Hmmm, maybe they're not so bad after all
Until I read this article, I was convinced some of my neighbors were the worst ever.
There are the loud college girls who blast their car stereos when they arrive home from work in the middle of the night and early morning. And for some reason they can't turn off the car or get out of the car until whatever song is playing has run its course.
There's the capital A-hole whose little rat dog bends biscuits on the swale in front of my house. Of course, he doesn't pick up after the dog.
There are Cletus and Earl a few doors down, who have been "repairing" the facade of their house for nearly a year. Every day after work they start, and every Saturday morning they start. Twelve or so Budweisers later and the "foreman" has stopped work for the day. So the house looks like it was struck by a hurricane. It wasn't. But it will never be finished. My kid who isn't even born yet will graduate high school before these guys finish the job.
There's the chucklehead across the street who bought a crotch rocket a few months ago and now sits at the curb in front of my house for 10 - 20 minutes at a time just revving the engine. I don't get that. Is he checking to make sure the damn thing works? It's sort of like dress shirts with the wearer's initials on the cuffs. What - without the initials we'd forget who our shirts belong too? Your motorcycle works, bro! Take off or shut it off.
They all bite worse than sharks. And if they were on fire on the sidewalk, I don't even think I'd pee on 'em to douse the flames.
But then again, I could live next door to P.K. Boobs or Buck Nekkit. So consider this a glass half full revelation: my neighbors could be worse.
BTW: Don't forget to check this link too, to get to my Sunday article on a crime-ridden neighborhood struggling to rebuild.
There are the loud college girls who blast their car stereos when they arrive home from work in the middle of the night and early morning. And for some reason they can't turn off the car or get out of the car until whatever song is playing has run its course.
There's the capital A-hole whose little rat dog bends biscuits on the swale in front of my house. Of course, he doesn't pick up after the dog.
There are Cletus and Earl a few doors down, who have been "repairing" the facade of their house for nearly a year. Every day after work they start, and every Saturday morning they start. Twelve or so Budweisers later and the "foreman" has stopped work for the day. So the house looks like it was struck by a hurricane. It wasn't. But it will never be finished. My kid who isn't even born yet will graduate high school before these guys finish the job.
There's the chucklehead across the street who bought a crotch rocket a few months ago and now sits at the curb in front of my house for 10 - 20 minutes at a time just revving the engine. I don't get that. Is he checking to make sure the damn thing works? It's sort of like dress shirts with the wearer's initials on the cuffs. What - without the initials we'd forget who our shirts belong too? Your motorcycle works, bro! Take off or shut it off.
They all bite worse than sharks. And if they were on fire on the sidewalk, I don't even think I'd pee on 'em to douse the flames.
But then again, I could live next door to P.K. Boobs or Buck Nekkit. So consider this a glass half full revelation: my neighbors could be worse.
BTW: Don't forget to check this link too, to get to my Sunday article on a crime-ridden neighborhood struggling to rebuild.
Labels: bad neighbors
posted by James Burnett at
11:42 PM
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13 comments
