H.O.A. Holes - Volume IV

Regular readers of The Mighty Blog are sure to recall my many dealings with the Nazi bastards who comprise my neighborhood homeowners' association. If you're just tuning in, you may want to take a little refresher course as a prerequisite to today's festivities:

• H.O.A. Holes: Volume I
• H.O.A. Holes: Volume II
• H.O.A. Holes: Volume III

You didn't click the goddamn links, did you? That's OK. To be honest with you, neither did I. I'm not even sure the links work. But no matter. The beauty of The Mighty Blog is that every post is a standalone classic in its own right.

Now check out the nastygram I received last week. This is the actual text taken verbatim (that's Latin) from their letter.....


You want something in writing?? I think I can accommodate that request. Here you go...


Dear Nazi Cocksucker:

It was so wonderful to hear from you afain after all this time. It really has been too long. I trust the family is doing well and that you've all found a way to "beat the heat" this summer (ha ha).

Regarding your letter, when you say "I was seen driving too fast," would you care to elaborate on that? Exactly which gray-haired old battle ax was it that saw me? Was it Old Lady Purvis with the three cataracts in each eye? Or could it have been Hank, the WWII vet who wanders the parking lot in his bathrobe and calls everybody Sparky? Or perhaps it was Crazy Mildred, who spies on the neighbors with binoculars through her filthy windows? I would really love to know, just in case I happen to accidentally run over one of them with my 31" Goodyears.

And when you say "too fast," could you be a tad more specific? My memory is a bit foggy, seeing as I'm usually drunk when I fly through the neighborhood at night. Besides, normally when law enforcement officers stop me for speeding (which is quite often), they give me a number. For example, my last ticket was for doing 93 in a school zone. Oh wait, that's right. YOU'RE NOT LAW ENFORCEMENT. So unless Gladys is packing a radar gun (and I don't mean a hair dryer with the words "RADAR GUN" written on the side), I suggest you BACK THE FUCK OFF.

Now while we're on the subject, could we discuss those speed bumps in the parking lot? I honestly don't feel they are large enough. You see, when I approach a bump, I like to get a running start so I can catch a little air when I hit the hump. On a good day, I can launch the DyckMobile a good 18 to 24 inches off the ground, but it just isn't enough to satisfy my needs. I was wondering if you could either increase the size of the bumps, or preferably install some sort of launch ramp device. This would help me greatly.

One final item before I let you get back to harassing the homeowners. You know that fucking fence that separates our parking lot from the adjoining neighborhood parking lot? The one you put up because our HOA apparently doesn't get along with their HOA? The one that forces me to go over a MILE out of my way at least TWICE A DAY just to get to my damn house? Yeah, that one. Maybe you could all GROW THE HELL UP and knock that fucking thing down, and I'll see what I can do to adjust my "driving behavior."

In the meantime, by all means let me know when this "Judicial Panel" will be meeting. I need to know when to set off the explosives.

Sincerely,
Mightonimous Q. Dyckerson, Esq.


Now if you'll pardon me, I'm going to the salvage yard and buy a few bathroom fixtures to display in my front yard. That should make Mildred's day.

Crappy Birthday, Dyckerson! (Part 1)

Ask me what my mother got me for my birthday.

Go on, ask.

ASK ME, YOU COCKSUCKERS!!!!!!

My mother...who gave birth to me 36 years ago...whom I shared a home with for 20-something years...who claims to know me better than ANYONE ELSE IN THE FUCKING WORLD...somehow got it into her head that I would enjoy having one of THESE on my body.

Go on, click the link.

CLICK THE FUCKING LINK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

That's right, it's a bracelet. A man bracelet. A bracelet...for a man.

It came wrapped in a small box. When she handed me the package on Saturday, I was hoping it might contain something useful and/or manly, like a gift card to Home Depot or perhaps a set of truck nutz. But no. Oh, hell no. My mother has to buy me BLING.

My jaw dropped in disbelief as I extracted the atrocity from its silky holster. I looked up at my mother, then down at the bracelet, then up at my mother again.

"Well what do you think??!" she asked eagerly.

I struggled to find the right words to express my emotions. "It's...it's..."

"Yesss????"

"It's a fucking BRACELET!!!" I screamed.

"I know!" she exclaimed. "Isn't it beautiful??"

"Beautiful just isn't the word," I replied.

"Try it on!!" she insisted.

"What, here? Now??!" I objected. "No, I couldn't possibly."

"Try it on, or I'm cutting you out of the will!"

Reluctantly I lifted the object - the fucker must've weighed five pounds - and fumbled with the clasp trying to get it open. As I fumbled, I said a silent prayer: Please God, if you care anything at all about my happiness, you will see to it that this bracelet breaks apart in my hand.

Needless to say, the clasp snapped off with ease.

"I hope it fits!!!" she shouted with anticipation.

For a moment, I felt like O.J. God, I'm serious this time. If you really do exist, you will make certain that this bracelet does not fit.

Of course it fit. It fit like a fucking bloody glove.

You want to see it, don't you? I know you do, you SICK FUCKS. Alright, here it is:



(I'll give you a moment to remove the Coke spittle from your keyboard......)

"It looks great on you!" Mother Dyckerson shouted with glee. "You need to wear it all the time!"

"Oh, I think I'll be saving this for...special occasions," I stated unconvincingly.

I attempted to remove the offending bling from my limb. I fumbled around with the difficult clasp, pulling and tugging in all directions. To my absolute horror, I COULD NOT GET THE FUCKING THING OFF MY ARM!!

"GET IT OFF!!!" I screamed.

Mother D. came over and proceeded to tug and twist the thing, but she too was unsuccessful.

"Well what do you make of that?" she asked quizzically.

I was about to contemplate amputation when finally the stupid piece of shit fell off on its own, taking most of my arm hair with it. It landed on the floor with a metallic CLINK sound.

I scooped up the scrap metal, tossed it in the box, and got the hell out of there.

How am I going to unload this damned thing?? I can't return it - she bought it off of QV-Fucking-C, for Chrissakes. I guess I can't blame her. The customer reviews on the QVC web site are quite favorable...

"This bracelet looks more expensive than the price."
--Translation: It's cheap.

"I purchased two of these, one for my husband and one for our grandson...I can't wait to give it to them!"
--Isn't that precious? Matching bracelets! I'm sure your grandson will be a huge hit at the next gay pride parade.

"It is masculine and I wear it with a suit or with jeans and a polo shirt...Duke of Marmunster"
--Well if it's good enough for the Duke of Marmunster...

Besides, she honestly expects to see me wearing it! Maybe amputation isn't such a bad idea after all. I suppose I could learn to type with my feet. Hell, I already type most of my blog posts with my enormous wang.

Meanwhile, I'm working on my pimp name just in case. Here's what I've come up with so far:

• Pimp Daddy Dyckerson Flow
• Funk Master Mighty D.
• Sugartastic Mighty Shmoove
• Reverend Doctor M. Flex
• Ghetto Fabulous Dyck Tickle

And if you think this was bad enough, just wait til you find out what my DAD bought me.....on the next installment of Crappy Birthday, Dyckerson!

Blood, Sweater, and Tears

I had a hole in my fucking sweater...but now that hole is GONE! I took my prized winter garment to three separate dry cleaners in hopes of getting it repaired, but they all laughed at me. They said it couldn't be done. Well those chinks never set foot inside GEORGE'S ALTERATIONS!

I had almost given up hope on my beautiful knit sweater. I was ready to shove it in a paper sack along with my soiled undies and donate it to Badwill. But then I saw that neon sign glowing in the twilight sky, beckoning me from afar. "GEO ALTER IONS," the sign read. (Those fucking neon lights never work properly.) I slammed on the brakes, made an illegal U-turn, and swerved into the parking lot, killing two innocent pedestrians in the process.

It was pouring down rain, but luckily there was an empty handicrapped space right in front of the door. While I am not physically handicapped, I did consider myself emotionally handicapped by the anguish brought forth by my mangled pullover. So I pulled into the parking space, grabbed my garment, and went inside.

The old bat behind the counter was a hundred years old if she was a day. Even worse, she barely spoke a word of English. This made communication rather difficult, but I shall do my best to transcribe the conversation that transpired.....

Dyck: Yo bitch, I got myself a sweater emergency here.
Lady: Eh?
Dyck: My sweater has a hole in it.
Lady: Eh?
Dyck: VOUS FIXEZ LE HOLE-O DONNEZ MOI SWEATER-O, POUR FAVOR!
Lady: Holy shit, that's an ugly sweater.

She tossed my sweater aside like one of Ms. Babble's unplanned babies and told me to come back tomorrow. So I headed back out, tripped over a handicrapped guy crawling across the parking lot, and went home.

>>>>>FAST FORWARD 24 HOURS>>>>>

It had been a full day since I left my precious sweater in the hands of George's Alterations. I was quite anxious to see if they had been able to salvage it. The rain had stopped by now, so I just parked by the curb in front of the fire hydrant and went inside.....

Dyck: Yo bitch, where's my sweater?
Lady: Eh?
Dyck: The sweater I left here yesterday. Where is it?
Lady: Eh?
Dyck: ME GIVE YOU EL SWEATER-O. YOU FIXEZ DE LA HOLE-O.
Lady: Oh yeah, you're the loser with the hideous sweater. It's right here.

Friends, what I saw next was nothing short of amazing. It was like that hole never even existed! I couldn't even tell where it was! I immediately fell to my knees, held up my newly mended garment, and wept tears of joy. An hour went by before I was able to regain my composure.

Dyck: Yo bitch, what do I owe you?
Lady: For you, no charge.
Dyck: Eh?
Lady: Zilch. Nada. On the house.
Dyck: Eh?
Lady: Look, I figure any guy who wears a sweater like that could use a break. Have a nice day.

I didn't want to give the old crow a chance to change her mind, so I snatched up my beautiful sweater and got the hell out of there. When I got outside, I saw flames shooting from the roof of the day care center next door, with several firefighters standing helplessly near the Dyckmobile. As I tiptoed through the maze of dead bodies laid out on the ground by rescue workers, my sweater was illuminated by the flames piercing the night sky. It was truly a miracle.

Tomorrow morning I'm going to put on that sweater, and I will never take it off again as long as I live!

Sweater Inequity

I have a hole in my fucking sweater. A few weeks ago, I went shopping for fucking sweaters to add to my fucking wardrobe. I ended up purchasing three fucking sweaters from fucking Macy's. Little did I know one of my fucking sweaters had a fucking hole in it. Here is a fucking picture of my fucking sweaters:

I have a hole in my fucking sweater. Sweater number A is my favorite, and it's A-OK. No holes whatsoever, except of course for the required holes for my head, arms, and torso. I wore that one two weeks ago, and I enjoyed it thoroughly. Sweater number B is also quite nice. Again, no holes except for the requisite head/arm/torso openings. I wore that fucker last week, and it gave me great pleasure. But sweater number C is a different story altogether. Look more closely:

I have a hole in my fucking sweater. Did you see it? Right on the fucking seam where the fucking shoulder meets the fucking arms. That's a high visibility area, my friends. Unacceptable. If the hole in my fucking sweater had been in the armpit region, I probably wouldn't be that fucking upset. Because hey, who really sees the armpit region of a fucking sweater? NOBODY...unless you walk around all day with your fucking arms in the air. In which case, you've got bigger problems than just a hole in your fucking sweater.

I have a hole in my fucking sweater. Whatever happened to a little thing called craftsmanship?? Does anybody take any fucking pride in their fucking work anymore? I went to fucking Macy's specifically so I could reduce the odds of my buying a sweater with a fucking hole in it. But I guess they're too busy planning lameass holiday parades to worry about fucking quality control.*

I have a hole in my fucking sweater. No, I do not have any fucking moths in my closet. Don't even go there, girlfriend. Why would a moth eat only one fucking sweater - along the seam - and leave my other fucking sweaters intact? Besides, if I had a moth in my closet, wouldn't I see moth droppings everywhere? Trust me, the only feces in my fucking closet is human.

I have a hole in my fucking sweater. Am I supposed to inspect every fucking garment now before I buy it? I fucking hate shopping enough as it is. I don't like looking at clothes in the fucking store because I can never get the fucking things folded the way they were before. Maybe that's why clothes are so fucking expensive - they all have to be folded by fucking origami masters.

I have a hole in my fucking sweater. I didn't save the receipt, so I'm fucking screwed. That's thirty fucking dollars right down the fucking drain. I tried to fix the hole in my fucking sweater by poking at it with a fucking stick, but I just made the fucking thing worse.


I have a hole in my fucking sweater. I swear I think it has gotten bigger since I started writing this fucking post. Soon there will be no fucking sweater left. If left unchecked, the hole may start to engulf my other two fucking sweaters. When will it end?? Perhaps the hole in my fucking sweater is actually a vortex leading to another dimension - a dimension filled with hole-free sweaters.

I have a hole in my fucking sweater. I suppose if I had two heads, it would be a Godsend. I could just enlarge the second fucking hole and stick my second fucking head through it. But alas, I was born with only one fucking head. And that head is telling me that my sweater fucking sucks.

I have a hole in my fucking sweater. Do any of you fucking idiots know how to repair the hole in my fucking sweater?? If so, speak now or forever hold your fucking peace. Otherwise I'm going to take my fucking sweater back to Macy's, stand in middle of the fucking store, and light it with a fucking match while singing three choruses of fucking Kumbaya.


* I wrote this fucking post before Christmas. So sue me.

H.O.A. Holes - Volume III

Christmas came a bit early in the Dyckerson household this year. Guess what I found in my stocking (a.k.a. MAILBOX) the other day. That's right, it's yet another nastygram from the Nazis who run the neighborhood Homeowners' Association. I've written about these bastards before here and here. Well just take a look at what they have for me now.....

What in bloody hell is wrong with these assholes??! Can't they let me live in peace?? Well this time Dyckie's fighting back.....


Dear Nazi Cocksuckers With Nothing Better To Do With Your Time Than To Harass Me,

Do you Nazi cocksuckers have nothing better to do with your time than to harass me??! My property was just inspected by YOUR INSPECTORS a mere THREE MONTHS AGO. Why was the rake board issue not brought up at the time? I could have gotten the SAME CARPENTER who repaired my window trim to replace the rake board ON THE SAME DAY. Now you're telling me I have to sacrifice ANOTHER DAY'S PAY so I can sit at home and babysit ANOTHER FUCKING REPAIRMAN??!

You sure seem eager for me to contact First Class Contracting of Virginia. In fact, your entire letter looks suspiciously like a COMMERCIAL for their services. You wouldn't by any chance be getting any KICKBACKS from First Class Contracting of Virginia.....or WOULD YOU??! And what's with the fucking THIRTY DAYS NOTICE during the middle of holiday season?? You got a BALLOON PAYMENT due on your YACHT??!!

And what, pray tell, is a RAKE BOARD?? Sounds fucking MADE UP to me. I know what a RAKE is...and I know what a BOARD is...and they have NOTHING TO DO WITH EACH OTHER. A rake is a garden implement used for gathering leaves and stabbing children in the eyes. A board is just a hunk of wood. I think you just combined TWO RANDOM WORDS in hopes of fooling people: "Hmmm...You know Gladys, I worked in construction for 25 years, and I never heard of a rake board. But it sounds real. I guess we better fix it!" Nice try, assholes...but Mightonimous Q. Dyckerson wasn't born yesterday.

So bring on your fucking JUDICIAL HEARING and your MONETARY PENALTY. I'd love to see you try and collect. My posse and I will be waiting for you with our SHOVEL BLOCKS and our SPADE PLANKS...and by God, we know how to use them! Now GO SUCK A DICK!!!


There, I think I made my point. But just in case something should happen, can I crash with one of you guys for a while???

Check Out My Package!

Guess what was waiting to greet me when I came home Friday night! No, it wasn't the Hor dressed as a French chamber maid. That was Thursday night. It was THIS:


That's right, ladies and germs! It's the ONKYO TX-SR505S 7.1 Channel Home Theater Receiver!! I know what you're thinking right now: "Dyckerson, that must have set you back a pretty penny!" Well think again, Copernicus! I ordered that baby last week from the good folks at Amazon.com for a paltry $219.99. That's a savings of $79.01, or 26% off the list price! Retail is for CHUMPS!! I invested in this versatile piece of hardware to replace my aging stereo receiver, which I never even bothered to hook up when I moved last year.

Now without further adieu, behold for yourself...the TX-SR505S in all its unwrapped glory:


Isn't it beautiful?? It's also available in black, but I went with the silvery finish because it's shinier, and everybody knows shinier is better. (If you get one for yourself, just make sure you avoid the lead version from China.)

Now you're probably wondering exactly what the TX-SR505S is all about. Allow me to put it in layman's terms for you simpletons. The TX-SR505S boasts 75 Watts per Channel Minimum into 8 Ohms, 20 Hz-20 kHz, 0.08%, FTC (2 Channels Driven); 100 Watts per Channel Minimum into 6 Ohms, 1 kHz, 0.1%, FTC (2 Channels Driven), DTS-ES Discrete/Matrix, DTS Neo:6, DTS 96/24, Dolby Digital EX, Dolby Pro Logic Iix, 2 HDMI Inputs and 1 Output (1080p Pass-Thru to HD Ready Displays), and Color-Coded 7.1-Multichannel Inputs (Receive 7.1 Surround Sound from Compatible Blu-ray and HD-DVD Players).

Impressive, ain't it??! And it's a cinch to install! All you need is a few common household tools...such as scissors, a flashlight, wire cutters, needle nose pliers, a flathead screwdriver, a crimping tool, vice grips, a soldering iron, cable ties, a blowtorch, an air compressor, a hacksaw, blasting caps, adhesive tape, a staple gun, at least 10,000 feet of assorted cables, and a heating pad. Actually, the heating pad isn't required, but it sure is relaxing after you've spent three hours on your hands and knees hooking up this piece of shit.

The TX-SR505S comes with a big thick user's manual, but being a man, dependence on any kind of instructions is a sure sign of weakness. Instead, I rely solely on my gut. I mean, how hard could it be?? Here, I'll walk you through it.

You start with the speakers. We're talking surround sound here, so you'll need about 50 speakers of various shapes and sizes. And make sure you get the expensive speaker wire. You know, the kind where the insulation is all ONE COLOR, so you have to trace the positive and negative leads all the way across the fucking room so you don't get the wires crossed and end up blowing up the goddamn TX-SR505S, sending shards of silvery shrapnel deep inside your flesh. Once you have your expensive speaker wire laid out, rip the insulation off the ends and jam the exposed wire into the speaker holes. If you find you have more holes than speakers, simply shove paper clips in the unused holes.

Now it's time to hook up your components. This too is a breeze. Let's start with your cable or satellite box. If you have the HDMI, you'll want to use that connection. If you don't have the HDMI (or don't know what the hell it is), you'll have to settle for component and/or composite cables. If you don't have those either, you'll need some more paper clips. Once you have your cable or satellite box hooked up, it's time to connect your VCR or DVD recording apparatus. The beauty of the TX-SR505S is that it accepts component OR composite input from your recorder, but it only provides composite output back to the recorder. And because the TX-SR505S can't convert the signal, you're pretty much forced to go composite in to your recorder. Now you're ready to hook the receiver to your TV. I hope you still have plenty of cables, 'cause you'll need a set of output cables to match every kind of cable you have going in to the TX-SR505S! Component, composite, HDMI, S-video - you got an empty hole, you better shove something in that motherfucker! How about audio? You got a CD player or DyckPod? You better stick that in there too. And unless you're a complete jackass, you'll want to use the fancy schmancy optical cables. After an hour or two of this bullshit, your living room floor will look like R2-D2 threw up on it.


Let's talk about remote controls. By now you probably have 83 of them. Each one of them is "universal," but not quite "universal" enough to control all the advanced functions of all your components. So basically you have to keep them all within reach. One time I programmed my DVR remote to send a power-off command to the TV remote. Then I programmed the TV remote to echo that command back to the DVR, which in turn sent the signal back to the TV. They've been fighting it out for two years now.

OK, so now you're ready to watch some top-quality video entertainment. Piece o' cake! First, turn on your cable or satellite box. Then turn on your TX-SR505S. Then turn on your TV. Select the channel you want to watch on your cabllite box. Then select the appropriate input on the TX-SR505S. Depending on how you connected your cabllite box, you may also have to change inputs on your TV. But then again, you may not. Now adjust your volume settings. What's that? You say you can't hear anything? Dumbass, you probably forgot to assign your audio to the proper input when you configured your components. The TX-SR505S isn't a mind reader, you know. You'll need to unhook everything and start over again.

Perhaps by now you're sorry you purchased the TX-SR505S. Perhaps you'd like to return it and get your money back. But because you bought it online to save your cheap ass few bucks, you're pretty much STUCK WITH IT. My recommendation: Take your TX-SR505S to the roof of your house and drop it on your neighbor's retarded kids when they're playing in the yard. Now THAT'S what I call entertainment.

H.O.A. Holes - Volume II

My wood is in dire need of servicing.

That's according to a sternly worded nastygram I received from my fiendly neighborhood homeowners' association. Should you have any doubt as to my opinion regarding these Nazi pricks, I direct you to my March '07 post entitled H.O.A. HOLES. As soon as I saw the return address on the envelope, I knew I was screwed. These bastards wouldn't be writing me if they didn't want something. Here's what the townhouse terrorists had to say.....

During the annual inspection of the community the item(s) listed below are in need of repair or maintenance:
1. Paint trim on shed.
2. Repair rotten wood on trim around windows above entrance.

Item #1 actually amused me because the trim is the least of the problems with my shed. Sure, I can slap some leftover paint on there in no time. Won't cost me a dime. But that's not going to do me much good when the roof caves in, which it is likely to happen any day now. (That reminds me. I better find a new place to stash my O.J. sports memorabilia.)

Item #2 is the one that had me defecating masonry. Yes, I have windows above my entrance. And yes, those windows are surrounded by wood trim. And yes, that trim could be described as rotten...although I prefer to think of it as "charming" and/or "rustic." But who do these assholes think they are telling me how to maintain my own fucking property? Why should I listen to them? What can they possibly do to me??

If the above listed discrepancies are not repaired within 90 days from the date of this letter, you can be summoned before a Judicial Panel for your non-compliance and a monetary penalty can be imposed in accordance with the Virginia Property Owners Act.

Awww SHIT. I hate any sentence that contains the words "judicial" and "monetary penalty." Time for me to get an estimate...and I better hurry too. I got that letter 86 days ago.

48 HOURS LATER.....

So I called a home repair company I found in the yellow pages. They have a full page ad, so they must be good. They immediately dispatched their top sales weasel to my house to give me a free estimate. Well the free estimate turned out to be a waste of my time and an insult to my intelligence.

"Allow me to introduce myself," said the weasel. "My name is Jack Mehoff and I represent the A-1 Repair Company! Here, have a colorful pamphlet!"

He handed me a folded 8.5" x 11" piece of paper that looked like it came out of his bubble jet printer five minutes ago. He then ENTERED MY HOME and sat in MY CHAIR.

"My, what a lovely home you have! I see you're a musician," he said, pointing out my collection of dusty guitars.

"Yeah, sure," I replied. "I see you're wearing a leather belt. I guess that makes you a cow. And that pen in your hand...you must be a Pulitzer Prize winning author."

Then he starts bombarding me with personal questions. "Tell me, where are you from? How long have you lived here? What kind of work do you do? Are you willing to accept Jesus as your Lord and Savior?" I didn't know whether this guy was a repairman or a Jehovah's Half-Witless.

I'm no salesman, but I know when I'm being worked over...and this slimeball was buttering me up like a Sunday biscuit. He must've just finished reading Dale Carnegie's How to Con Friends and Fuck People up the Ass.

I cut him off at the pass. "Look, I just need you to patch up some rotten wood so I can get these goddamn bloodsuckers off my back. Can you do that?"

"I like a man who knows how to do business," he BS'd. "Let's go take a look."

We walked outside and I pointed out the chunks of wood falling from the side of my house. He pulled out a clipboard and scribbled something. I'm not sure, but I think he drew an airplane.

"You know, we could cover up all this wood with maintenance free vinyl siding. We do have a special going on right now," he blabbered.

"I don't want to cover it up, you dipshit. I want to FIX IT. FAST and CHEAP, like YOUR MAMA!" I screamed. As you can tell, I was starting to get a wee bit agitated.

"Very well then." He whipped out his Dollar Tree calculator and started punching in some random numbers. "Now before I give you my estimate, I want to point out that the A-1 Repair Company prides itself on doing high quality work," he said. In other words, I was about to get reamed. "The figure I came up with is $915."

"Nine HUNDRED and WHAT THE FUCK?? YOU GODDAMN MOTHER SUCKING TOAD LICKING ASS FUCKER, you come in here and sit in MY CHAIR and WASTE MY FUCKING TIME with your BULLSHIT SALES SPIEL so you can try to ROB ME BLIND??!" I asked calmly. I feel I was polite but firm.

"Ahem...Well, you have to expect to pay a little more for top quality work," he retorted.

"I DON'T WANT QUALITY WORK, YOU BLUE-COLLAR BUTT GOBBLER! I WANT CHEAP SHODDY WORK, BECAUSE THAT'S THE AMERICAN WAY," I explained patriotically. "NOW GET OFF MY PROPERTY, YOU FUCKING COMMIE PRICK!!!"

At this point, I only have two days left before the H.O.A. sends their thugs over to beat me up. Desperate times call for desperate measures...so tonight I'm sneaking over to my neighbors' house, ripping the trim off his windows, and tacking it onto mine. That's what I call thinking outside the box. I'm a problem solver, dammit. Of course I'm creating a problem for someone else, but that's none of my concern. Besides, they should have thought of that before they let me move next door to them. Stupid bastards.

There Is A God

I know I've been in a funk lately. But thanks to an incident that occurred earlier this evening, my spirits have been lifted. Life is good!

You see, I live in a townhouse. The way the units are laid out, the living rooms are in the back, with a large sliding glass door leading to the back yard. Fences separate each yard, but I can still see, hear, and smell most everything the neighbors are doing when they are back there.

It was a beautiful late summer day here in Dyckersonville. Skies were overcast throughout the day, but not a single drop of rain had fallen. A perfect evening for a barbecue...or so my new jackass neighbors thought. I call them jackasses even though we've never met. I just assume they are jackasses because most people are. I figure I'll just go with the odds on this one.

Anyway, their grill came out around 6pm. I know this because the acrid smell of burning charcoal began choking me around this time. Of course I could close my screen door, but goddammit, it's the first cool night of the season and I'll be goddamned if I'll let those pricks ruin it for me. Then came the sound of something I truly hate. I ask you, is there anything worse than the sound of kids laughing and playing?? Happy people make me sick, but happy children make me positively homicidal. Children should be dead and not heard.

So there I was, my senses being assaulted, my entire evening about to be fucked by Mr. & Mrs. Suburbia and their retarded punkass kids. At that very moment, the clouds that had been lingering all day finally decided to blow their loads right over Dyckersonville. And it didn't just rain. It POURED! HA! HA HA!! HA HA HA HA!!! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!!!!!

I ran to the door to get a better look. The kids' laughter instantly turned to bloodcurdling screams as they hurried inside, leaving dear dad stranded with a giant plate full of soggy wieners and buns. Meanwhile, mommy was getting soaked chasing after the napkins and paper plates that were blowing all over the yard. BWAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!!!!!

Sorry, is it wrong to find humor in the misfortune of others?

I DIDN'T THINK SO!!!

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!!!!!

I guess the ol' neighbors had to order take-out. Such a pity. Really it is.

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!!!!!

HA HA HA HA HA!!!!

HA HA!!!

HA!

I think I'm done now. Man, I love the rain.