside your house, ask yourself: Do you remember ordering something that weighed 160 pounds and would require air holes?


5. He gets a job at the gas company, then knocks at your door claiming he smells a gas leak.

And you WILL catch a whiff of rotten eggs, but don’t be tricked. You’re not smelling a gas leak, you’re smelling swamp gas, and it’s coming from John Tyler.


6. He pretends to be a loyal member of the Whig Party, so you let him in because you’ve got an open-door policy when it comes to Whigs.

By the time you realize he’s really more of a WINO, it’s too late, and he’s sitting in your bathtub complaining about the establishment of a central bank.


7. He buys a bank and forecloses on your mortgage.

You’ll have 30 days to vacate the premises, at which point he’s going to start filling it with frogs.


8. You accidentally adopt him.

Looking back, you’ll realize you did not read those adoption papers very carefully at all. But John Tyler is your son now, and you must find a way to love him.


9. He has been in your house all along.

He was in the sub-basement before you even moved in. (Surprise, you have a sub-basement!)


10. You hear a knock at the door. When you answer, there’s no one there. There is only a translucent, dry, scaly, human-shaped husk on the doorstep, as if a man had shed his skin like a snake. While you’re examining it, a clawed hand grips your shoulder from behind.

It’s John Tyler! He was just using his old skin to distract you while he snuck in the back.