Kansas City Bastards

Bags and bags of Douche

by on May.10, 2015, under Epic Douchebaggery, Other Magnificent Bastards

It’s never been a secret that I hate my neighbors. In fact, the only question is which one do I hate the most. I’ve compiled a list and you can help me out by commenting below. The absolute worst thing about living in an apartment is the cohabitation with other people. I’m pretty sure that some of them are nice and are good people, but I won’t know because I’m anti social when it comes to the humans in my building. I don’t want to come over and watch the game, I don’t want to pet sit, so just be thankful I make eye contact with you if we pass on the stairs and leave it at that. I really have no desire to become pals with the people who live around me simply because of what they do when they are not inside their own place.

First things first – I don’t really care what my neighbors do in their spot. I’m probably doing the same thing – eating, watching TV, sleeping, and on birthdays, anniversaries, or because she’s feeling generous, making the headboard rock. It’s  whenever you decide to leave the hallowed ground of your domicile that I stand a very good chance of pulling your  face off through your asshole in a rage filled visit to the mailbox. I have quite possibly the worst of the worst outsiders that I’ve ever had to deal with, so bear with me for a minute.

  • THE HOT RODDER – I really like my truck’s exhaust note. It’s warm and mellow, and very therapeutic at 80mph on 635. That’s where I go to enjoy my tailpipe noise. However, the owner of the red 2008 Mustang with the Borla exhaust seems to believe that everyone is as proud of his muscle car as he is. Wrong! While I do appreciate looking at any and all American born pony cars, I don’t like listening to the song of your people every morning between 7:30 and 7:45. Every god damn morning I hear that starter spin. The engine roars to life, and the exhaust is loud and plentiful. Then the noise gets higher and higher, and the back pressure bubbles and spits from the pipes like gunfire – partly because that will happen at around 7800 rpm, and partly because he backs his car up against the building JUST FOR THIS REASON. This isn’t just a quick jab at the throttle and then he’s off on his merry way, no, he revs his bone stock 5.0 for a whole minute and then idles out of the parking lot, everyone thinking he’s finally gone, but you can hear the tires squealing and his blistering tailpipes singing as he again shows no respect for the 45mph limit on the street he just pulled out on. Of course, because he wasn’t towing a uhaul behind his autocar, he’s eventually going to come back, and when he does he will take approximately 19 minutes to round the corner, put it in reverse, and move his car back into his spot at one inch every 2-3 minutes until he’s pleased with the space he has on all sides of his chariot, and celebrates by standing on the gas pedal until the fuel light comes on. Take this time to enjoy the peace and quiet, because it starts over the very next day.
  • THE OTHER MUSICIAN –  One could assume that as soon as people saw the armada of guitar cases and the 4×12 cabinet they assumed they would have to listen to Black Sabbath all day, which is still true but only when it’s coming through my itunes. I only plug the Hamster in a few days before we play a show and usually play for about 30-45 minutes before i call it a day, so there’s that. However, the guy directly opposite from me in another building likes to sit on his patio and practice his craft too – except he has an accordion. If the sun is shining and his fingers didn’t fall off the night before you can bet your ass he’ll open his sliding door, plop down in his chair, and begin working his squeeze box. For the record we are not talking Weird Al levels of playing, we’re talking long, drawn out Latin music and apparently his only duty in that song is to play one note for as long as he can before switching to another note a half octave higher or lower. Might I also add that he is not out there playing along to anything – he’s just out there by himself. I say that in jest because the other day I found out he just bought his daughter a violin, and she just has soooooooooooo much fun playing it for the first time that she dragged that bow across those strings, i don’t know, half, 3 quarters of a billion times? Because this is what I have to look forward to the next time I hear a poorly played note come across the parking lot I’m grabbing the laser pointer I use to drive Woody crazy and just start doing figure 8 patterns with it from my office into their living room.
  • THE PEOPLE UNDER THE STAIRS – aptly named because they live directly under me. They really aren’t bad or annoying in any way except for their blatant hatred for taking the trash down another flight of steps. Nope, any and all trash that needs to be discarded will be set out by the door and by some miracle of evolution will sprout legs and make haste to the dumpster. I have seen both of them put a bag outside the door, and then I will watch them leave (like, get in their car and go somewhere leave) come home, and put another bag right next to the first bag, that they couldn’t take out because the bin was right in the middle of them and their car.
  • THE PEOPLE UNDER THE PEOPLE UNDER THE STAIRS – The first floor neighbors. and their platoon of children. Roughly between 5-8 of them and aged about that. Kids will be kids. I know this because I was one. I created one. And then… I married one. But I know that kids are going to draw on the sidewalk and play in the rain. I know they are going to have epic toy battles and throw rocks. I also know that they usually do this after they have moved in, not during. In the span of time it took to unload the moving truck to the time it left, those little miracles systematically destroyed the stone walkway, covered the sidewalk in bright orange chalk and rocks, let the dead toys rot where they fell (about an 80 foot radius, give or take) and once the sun went down they howled at the moon from 9 until almost midnight. Literally howled for almost 3 hours. The only reason I didn’t get pissed off at them was because I thought they were actually dogs.  Needless to say, day in and day out walking to the Jeep is like navigating a mine field. Toys, rocks, chalk, wooden blocks… its between you and your car. Can’t wait to see how this pans out later in the year.  Every Halloween, the trees are filled with underwear. Every spring, the toilets explode… assuming the kids last that long. During a calm period between rain storms they went outside to go puddle jumping and I went to the store for some coffee. Normal children got out of the middle of the road. The remainder stood directly behind my truck… and waved to me in the rearview.

And those are the worse ones that I can think of. Honorable mention goes to the guy who still has both an answering machine and a landline, so if anyone calls they get to listen to a 5 minute long talk about religion and then a message to call him back. Sadly no one ever leaves a message because his machine then records a few minutes of the “phone off the hook sound” that everyone loves. We should also give a tip of the hat to the woman who cannot have a screaming match with her significant other unless she is in the parking lot and on the phone with them. And last but not least, I will show nothing but love to that jackass who drives the micro car who only parks it in between larger cars to give you the impression that there is a good parking spot close to your building and you’re going to get to park close and GOD DAMN IT HE DID IT AGAIN. You sir, deserve a special place in hell, in between the accordion player and the furnace.

So drop me a quick comment to let me know which of my nominees gets worst neighbor of the century for 2015. Hell, drop me a comment to let me know you even read these things.

And if you’re my neighbor and you’re reading this –


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