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.