I just moved into a new house in August. I'm wondering if maybe they do things differently here. Where I'M from, we don't scatter the trash bags, we tend to pile them. It's more of a sloppy game of Jenga than it is leaving a trail of Reese's Pieces for E.T.
"Oh. Yeah. Well at least it's not as bad as the last time."
What? I'm sorry, did you say the last time?
"The...last...time?"
Mind = spoken.
"Yeah. Last time he actually opened the trash bags and dumped all of our trash all over the porch."
Rethinking some things I tend to throw in the trash...
"Who's...'he?' "
"The neighbor."
Did you hear that, boys and girls? MISTER ROGERS IS DEAD. There's no such thing as a nice neighbor anymore. Somehow, crackheads, Nicholas Cage, and Furbies have managed to make it - but nice neighbors? Extinct. So don't go looking to unbutton any cardigans. Or whatever nice things Mister Rogers used to do. Look, it's been awhile, my memory's not that great. All I remember is him taking off clothing. Like sweaters and shoes. Stripping. Always stripping...
Neighbor Man is not like Mister Rogers at all. He's more like a giant asshole in need of some toilet paper. He's like a Snickers bar without nougat and caramel and peanuts and chocolate. He's like a nose that doesn't ever stop running except right at the moment when you go grab a tissue. Then as soon as you realize 'Hey, my nose stopped running!' you walk away from the tissues, but then it starts running again. And so you go back to the tissues. And then it stops running. And this endless cycle continues.
God, can you imagine how awful that would be? Sorry, it just hit me. Like...woah. That would SUCK.
And yes, I do realize that a Snickers bar without the nougat and caramel and peanuts and chocolate is nothing at all. Which would SUCK.
Apparently, Neighbor Man does not like trash in his yard. He is said to be quoted about a month ago saying the following.
"There was a bottle!"
"Wind blew it!"
"In my yard!"
We were only able to gather certain excerpts because Neighbor Man does not like full sentences. He's more of a fragment kinda guy. This bottle is what led him to dump all of our trash across our porch. Sometimes he changes it up. Why just last week, he threw the bags in our front hedges, instead of on the porch. He's really getting creative with it. A modern artist. We'll call him Leonardo da Stinky.
He's grown into this habit of walking to the side of my house and yelling at its walls. Sometimes I think I should let him know that wood doesn't respond to humans, or to anything at all for that matter, but I never do. For all I know, his best friend is Plank and ---
I've been told that I make too many allusions that people don't understand. But I'm not going to stop and explain myself because I would be ruining the whole flow of the story. Which, by the way, I JUST DID.
--- I would be spoiling some lifelong friendship.
"THIS WAS ALL A LIE, PLANK!"
"....................."
"ALL THIS TIME, AND YOU KNEW YOU COULDN'T RESPOND!"
"........................."
"LEADING ME TO BELIEVE THAT YOU WERE JUST THE SHY AND QUIET TYPE!"
".................................."
"YOU WILL NEVER BE MY MORNING WOOD AGAIN!"
Neighbor Man didn't make his first debut to me personally until one night perhaps a month or two ago, when I heard this lovely melody floating along the air into my bedroom door:
BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG!
I'm sorry, did I say lovely melody? Oh, silly me and my silly typos. What I meant to say was FUCKING BULLSHIT.
BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG!
By the way, my bedroom door? It's on the side of the house. Not only that, but it's the very first door that you come to after walking up the stairs of my front porch. Pizza guys, my roommate's friends, hookers, they all come a'knockin thinking that my bedroom door is the front door of the house.
BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG!
I jolt up out of my bed, because I'm in bed, BECAUSE IT'S FUCKING MIDNIGHT, and I turn toward my door to make sure it's locked. But guess what. My eyesight sucks. So I can't even tell whether the lock is turned or not. And I'm too scared to get out of bed and check, because I don't want him to know I'm in there.
"I KNOW YOU IN THERE! I KNOW YOU IN THERE!"
...FUCK.
"DON'T YOU BE LIKE THIS! DON'T YOU BE LIKE THIS!"
Be like what? Be lying in my bed at midnight? I'm tired, you asshole.
I decide to sit still and wait for the storm to pass. But then my phone rings. And I answer it.
"Hello?"
"OH COME ON NOW! COME ON NOW! I KNOW YOU IN THERE NOW!"
One, why did I answer my phone? Two, why is anyone even calling me at midnight? Three, my toes are freezing.
Revision: One, because it rang. Two, all your friends refuse to call you UNLESS it's midnight or later. Three, your toes are always cold.
Revised revision: One, because you're a dumbass. Two, because YOU always call people at midnight. Three, put on some socks and quit bitching.
"DON'T BE LIKE THIS! DON'T YOU BE LIKE THIS! BANG BANG BANG BANG!"
I don't think you're the one in the position to be telling people what and what not to be like.
Eventually, the knocking ceases and I hear retreating footsteps. About twenty minutes later, I hear pacing outside my door.
Thump thump thump thump...
I'm gonna die tonight.
Thump thump thump thump...
He's gonna cut off my belly button and put it on some toast to eat and call it Jelly-Button.
Thump thump thump thump...
He's gonna kidnap me and make me watch reruns of The Nanny. Then he's gonna dress up like Fran Drescher and pinch my earlobes.
I wait like this for ten or fifteen minutes, and then the pacing halts.
BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG!
And the knocking commences.
I leap out of bed and run to my roommate's door to wake them up and tell them I'm being ambushed. I tried my best to explain the severity of the situation, for I didn't want the conversation to go like this:
"SOMEONE IS KNOCKING ON MY DOOR!"
"...and?"
"THEY'RE KNOCKING MULTIPLE TIMES!"
"...you woke me up to tell me that your door is being tapped by knuckles?"
"IN A REPETITIVE MANNER!"
"Go to bed, Natasha."
Luckily, I did avoid this and was able to freak them out just as much as I was freaked.
"What should we do?"
"I don't know, he won't go away!"
"Should we call the cops?"
"Should we?"
Of course there were less dramatic alternatives. Perhaps I could just open the door and try it Mister Rogers' way.
"Would you be mine? Could you be mine? Won't you be my neighbor?"
"I AM YO NEIGHBOR, HONKY!"
"It's a neighborly day in this beautywood..."
"WHACHU SAY?"
"A neighborly day for a beauty..."
"WHAT DA FUCK YOU TALKIN' ABOUT?"
"Would you be mine?"
"HELL NAH, BITCH."
We decided that we should just call the cops, and so we did. Three cop cars and one denial later, he was gone. But that was only the beginning to what would be an epic battle between The Blue House and The White House. Unfortunately, things were about to get worse. But that, my friends, is another story altogether. So lace up your combat boots and strap on your camo. The neighbor war has started.
I leap out of bed and run to my roommate's door to wake them up and tell them I'm being ambushed. I tried my best to explain the severity of the situation, for I didn't want the conversation to go like this:
"SOMEONE IS KNOCKING ON MY DOOR!"
"...and?"
"THEY'RE KNOCKING MULTIPLE TIMES!"
"...you woke me up to tell me that your door is being tapped by knuckles?"
"IN A REPETITIVE MANNER!"
"Go to bed, Natasha."
Luckily, I did avoid this and was able to freak them out just as much as I was freaked.
"What should we do?"
"I don't know, he won't go away!"
"Should we call the cops?"
"Should we?"
Of course there were less dramatic alternatives. Perhaps I could just open the door and try it Mister Rogers' way.
"Would you be mine? Could you be mine? Won't you be my neighbor?"
"I AM YO NEIGHBOR, HONKY!"
"It's a neighborly day in this beautywood..."
"WHACHU SAY?"
"A neighborly day for a beauty..."
"WHAT DA FUCK YOU TALKIN' ABOUT?"
"Would you be mine?"
"HELL NAH, BITCH."
We decided that we should just call the cops, and so we did. Three cop cars and one denial later, he was gone. But that was only the beginning to what would be an epic battle between The Blue House and The White House. Unfortunately, things were about to get worse. But that, my friends, is another story altogether. So lace up your combat boots and strap on your camo. The neighbor war has started.
