I live in one of those neighborhoods where you can see your neighbor sitting on the toilet if you peek through the blinds at just the right angle when the sun is just right in the sky. You know, the cookie-cutter swanky places with the community mailboxes. I’m not complaining. That’s just how it is.
There are a few drawbacks to this set-up. Obviously if you have craptastic neighbors it’s going to affect you a little more than if they are… oh, say… 2 acres and a grove of stately pines away. (No, I have no idea what a stately pine is.) I; however, am fortunate enough to have a whole grove of crappy neighbors instead.
If you’re new to my world, you don’t yet know my bat-shit crazy neighbor, Melinda. Yes, that is her real name because she has done absolutely nothing to deserve to have her identity protected. If I knew her last name and social security number I’d gladly post that on here as well. She is a menace. A freaking call the cops on you for having a few weeds in your yard, spray Round-Up on your dog, call your kids horrible names, menace. I wish her NO good feelings. If she had a cat I would capture it, kill it, petrify it and leave it on her porch for her innocent child to find just for a good chuckle. I am mean like that. Downright nasty.
Melinda is going to be in for a treat this weekend. You see, our former neighbors, who she already thought were white trash hillbilly renters (WTHR), recently moved out. They are being replaced by true WTHR in a matter of hours. I had the pleasure of meeting them earlier today. This is rare, but I swear to you I am not exaggerating when I tell you this: they dug up some “plants” that I know to be weeds (not the smoking kind, just weeds) and transplanted them into their new lawn today. Now I am no horticulturist, but trust me, I know a weed when I see one. I just do.
They have a boxer dog; it’s cute. I think I saw some scars from previous underground dog fights on him. He peed on my leg when I just happened to throw the name Mike Vick up in casual conversation. They drive a station wagon with wood paneling. And a rusted out pick-up truck with those bull balls hanging off the back. He has two teeth. She has three. Okay, okay… so I might be exaggerating a little bit now. But not much. They do have those bull balls. Those are priceless. My point is, folks, Melinda is going to shit.
I feel absolutely giddy. I just want to post up in the drive way with a Pabst Blue Ribbon and wait for her to see what the U-haul done drug in.
And my point to all this is, I hope no one here in my new “neighborhood” in the blog world feels that way about me. But they probably will. ‘Scuse me. I gotta run. I’m headed to Walmart to get my hair did and grab some more Pabst while it’s on special.