Worst Neighbors Ever. An Update.

There was a time when I was convinced that the biggest asshole neighbors we'd ever had were the people who planted bamboo along the property line. The bamboo, as bamboo does, crept into our yard as well as theirs. And if you've ever tried to eliminate bamboo, you know it's hard and expensive. Turns out that the house behind us was sold to even bigger asshole neighbors who built one of those hideous tract mansions -- complete with outbuilding garage about 6 feet from our rear property line.

But the bamboo --- which now exists only on our side of the fence has created a fairly effective screen. So there's that.

But even if that bamboo hadn't turned out to be a saving feature of our lot, the new Biggest Asshole neighbors are the folks next door who put a fucking basketball hoop up on their driveway -- just a few feet from our bedroom (where we used to like to sleep in a bit one day of the weekend) and our dining room (where we used to like to sit quietly and read the Sunday paper).

So now it seems that ever fucking monster in the neighborhood has a basketball. And those who don't make do with a soccer ball. And they are all down here all day on weekends bouncing the fucking ball and screaming and hollering. It seems we now live next door to Playground Central.

The asshole yuppie pukes who populate this neighborhood think we all want to share in the noise and chaos of their little monsters at play. News flash: I don't.

I have three dogs. When they bark, I tell them to stop because my guess is that the neighbors don't want to listen to my dogs barking. That's a courtesy my neighbors aren't inclined to extend to us or anybody else who doesn't enjoy listening to children shriek.

If there was, let's say, a dog park in my front yard, full of barking and yapping playing dogs all afternoon and evening, you can bet the YP's would find it annoying, and ask us to keep it down. But somehow, we're all supposed to enjoy sharing their brats' childhoods.

The self-centered approach to life by pricks like these is one of the major reasons I hate living in the suburbs so much.

I guess we're lucky the people next door didn't install a floodlight so the basketball court could be used after dark too. But let's wait and see what the spring brings.

I LOVE THIS!!!

From now on, I'm flying Continental Express whenever possible. They kicked some pinhead, entitled mother and her loud-mouth baby off the flight because the kid wouldn't shut the fuck up.

At one point the woman said to a another passenger when it was suggested they give the kid some baby Benadryl "I'm not going to drug my child so you can have a pleasant flight." (Emphasis is mine.)

Another asshole parent who thinks their child take precedence over anybody and everybody else.

Read all about it on The Consumerist blog at Babies on a Plane.

Newspapers on the lawn, idiots at home and dog shit on the sidewalk

I live in a ridiculous subdivision with ridiculous people. Some of the houses are original equipment and others are McMansions. Unfortunately, none of them are cheap anymore. BMWs, Lexi – expensive cars everywhere. And expensive landscaping. You get the idea.

A few days ago a local newspaper – the Examiner – started dropping free copies off at everybody’s house. Some sort of circulation drive, I’m sure. But here’s the thing, you wouldn’t believe how many of these buffoons in these expensive houses with their expensive landscaping won’t pick the fuckers up off the sidewalk or driveway. They just leave’ em there, getting trampled and wet and looking like hell. I mean, really, how fucking stupid is that? What are they trying to prove? You’ve got this extravagant look-at-me-house and you won't even bend over to pick up a newspaper that's trashing the front yard? WTF?

AND ANOTHER THING – that isn’t exactly related but might be somehow, but I can’t figure out how. I was out running this morning and for some reason I saw lots, and lots of individual helpings of dog-doo on the sidewalk. We used to have a dog who would crap while he walked, spreading his business out over the course of 20 feet or so before we’d notice, so I know what this is. It’s not unusual, except that it was everywhere. Well, not everywhere, but there was a lot of it. More than you’d expect.

Spread out too. I saw it in several places over a three-mile run.

Is today National Drop Your Dogshit On The Sidewalk Day and I didn’t get the memo? We have three dogs and could have made a real contribution to this.

Rules are rules, damn it!

I don’t know where you live. Hell, I don’t even know if anybody but my friend Sherril has actually read this thing. But I live in Montgomery County, Maryland. The county totally focused on telling us what to do and protecting the American suburban hypocrite Way of Life. There’s a financial shortfall affecting our schools, but we’re replacing every fucking sidewalk and gutter in the damn county. Traffic has much of the place gridlocked and pity the poor bastards trying to get to work every day by car, but we’ve banned trans-fats. By God WE know what's important. Huzzahs and high-fives all around.

And most recently, the animal control Gestapo took some woman’s monkey away.

It seems this woman – who lives alone – devotes her life to her 3-pound Capuchine monkey much the way many others of us are devoted to our dogs or cats. There’s just her and the monkey – Armani. The monkey lives in the house with her, watches TV with her and even wears little clothes. Sure, it’s kind of creepy, but it doesn’t exactly hurt anybody. Hell, I have relatives who creep me out a whole lot more than the thought of a monkey in OshGosh b’Gosh bib overalls.

Anyway, this woman called an animal sanctuary to get some thoughts on what little Armani might like for a snack. And some sanctimonious, meddling useless idiot called to “report” her to the Montgomery County Animal Control jackboots. Who showed up at the woman’s door, gave her 15 minutes to gather the monkey up to be hauled off and slapped her with $1,800 worth of fines. Not to mention the $1,344 she has to pay to keep them from killing the monkey until she gets it sorted out.

Honestly, It's ok with me if my next-door neighbor has a monkey, a baboon or a goat. I don’t even care if they are having sex with them. They can play "Mailman and Little Girl" morning, noon and night for all I care. As long as it’s quiet and doesn’t interfere in my life.

It’s hard to figure how a 3-pound monkey can be as intrusive or as much of a pain in the ass as the kids who live in my neighborhood. But let’s say, yeah, it’s Against The Law. So they give this woman 15 fucking minutes to dump the monkey? 15 minutes? What compassion.

During a spirited dinner-table discussion of this last night, my sister-in-law just kept shaking her head and pronouncing “rules are rules.” Mother-in-law weighed in with “why would anyone keep a monkey?”

Like I said, who the fuck cares why she has a monkey? What I care more about it that nobody – nobody­ – seemed to care that however strange a monkey-as-child-substitute might be, something that really mattered to this particular woman was ripped from her. For no real good reason.

Hell, if it’s the weird factor, I know a lot of parents I ought to report. Get the annoying little weirdos hauled off.

One of the photos above is a Capuchine Monkey. The other is Georgio Armani. You go ahead and figure out which is which. And which one you'd rather have living next door.

And another thing about cars

Women in big-ass SUVs (I don't mean normal SUVs, I mean those BIG-ASS SUVs) who talk on the phone while they drive should be shot on sight. Yesterday (Saturday) I was nearly hit three damn times by three separate idiots who were trying to wheel around three separate corners while they nattered away on three separate cell phones.

I ought to get a big-ass junker Packard or something and just start letting them run into me.

I'm goiing to get me a fucking big bass drum

It’s Friday evening. Long week at work, as almost every week is for the Self-Employed. I just want a little peace and quiet. Read the paper, walk the dogs perhaps. Chill.

Or it’s a beautiful Sunday morning. A light breeze, plenty of sunshine and temperatures in the high 60’s. Perfect for some coffee and the newspaper on the deck.

Unless you live in the suburbs. Where families run the streets, children are paramount and nobody seems to understand the concept of Sound Carries Past Your Property Line.

That means on Friday evenings – in my neighborhood at least – the Yuppies all gather in the backyard across the street for win and polite chatter while ALL OF THEIR KIDS run and scream and holler in the front yard. And probably the back too. Until about 9 fucking p.m. It’s lovely.

And on Sunday morning? Well. THAT’S baseball day. At high volume and right next door.

I played the drums in high school. And I think it’s high time I took it up again. I think a day or evening when one of them is having some sort of quiet family gathering would be good, don’t you think? Or out on the deck – if not the front yard – right after the neighborhood darlings go down for the night. Perhaps I could drag out some old Uriah Heep records to play as loud as possible on the deck. Set it up during their cook-out and then go off to a movie or something.

This is a fact

Anybody who drives a Mercedes Benz station wagon is a douche bag. Period. End of discussion.

What a fucking waste. How fucking stupid.

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood . . .

A perfect Sunday to read the paper on the deck and enjoy a quiet, temperate Sunday.

Not in MY neighborhood.

In my neighborhood, you get to listen to packs of screaming children on either side of you. The little darlings on one side playing ball and hitting the ball into your yard so they have to climb the fence. And even though it is a very high fence on their side with a chain link number on our side and it's anything BUT a safe thing to do, the little fucker ignores me AND his mother and is coming on over. You just KNOW if he falls and hurts himself his parents will sue us for some damn reason. Perhaps for Not Taking The Necessary Time Out of Our Day to Watch Their Child.

I don't begrudge the little monsters time and place to play, I just wish -- that since they are home the whole damn week -- that there could be SOME time left for us to enjoy some peace and quiet on the weekENDS. But I know that's not even close to realistic in the Suburbs where you live 16-20 feet from your neighbors and where most of your neighbors are yuppie pukes with 2-3 children aged 3-6. Darling perfection, every one.

I need to find a place to GO.

The Cart in the Restaurant

We were out to dinner last night at Guapo’s in Northwest Washington. It’s one of our favorite Mexican places. The food is good, the atmosphere is nice, the staff usually pretty good and always friendly. We get a table in a lovely corner, not too far from one of those large tables with about three couples and their three or four darling little children who ought to be off in bed somewhere not – at 8:00 on a Saturday night – out at some damn restaurant.

We hesitated a bit and then decided not to ask for a different table, because it seemed they were finishing up, judging by the empty plates, scattering of sippy cups and other assorted detritus left on a table when a family with children dines out. And sure enough, it wasn’t long before they left. And so did the family of four – mom, dad, darling daughter and smashing son. We settled in for a nice, quiet Mexican dinner – our night out for the weekend. Our reward to making it through Another Week in Business.

Well almost no sooner had we received our drink order – which we sipped while we watch the busboy have to take a freaking BROOM to the floor underneath where the group table and the Movable Kindergarten had been – than the Woman With the Baby Carriage comes through the dining room. This wasn’t a little stroller, either. This was one of those fucking Winnebagoes that seems necessary these days for carting the Little Ones around. Only marginally smaller than a Mini-Cooper and just about as easy to maneuver in a crowded restaurant.

Probably something not unlike the one that illustrates this post – a $400 job I found on Froogle. It was BIG, Ok? You get the idea. Too big for a crowded Mexican Restaurant on a Saturday night in Washington, D.C.

But undeterred, she steered around, bumped and banged into every available table and finally settled in next to us. Where she proceeded to re-arrange the chairs at the neighboring tables to make room for the Winnebagoe and her infant. Said infant positioned, of course, so both she and Dad – when he arrived with cell phone in hand could gaze fondly throughout dinner at the newest gift to the entire fucking world.

Let’s review real quickly. This woman brought a God-damned baby carriage into the dining room of a restaurant. Why not just bring in your fucking bicycle?

He, of course, set the damn cell phone open on the table so he could fiddle with it and look at it as well as the baby, and it wasn’t long before they ordered a pitcher of hot water so they could heat a bottle.

And that was when I ordered another beer.

As I was saying . . .

As I was saying, I don’t actually hate the suburbs. I grew up in Springfield, Virginia. The land of military men, FBI agents and Wives Who Didn’t Work.

And growing up in Springfield – then – actually wasn’t too bad. We had woods and creeks and streets safe enough to ride our bikes on and there were plenty enough mothers who were home that it was cool to simply run allover the fucking place doing whatever you more or less wanted.

There was little league in the summer. And every community pool had a swimming team for those fools who wanted to spend a good part of their summer vacation at a 7 a.m. swimming practice in cold pool water. Me, I always summer vacation was meant for sleeping late. If I was up before my father left for work, the day was pretty much a failure.

But frankly, I could do with fewer fucking little kids around.

Oh, I have nothing against children. I have two granddaughters I love and assorted nieces and nephews, most of whom I am very fond of. I just don’t like having to spend as much time around them – and their, for the most part, pin-headed parents – as I have to.

I work all week. Pretty hard most of the time too. Owning a small advertising agency isn’t easy. Not by a long shot. There is plenty of stress to go around there, just trying to make a living and be happy doing it. So when I get home in the evening and when I wander around on the weekends, I want some peace and quiet. I don’t want to find a fucking bike or toy in my front yard. I don’t want to see fucking chalk drawings on the sidewalk in front of my house and I sure as hell don’t want to listen to fucking screaming, yelling children all around.

Sorry, but I just don’t. I guess I don’t subscribe to the “it takes a village” approach to child-rearing. I don’t ask you to participate in my life and I damn sure don’t want to participate in yours. I don’t think everything your child does it cute.

Feel free to go on and raise them without my participation.