Archive for the ‘Bums’ Category

Amy M., free ride no more

The next time your regular ride leaves you hanging and you call me for a ride to work, you are going to be shit out of luck.

I don’t care if you don’t have the sick time or vacation days to cover the absence, or if you are on your final final written warning. We work at the same place and I assume make about the same amount of money. We live in the same neighborhood, so I assume you pay about the same in rent. But somehow, somehow I manage to be a real grownup and budget for transportation.

I would feel differently if your freeloading ass had a car and you wanted to carpool to save the planet. Or, while we’re at it, if you would compensate me at least as much as you do the Central Ohio Transit Authority when you get your ride from them.

The ride to work must be considerably more comfortable and considerably less time consuming in my car than on the bus, but somehow you can’t even muster up a sincere “Thank you.”

So next time, sorry, I don’t think I have the time to swing by and pick you up.

Rantasaurus Says: Next time, give him my number. Funny, a person rarely realizes how fast they can run until I start chasing them.


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Dear PigSty Neighbor,

For 6 years we’ve lived across the road from you. Your driveway amazed me then, with the amount of stuff piled along its edges, but now, GOOD GAWD! As I look out my window, I see a 30-foot-long row of wood that you’ve had covered with black plastic. There is an old 1950’s camper with a blue plastic tarp tied over the top, I guess to keep the rain out. There is a huge white plastic awning near the entry to your garage (which, through the windows, appears to be full of boxes of more crap).

Under the awning are tables and tables of crap, including 6 old computer monitors, broken kids’ toys, cardboard boxes, and dead plants in pots. People actually pull into your driveway, thinking there is a flea market taking place! It’s good that you put a sign out to let them know there is no sale.

Your van, which is slowly falling apart, is dented and missing a front and back wheel cover. Your son’s car (he weighs 450 pounds) shoots out blue smoke when he starts it. He peels out each time he backs out of your gravel driveway… shooting dust and gravel into the air, which of course, blows to my driveway.

Your front porch is completely full of crap, making it difficult to get to the door. Your side door, which is visible, too, is surrounded by cases and cases of empty Diet Pepsi cans, waiting to be returned for deposit. If you’d return the cans for 5 cents each, you’d probably have enough money to replace your missing wheel covers.

For 6 years I’ve watched the piles grow. I’ve watched the weeds on the edge of your driveway bolt and send seed all over my gardens.

I like you, neighbor, but I’m sick of your crap.





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Amy, goddess of decisiveness. 

I have had this conversation or one almost identical more times than Scott Stapp has been called a douche, and if I have to have it again my head may explode. I have had this conversation with ex-boyfriends, first dates, workplace lunch pals, friends, and brothers. I am officially taking a stand and refusing to participate ever again.

Me: So, where do you want to eat?
Other Person: Um, I don’t care, wherever…
Me: Chipotle?
Other Person: No, I hate Mexican.
Me: So, El Vacero is out too?
Other Person: Yea.
Me: Subway?
Other Person: No, I had a sandwich for dinner last night.
Me: House of Japan?
Other Person: Too expensive.
Me: City BBQ?
Other Person: Gross!
Me: Chick Filet?
Other Person: I don’t go there on principal remember?
Me: Oh yea, they put that church flyer in your bag that one time. Hummm… BW3?
Other Person: No, I’m boycotting them.
Me: Okay, so McDonalds again?
Other Person: Sure!

If anyone ever asks you where do you want to eat and you say “I don’t care” you relinquish all veto rights when a suggestion is made!

Rantasaurus Says: Yeah dude, wherever you want. Oh. Actually. You know what? I’m thinkin’ delicious Arby’s. No. I don’t want to go anywhere else. Actually, shit. I had Arby’s a few days ago. How about… oh. I think I actually have to meet my Mom for dinner anyways.

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Dear Mister Finch,

I do remember with distinct clarity the day you appeared upon my window sill. It was the last hard rain of April, a brilliant full-arc rainbow materialized upon the verdant green hills surrounding my home, then, as if from some romantic line of poetry or sweet lyric from a song, you landed outside The Number Two Window (of Four) which lines my home office vista.

Beautiful and Poignant: a small brown and gray bird, sharing my space. Peering at me. Even Charming. So much so that when I told my father, he commented that you must be a Messenger of some kind, here to tell me some tale. A friend said that you appeared to mark a new path in my life, a true Harbinger.

That was the first day we were together: me pecking away at my keyboard, and you joining in, pecking away at the glass like something out of Mary Freakin’ Poppins.

It is now almost July.

Please go away.

Or for the love of God, stop your infernal rapping in the middle of my slumber! And tell me why and how you discovered the location of my bedroom window?! On the opposite side
of my house?!

The only one which I cannot open, for if I indeed could open it, i would lace bread crumbs with poison for you to mistakenly feed on!

Go away!

Do you migrate?

Please don’t tell me I must wait for winter.

Please don’t tell me that was you who did that on my windshield either.

I don’t want to get a cat.

I hate cats.

R. Dario

Rantasaurus Says: Our very talented graphic artist, ladies and gentlemen, has quite the poetic streak. Nice use of flowery language, Rob, to mislead us as to the true nature of your hatred for the finch. Good work. You get an English major stamp of approval.

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Dear Drug Dealer Downstairs,

Could you put some kind of embargo on our building? I would feel much safer if you told your clients to stear clear of my humble abode. Feel free to tell them my dog is rabid, or I am an officer of the law, or that we kidnap homeless people and perform experiments in the name of science. Any such a lie will suffice.

I understand you have to make ends meet, and you seem to do well for yourself. Many times I have marveled at your brand new SUV and nice ties. Maybe you do not have any other marketable skills. Maybe you enjoy what you do, and that truly is a wonderful feeling.

But I would be heartbroken to come home and find my brand new HDTV missing, while the homeless man on the corner is passed out while wearing an abnormally large smile.

So please, let them know that my apartment is off limits. I would appreciate it.

Sam, Upstairs

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Dearest Ranty-rex,

I have a dying need to express my feelings about my scummy apartment complex, as well as my trailer trash converted, now apartment-renting neighbors. I love how they take every opportunity to call the landlord or the police to alert them to the tinest annoyance… coming from my apartment OF COURSE!!!!!!

Do these morons ever think that their brats screaming, yelling and crying all night could possibly bother me! Of course not… I have no children, so therefore I’m insensitive, immature, annoying… aka… the enemy! Was it my choice to have dirty, smelly children invading my life? NO…

Was it my choice to decorate an apartment like a trailer that I have lived in for 15 years?…NO!

You see, the point of this rant is simple…DON’T punish me for your unhappiness with your life. THIS is a warning…the next time I hear an all night karaoke…(with “Your cheating heart” as the main selection!), kids crying, screaming, jumping, singing…GUESS WHAT!

I’m calling the friggin cops. You better not sneeze wrong or 5-0 is in the hiizzzouse! I’m looking for a home to rent now… just because I am that tired of you! Neighbors suck…..(In case you didn’t know… I’m talking to you #4) Thanks for the forum…


The single, childless, sexy girls that live upstairs!

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Catherinette Singleton, TWO TIME RANTSPLOSION WINNER! Stop it, you minx!

I live in a nice little house, in a nice little neighborhood, next door to a family that belongs in a van down by the river. At first, I thought them merely a little off, now, I want to beat them with hammers whenever I see or hear them. And it seems to me that I hear them more often than I see them. It’s gotten so bad that I can’t stand being outside when they’re around. If I’m in my backyard and see any of them come outside, I immediately run back inside under the pretense of having to go do something really important – like stick my head in the oven or throw myself down the stairs. Let me introduce you to these upstanding members of the community:

The Single Mother (who we shall call Ms. Travesty): is a recovering alcoholic, recovering drug addict, and full-time nurse. Ms. Travesty enjoys wearing light colored blue jeans and stained white shirts. She’s in her mid 50’s and has an 8 year old daughter – she met the father in AA meetings (he’s on methadone). When she’s not picking up single bachelors from her AA meetings, she’s calling the cops to have them dragged out of the house, and/or trying to tell me stories about how she’s gained weight.

My favorite story about Ms. Travesty happened last summer: she had met this real winner and had been dating him for about 6 weeks. Mr. Winner had no job, no driver’s license and had pretty much moved into her house. Suddenly, they start fighting like cats and dogs. On a Tuesday afternoon, I was sitting in my den watching TV, when I noticed that there were 3 cop cars parked outside my house. I immediately called my friends and family to share the drama that was unfolding. 20 minutes later, out comes Mr. Winner in a pair of handcuffs, his cut off jean shorts, and the dirty white wife beater. It was just like being on an episode of Cops! The officers put him in the back of the cop car, and then he started yelling all sorts of crazy stuff. Since then, I have tried my best to avoid Ms. Travesty at all costs. It’s gotten to the point that when I see her standing in her driveway, I whip out my cell phone and pretend to be on a very important phone call. This ploy seems to work pretty well, I highly recommend it to you.

The Daughter (who we shall call Little Tragedy): at one point I thought she was cute, now she makes me want to kick her when I see her. She and all her little friends love playing in the neighborhood. That’s all well and good, but why must they do it on my front lawn? Don’t they hear my dog going nuts in the house? Seriously, I’m surprised that my dog hasn’t jumped out the window and eaten her and her little friends. My dog, a St. Bernard, loathes and despises her. I know this because he decided to biter her one day, twice. It was not a pretty scene, though it was an extremely effective way to ensure Little Tragedy never came into my house again.

She used to drop by my house all the time, when she was hungry and her mother had left her alone with her grandfather – who would pass out on the couch and not even realize that she had left the house. As Little Tragedy has grown up, I’ve noticed her imminent progression into soon-to-be-school-hussy. What 8 year old do you know that wears cropped tops and glitter eye shadow? It’s sad to Little Tragedy her go down this road, but I know she’ll end up pleasing the boys in the men’s’ room sometime really soon.

The Dogs (lovingly referred to as the Hounds of Hell): I hate them with a passion that burns to my very core. I wouldn’t hate them so much, but Ms. Travesty thinks it’s a good idea to let them out at 4:00 in the morning. Fine, release the Hounds of Hell, but please let them back in when they start barking. Oh no, not Ms. Travesty. Instead, the Hounds of Hell bark, and bark, and bark, and bark, and bark, and bark, for 2 hours straight, directly underneath my bedroom window. What’s really super is that sometimes she lets the Hounds of Hell out right when I’m attempting to go to sleep. There seems to be no limit to her disregard for her neighbors.

I hate you Ms. Travesty, I really do.

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