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“That’s when you know you’ve found somebody really special: you can just shut the fuck up for a minute and comfortably share silence.” ~Pulp Fiction

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Fuck You, Leave it to Beaver.

Dear Howard Neighborhood,

First of all, don't you EVER yell at my dog when you're pilfering around at 6 am in the backyard and he is alerting me. Who do you think you are exactly? He's a DOG, he wants to alert me. You don't see me hanging my head out the patio door screeching at your minion children while they shriek around the back yard and fling their paraphernalia into my yard.
Second, thank you so much neighbors-on-the-other-side-of-the-duplex for leaving a foot of uncut grass between our yards. Apparently, you have an exact map of our property line and couldn't bear the torture of an extra swipe with the mower and left it for me. I hope you put this much effort into banging your wife at night, oh wait, you just sit in your backyard preening your flower pots. Maybe this is some symbolism, dude.
Third, dear garbage man. Please don't leave me blaze orange reprimands on my garbage for leaving my garbage and recycling cans too close together. As you can tell by my previous post, my neighbors are a little testy with property lines and I would like to be able to back out of my driveway, but, thanks for the embarrassing signage.
Fourth, to our mail-lady. Is it really that hard for you to get around my car on the street that you have to leave me menacing notes in my mailbox? Does that extra second of backing up your glorified mini-bus really cramp your style?
And fifth, to my favorite neighbors mentioned in my first topic, thank you for making me shovel my driveway all winter while you took two swipes with your snowplow and went on your merry way. I, in turn, sat for two hours in the blizzard about ready to collapse while you probably sat inside drinking coffee and brushing up on Hitlerisms. Don't worry about me, don't want you to waste five minutes of your pathetic life helping me get to work on time.
What happened to neighborly charm? Definitely skipped town on Rockwell Road. I'm super impressed that twenty-something men can watch me struggle with a dilapidated lawnmower and using a Tupperware lid to shovel two feet of snow and never bat an eyelash. Maybe the fact that I grew up in a small town with a dad that had an ounce of chivalry makes me expect a little help during my first years on my own. Yet, day after day, week after week, I am bombarded with reasons I loathe urban living and crave heading back to the farm.


1377 Rockwell Road.

1 comment:

OgRe said...

Green Bay is just a bitchy town. I know exactly how you feel because my parents are EXACTLY like them. THey pretend that the peoples around them don't exist....and everyone else follows suit. Oh Suburbia, how pleased I am to have LEFT!