  Comedy
This week: Undesirables Edited by: Waltz Invictus  
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Children are smarter than any of us. Know how I know that? I don't know one child with a full time job and children.
-Bill Hicks
Mothers are fonder than fathers of their children because they are more certain they are their own.
-Aristotle
If your parents never had children, chances are... neither will you.
-Dick Cavett |
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Twenty years ago, I lucked out in finding a house. It's not too big, not too small; in a city, but on the edge, and wilderness creeps into the backyard; it's on a short cul-de-sac lined with similar houses and good neighbors (the kind that don't ask too many questions); and most importantly, it's within staggering distance of a bar. I've managed to keep it through two divorces and three jobs, and laziness is actually the lesser reason why I haven't moved. I've lived here, now, longer than I've ever lived anywhere, including the place where I grew upspent my childhood.
I admit, though, my immediate neighbor was less than ideal. I'll call her Gladys. She was a fussy old lady with nothing better to do than complain whenever I wasn't as meticulous as she would like in home and yard upkeep. And I am lazy, so that was pretty much all the time. But I put up with her because she was otherwise a decent neighbor, and I could envision many scenarios in which I'd have even worse neighbors: rednecks with dogs chained in the yard; college students renting the place and throwing loud parties; meth cookers; that sort of thing.
Alas, as do all living things, Gladys eventually died, leaving me to mentally prepare for who would take her place. I'd seen her adult offspring, and they *were* the kind of rednecks that chain dogs in the yard and prop old cars on cinderblocks, but apparently the neighborhood was too yuppie for them, so they sold the house. One bullet dodged.
And then a family moved in.
When I first moved here, the neighbor on the other side had a kid in high school with a thing for old cars. He was interesting to talk to, and then he moved away to college, leaving the cul-de-sac completely and blessedly devoid of people who weren't legally allowed to drink beer.
So one day, I heard a baby wailing from Gladys' formerly-very-quiet house, and it was as if a cloud floated over my head and deposited acid rain.
Next thing you know, Gladys' once meticulously manicured front lawn sprung a crop of PKC - Plastic Kiddie Crap. I haven't been able to focus on the PKC enough to actually identify what it is - some sort of baby slide, some balls, an octopus, maybe; I don't know. At least the octopus will prepare the rugrat for a lifetime of viewing hentai. But it's as out of place on this street as a scenic overlook on the Jersey Turnpike. And they have a dog, a boisterous, brainless black lab. At least it's not chained in the back yard, but that just means it thinks it's okay to chase my cats across my own yard.
I want to mark the property line in the way that dogs will understand, but that could mean police, charges and getting put on a List somewhere. So I refrain.
Then, just a couple months ago, I saw the mother looming over the PKC in the yard, phone attached to her ear, her offspring making annoying burbling and shrieking noises while bumbling around. And the mother was distinctly and obviously about to pop out another one.
I'm with my friend in the car and as I see this, still in the car, I went, "Congratulations! You had sex!"
He's like "Huh?"
"Well, it's not like I'm going to say it to her face. That would be rude."
Still, I don't want to move; not only am I too lazy, but I still can't imagine a more favorable situation than the one I'm in now.
When I was a kid, whether at home or at my aunt's place in Queens where I'd spend a couple weeks each summer, there was always the one house in the neighborhood that you were told to avoid. At home, it was like "The people who live there are mean and they have German shepherds." In New York, there was the one house on the block with the lawn covered in ivy, in which, we were assured, a witch lived. And I don't mean the friendly, incense-burning, bonfire-dancing, Enya-listening kind of witch from reality, but the wicked, cauldron-stirring, bone-crunching, green-face-and-warty-nose kind from the scary stories.
Every neighborhood, I learned, has a bogeyman (or -woman).
So I'm making it my life goal to be the neighborhood bogeyman. It'll keep the kids off my damn lawn.
There's already poison ivy in my yard, so that should go a long way toward keeping people away. I'm trying to think of what else I can do. Keep in mind that I don't want to actually be evil, so I'm not going to set booby traps or tamper with Halloween candy or anything like that. And I'm not going to chain a dog in my backyard or cook meth. I'm certainly not going to suddenly have kids, because that would defeat the entire purpose of being the bogeyman. I'd blast death metal from the stereo, but I'm more of a Bruce Springsteen-listening kind of guy. I do know enough chemistry to make horrid smells, but such things tend to get one investigated; besides, I'd have to live with the smells, myself. So I don't know. I'm open to suggestions.
Yes, my response to undesirables moving in next door is to be even more undesirable.
Hey, it made sense in my head. |
Some kid comedy to help make up for my crotchety-old-man-ness.
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Last time, in "Blackjack" , I talked about gambling in Vegas. Apparently, everyone was too awed by my gambling prowess and comedic genius to comment.
So that's it for me for this month! See you in October. Until then,
LAUGH ON!!!
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Comedy: September 21, 2016 Issue [#7870]
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