Man, am I ever a conniving super villain.
As you are already annoyingly aware, my neighbors are what the French call Les Dicks-Supreme. I have been thinking of a way to get back at them for their midnight parties, horrible musicianship and proclivity for parking on their own yard. They just get on my last nerve. And I hate them.
But now I, utilizing my supreme intellect and deviously clever Machiavellian genius, have birthed retribution into the world so innovative, so vile – so grotesquely deadly – that even stout hearted women will run screaming into the night, grown men will turn into puddles of weepy terror and tiny babies will wish they had been born blind…
I wrote – a SONG!!!
That’s right. I wrote a song making fun of my pre-pubescent 30-something neighbors. How’s that for evil, eh?!
Okay, it’s not all that evil. But it’s incredibly passive-aggressive. And what do you expect? I asked for help on this and no one but my own father offered any advice. I was all alone on this one. I was lost. I needed you and you left me in the cold. So I wrote a song. That’s all I could think to do. I’m no evil genius okay? And you were no help.
Thanks for nothing, jerk. Your song will probably be coming shortly. (Unless you’re Julie, winner of the “have a song written for you by TAM” competition. In that case, you’ll just have to be patient.)
So yes, I wrote a song. But it’s an evil song. I’m partially taking my dad’s advice (the only one who offered any because everyone else is a big dumb…man, I’m getting mad all over again. I must move past this…). He suggested that I blast Glenn Miller music at them. But the last thing I need is for the ghost of Glenn Miller to haunt me because I used his music for the purposes of revenge without express written consent.
Or, worse, I might inadvertently introduce the rectum-chapeaux that live next door to an exciting new type of music. And they’re already slaughtering the hell out of the blues.
I know they’re slaughtering it because I can hear it screaming in tortured pain at 2:00 in the morning.
So now I have an altogether new song to blast back at them if I so choose. I don’t know if I will. I’m pretty non-confrontational. But I could. And that’s what matters.
Why don’t you take a listen? It’s an Mp3. I must warn those of you listening in from work, use your headphones. I can’t write a song about my dick-head neighbors without using some profanity. It’s not harsh, but you might not want the blue-haired lady in the cubicle next door to think you’re some kind of “dirty word listener.”
© 2005. All rights belong to me, The Anthropomorphic Male.
The Neighbor Song
Fun Fact: Yesterday, I got to listen to one of my purple-headed neighb’s talk all about the dream he had last night.
He dreamt that he was eating a bird.
It freaked him out. So I decided to look up some analysis of his dream.
‘Cause I’m just one fantastic neighbor. A neighbor who doesn’t park in other people’s parking spots, no matter how “quick” I’m going to be. A neighbor who puts his bags of trash in the actual dumpster. A neighbor who doesn’t leave mattresses in the driveway…
But enough about what a great human being I am. Let’s get to Blind Scrotus Lemon’s bluesy bad bird dream.
You know, I had a dream that I was eating a bird just the other day. But I soon realized that I wasn’t dreaming. I was at a fabulous Kentucky Derby party and I was gnawing on some KFC. Creepy, no?
Anyway, I have consulted the dream analysis web sites. They were a wealth of information. And I’ve cracked the analysis. I’m like Joseph.
Your dream can mean only one thing, jerk neighbor guy:
“Your band sucks big donkey penises.”
And a special thanks to Kevin for hosting my fabulous tune!