108171320509549393

Won’t You Be My Neighbor?

I bumped into my across the street bi-polar schizo-affective neighbor’s ex-husband yesterday out in front of their house as I was doing yard work. “Your wife is like, a saint, man” he tells me. She had bought the woman a load of groceries, and their tard daughter an Easter basket, because they are poor and always on the edge of being evicted, and, yes, my wife is a saint. “I know” I told him coldly, “but I’m an asshole…kinda balances things out, dontcha think?” I’ve seen his body language when he talks with my wife…everybody always wants to fuck your old lady. He seemed taken aback. I left my sunglasses on, gave no quarter, and he turned away and went to his car.

The neighbors in the condo to the right of us appear to be a batch of Deisel Dykes, and except for one hottie who may be one of their daughters, they look it, too. They have three big pickups, the kind with dual wheels and fifth-wheel mounts, and they have all kind of horse stuff scattered around. They do some sort of competitive horse thingy which involves racing around poles, and they are always painting these poles, and festooning them with fake plantage. Maybe they are Cow-Dykes.
The hottie seems to like me, and gives away gratuitous tit and butt shots all of the time. I appreciate that in a woman. She has two blind-as-shit English bulldogs, and has erected a small fence between our yards because I have frowned upon the vast turds they leave behind as they stagger around, and because of the Boston Terrier (owned by the two possibly gay ROTC Marines across the street) beelines for her backyard when they let him out, and this drives the blind bulldogs nuts as they cough and slaver at the window when they detect his scent.

To my left are extremely hot college girls who act like I don’t exist when they see me, and who absolutely refuse to lay out in bikinis in their yard whilst tanning. Bitches.

Last night at threeish a.m. I was awoken by two screaming drunks, part of the food stamp crowd that cuts through the field by our house to get to the nearby 7-11 to buy their smokes and beers, and then use their food stamps to buy their snacks.
The street light was just bright enough to give me an agonizing decision. Too many pumps on my pellet gun, and the crack would alert them to the fact that they were being shot at…too few pumps, and it wouldn’t hurt, and might not even hit them.
I’m not positive, but I believe that these fuckers are responsible for a rash of bottle breakings in the street that have had my wife and I out playing sweep up in our little cul de sac to keep our kids and tires from getting perforated. The Cow-Dykes just run over the glass in their tanks willy nilly…once a week they take about ten cases of Budweiser to the bottle return, and that explains a lot.

Anyway, I peel back the slit in the bottom of my screen and poke the barrel out after only three pumps…they are drunk and noisy enough that I decide to wait for the next war whoop and pull the trigger. I have a piece of nylon stocking that matches the coloration of the screen exactly, kept on with some light spray adhesive. The police can’t see it even when shining a spot on it (I checked), and I can smooth it right back after shooting with no one the wiser, after popping a noisy cat or raccoon, or drunk. I use sub-velocity .22 rounds for animals, but, because of rifling, I use .17 cal lead pellets for drunks.

He held out both arms and yee-hawed! and I shot him in the back of the knee. Fuck, I was aiming for his ass, but not bad at 60 feet with only three pumps. He screamed again and skipped down the road to his friend who was lucky he was too far away cuz he was facing me and I woulda gone for his balls. I saw them checking his leg with a lighter too far away to get away with another shot, so I put the red dot from my laser level on their chests and wiggled it around and they took off like fags at a rest-stop raid.

It took me ten damn wasted minutes to get back to sleep.

Update:

It has been brought to my attention (by me) that I have left out a critical component from my cautionary tale above…the pellet gun in question is a Crossman pump/pellet pistol, $40 at Big 5 Sporting Goods. My pellet rifle may have penetrated his pants and skin with three pumps…with the pistol, I will be looking for a White Trashus Erectus with a limp, tomorrow.

Given half a chance, I will ‘door’ him into next week from behind with my truck.

Fingers crossed!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: