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Archive for the ‘Living Situation’ Category

Dear Neighbor with the really loud truck who leaves each morning at 6:30 am-

I am really so happy for you… It is so very obvious you are in love with your truck- the way you round out each of the gears before you reach a tenth of a mile to the stop sign at North and Pine is really impressive!!! I’m sure the huge surge of testosterone you get from rattling every neighbor’s house foundation each morning is just an added benefit of owning such a HE-MAN truck. We (all of your neighbors from your house to highway 35) are truly blessed not to have to rely on our alarm clocks because each and every morning we have you to wake us out of our deepest, sweet slumbers… where we are mostly likely dreaming of having such a thunderous truck as yours.

We indeed, are too fortunate, you know, we should have to share your harmonious and peaceful alarm system with your neighborhood homeowners to your right. How would they ever be able to experience the abrupt interruption of each blissful morn, the way we do each early break of day, if you never take a right out of your driveway?? Sure, there is a big hill that may prevent you from getting up to SIXTY miles per hour on our subdivision streets but it’s just not fair for us to keep up you all to ourselves.

I must also commend your on your cat-like reflexes. It must take a great deal of skill to be able to get your truck up to such high speeds in a 25 mile an hour zone without ever hitting any animals or God forbid- children. I just hope everyone who speeds through our neighborhood like you do has the same lightening fast reflexes to prevent injury or death. Maybe you could give driving lessons at the local high school? I’m sure your skill is in great demand. Your efforts have not gone unnoticed!

Yours,
Grateful Neighbor

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Joe Bauer, real estate humanitarian 

Things are so bad now for real estate license holders ( which everyone and their brother is) with homes not selling for years and sellers refusing to accept that the home price gold rush madness is over and ignoring their realtors pleas that they should start dropping these laughed at asking prices…

That I think it is time to start real estate salesperson soup serving kitchens in the most crashing areas.

I mean these people are devastated. The most depressed group I have seen in years. Many practically have tears in their eyes when I see and ask them how it’s going.

Can’t someone get these started?

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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.

BoggyWoggy

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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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I found this note stabbed into my dog Hagrid’s crate this morning. Apparently my cat Ellacution likes the jumbo butcher knife.

Hagrid — you’re a louse ridden slimebag. You’re a shithead. You come tromping in the house, bouncing around, flinging that monstrosity you call a tail everywhere. Tail whore.

It isn’t enough you have to knock things over, stick your nose in my sandbox (filthy pervert) and eat your own vomit. No. Today, you had to eat my favorite catnip toy.

Yes, I’m happy the Food Buyer got it back from you, but you SOILED Mouse. CONTAMINATED him. SULLIED his little toy existence. I couldn’t pick my little honey up in my mouth because you had slobbered all over him. I hate you. No amount of Food-Buyer’s washing will bring back Mouse’s nose or little felt ear.

Rear-sniffing retard! I hope you die. Touch Mouse again and I’ll rip through this crate and cut you.

Ellacution
Goddess of this House
Mistress of your Craptastic Existence

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Chickens,

Grow some fucking balls. Stop dying. Stop wandering off you stupid little bastards.

I feed the morons, I clean out their fucking house, which cost me £350. I give them the finest table scraps, tins of value sweetcorn from Facist-Mart, potatoes, mash, corn… I even bought them a bloody sausage roll the other day. That’s right – a sausage fucking roll.

Then they lay no bastard eggs, they rip the shit out of my garden, their ‘leader’ – this so-called hard nut called Harvey (after Keitel), this stupid cockerel that spends more time kicking MY ass than he does looking after his bitches.

They lay no eggs, they spread out all over the place when I let them out (when they should in fact be moving like the SAS going through an Afghanistan fucking goat pickling ceremony). They make a right racket, too. The cockerel screams his beak off half the time. I mean this little bastard is loud. Gives a bloke a fucking headache. Is everything in this life designed to stop me drinking cider I ask you ?

Chickens. Don’t do it. Once you get used to them you’ll want the eggs, and the place isn’t the same without them, but hell they need to toughen up. They certainly aren’t living up to expectation.

Does anyone on here know of any ‘hard-motherfucker’ breeds of chicken out there – because the ones I keep getting are getting fucked up on a regular basis. And that shit is upsetting too. Poor little feathery bastards.

One could keep them in a run – but all day? Better to live like a dangerous motherfucking little chicken and enjoy the sunshine out than be stuck in a cage all day. This I know.

Peace.
AM

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Dear Bastard Neighbor Number One,

That was our tree. Not your tree. OUR TREE. Which means that cutting it down while my parents are at the beach and I’m in Africa makes you the biggest possible bastard neighbor ever. Bastard.

Love, L.

Dear Bastard Neighbor Number Two,

Why the hell won’t you invite me to swim in your pool? Even as a kid, you never invited us over. If I had a pool, I would invite you to swim in it. This summer, I’m going to swim in your pool. And then I’m going to pee in it. Take that. Bastard.

Love, L.

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