Wednesday, March 17, 2010

A Rant to a Bad Neighbor

Dear Bad Neighbor,

Hi. I have no idea why, but for some reason you consider me your friend. Maybe it's because I try and reason with you before I call the police on your noisy friends/illegal "sales" activities/tireless car parked in front of my house for three months/adult, unaltered pit bull running around off leash/borderline abusive screaming matches with your girlfriend at 3am.

Here are a couple of reasons why we're not friends. Number one - you are a spoiled, inconsiderate douchebag who was only able to afford a house in this neighborhood (which I can't - I'm a renter) because your parents gave you the down payment. That's just great. Remind me to key their Mercedes the next time they visit. I am guessing it was worth the $50,000 it took just to get you out of their house. And I can't blame them one little bit because I am voluntarily broke and I am ready to sell a kidney in order to raise the cash to move away from you. Or get you to move.

You single-handedly ruined what was a great little street. There was this awesome combination of retired couples who adore kids and families with young children, who could safely play ball or ride bikes in every yard and always get a friendly "hello" and smile. Need an egg? Just knock on the door. No need to go the store.

Then came you. And your felonious, alcoholic, dickwad renter of your basement room-mate. 23 years old and living on your own for the first time. Setting off fireworks and drunkenly screaming "Wooooo Hooooo F*ckers!!" at 5:30 am. Welcome to the neighborhood.

Then, after the Summer of Never Sleeping Because of the New Douche Neighbors, I finally confronted you about your roommate's sales activities, and the fact that while I did not care a lick what was done inside the privacy (and quiet) of your house, that you were within 1,000 feet of a school and that carried with it federal mandatory minimums and I am in legally in possession of a firearm and I know every cop in the County and I am 8 months pregnant, working full time, raising two small children and my teenage sister and I am about to square up because I am muthacrunkin' DONE.

Happily, your room-mate moved out and your girlfriend moved in. She seems very nice. The noise level went way down and she spent hours upon hours working on your yard. But I pray the two of you are using contraception because the late night fighting is bad. Really bad. And then, after several months of relative quiet and law-abiding activity (that I attribute to her), you got the dog.

I love dogs. I even like the so called "dangerous breeds". I own a rescue dog that was saved from the very mean streets of north Philadelphia. But your pit bull is a loaded gun in the hands of a barely literate, beer-soaked jackass. Need proof? Look at the ridiculous penile-over-compensation name you gave him. Your dog is BUTCH and you are a big tough man, we get it. For people who breed and sell pit bulls, any prospective buyers who suggests naming the puppy after a convicted felon, NFL player, professional boxer or a mono-syllabic superhero should be asked to leave your property immediately and barred from any dog other than a bichon frise. And should be forced to walk their fluffy dog with a sparkly leash/collar combination while carrying a purse. Filled with tampons.

Your so-called attempts to "discipline" him include screaming, shaking, and letting him roam unattended a neighborhood full of children. And let's not forget the neglect! Remember when you left him outside all day in the freezing rain and I tried to get him inside where he might be warm, and even with cold cuts and dog biscuits he was too scared to come to me. Not good.

The only time that dog has ever played with a ball was when he approached the Capn's testicles in an alarming fashion. So the Cap'n threw a snowball for him to fetch with an enthusiastic: "Go git it! Go on, big dog!" Fortunately, the ball that the dog retrieved was not attached to my husband's Vas Deferens. And a friendship of sorts was formed. We feel sympathy and fear for the future of this animal.  But that sympathy does not extend to your dog being allowed anywhere near my children or any child on this street.

Recently, during Snowmageddon, you proved yourself to be perhaps the biggest jackhole on record. In the federal douchebag registry that Kate and I are creating, you are currently the only non-celebrity in the top 25. First was parking your ginormous SUV so that it blocked our entire street (but offered you easy access to a plowed road) so that no one, not even the ambulance or 4-wheel drive EMT vehicle needed to save a neighbor's life, could get through. So we all had to shovel a path for the emergency vehicles so that someone wouldn't die. It was fine though, Ellen was there and she took care of it and shoveled her 5'1" ass off. When the cops towed your SUV, your neighbors were literally cheering in the streets.

But you wouldn't know that because you were still sleeping it off at 11am. (Oh yes. That's another reason you think we're friends. Because I called you maybe ten times after the ambulance showed up telling you to move your damn vehicle or it would get towed and somebody might die of insulin shock. You think I did it out of concern for your Tahoe - that says it all).

Then you and your friends thought it would be hilarious to drink all night in lawn chairs in a make-shift igloo, while being as noisy as possible - including the requisite screaming at your girlfriend. So someone called the cops. Unfortunately, you talked your way out of it and the police left. You then spent the next half hour gloating about it. How you could talk your way out of a paper bag? Except you were shouting it out and everyone heard you.

Bad Neighbor, now is the time for you to tread lightly. Because after 18 months of making excuses for your bad behavior, there is an entire neighborhood of people intent on your downfall. And I am far from the most wound-up on the subject of what should be done about you. Be glad you live in a time where angry mobs with pitchforks exist only on Phinneas and Ferb. Just give me a reason to call the Po Po on you. Because you are out of warnings.

But I do want to thank you. For reminding me why I quit my job to focus on my kids. Because, if any of them ever start to act like you, they will remember what you did to our neighborhood. And they will remember how the Cap'n and I tried to raise them. And they will act right. Meanwhile, we're looking for a new house.

And I'm teaching the kids to square up.

xo, Lydia

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