The Fourth of July.
Perhaps their predilection for this holiday explains why their celebrations, like a bad summer romance, begin in the middle of June and end sometime (presumably when the fireworks run out) during the second week in July. You see, I was previously unaware that our nation’s Independence Day was actually a three week bacchanalian festival of Bud Light, Newports and setting off cherry bombs until 3am.
Notwithstanding history or tradition, Senor Jackhat sees it as his personal opportunity to party like a mad man with his lil' buddies. And apparently our objections extend beyond being merely unpatriotic in their view. Apparently, we are bunch of red communist b*tches. Brother, please, I am an authentic red-white-and-blue b*tch (who only wishes she had a pair of steel-toed crocs for this jackhole's onions).
I understand that I don’t like these guys. They're spoiled, expensive car-driving, suburban wanna be tough guys. And am therefore not inclined to be understanding. But the Fourth of July is now over. So my patience is gone. If after tonight the noise and parties continue, I will lose my schmidt and it will not even be funny. For the last few days, every time I would hear the BANG! BANG! I would secretly hope it was the sound of my least favorite neighbor being shot by his pit bull in some Tom & Jerry-style mishap. Let’s not even discuss the improbability of that statement, let’s just focus on how truly desperate I am to have even thought it.
So here are some of the things I have been considering doing in response. They are all extremely juvenile and sadly, some are likely illegal.
- I may grab a bat and get all Carrie Underwood on his truck. Maybe next time he’ll think before he sets off an M-80 under my window at 3:30 in the morning.
- I will put on my bathrobe and slippers and go over there screaming with my Jersey turned up to ELEVEN. I will be like: “Listen up, Hot Shot. You stop making noise before I come in there and hit you with this spoon. Why don’t you show a little respect for your neighbors, you motherless crack addicts?” Also, I would be holding a large wooden spoon.
- Eggs in the mailbox. Old eggs, that may have been sitting in the sun for a few days. Accidentally.
- TP in the trees and bushes in his front yard spelling out: D-O-U-C-H-E-H-O-L-E
- A flaming bag of dog poo on his front porch that I may have possibly decorated in the colors of our enemies (I would not so desecrate the red, white and blue).
- Globs of the stinkiest, nastiest diaper cream (I’m thinking original Desitin or A&D cream with the fish oil scent that never seems to wash completely off your hands) all over the underside of the door handles of his various cars.
- Dumping several large bottles of industrial-sized blue food coloring into his pool so that when they emerge from their refreshing late night swim, they do so looking like a frigging Smurf. Drunky Smurf, perhaps.
So hopefully, my jackhole neighbor will have gotten all of this lighting-noisy-crap-on-fire-stuff out of his system and last night was the end of it. Otherwise, either Ellen and I are probably going to get arrested (and I'll have to get a new spoon) or Kate will have to come over with her pointiest Manolos on and get to work. Either one is probably not modeling good behavior for our children. And the chubby asshat really doesn't deserve this much thought and anger anyway.
Keep me in your thoughts and prayers.xo, Lydia
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