4:30 a.m. - pleasant slumber interrupted by upstairs doucheclown(s) thundering down the stairs right above our bedroom (apparently they either don't trust gravity, or are just COMPLETELY OBLIVIOUS DOUCHE-HATS) to walk their endlessly yipping dog, while slamming as many doors as possible. (this was SUPER fun when i was getting up at 5 a.m. every day to go with the red cross to upstate ny during the june floods)
4:42 a.m. - slumber yet again interrupted by thunderous return trip up the stairs, barking, slamming.
10 a.m. - shower interrupted by UPS guy, unable to deliver package to douches upstairs, who don't answer their buzzer, instead choosing to stomp around oblivious to high-pitched buzzing emitted from small box on the wall by their door.
11 a.m. - cat-feeding interrupted by lit cigarette butt landing on windowsill, next to cat food bowl, for chain-smoking upstairs neighbor feels that the world is his ashtray. and by "the world," i mean "our apartment."
11:30 a.m. - trip to throw trash out interrupted by next door janitor screaming at me about upstairs doucheclown's giant pile of cigarette butts, elegantly decorating the sidewalk.
11:31 a.m. - man screaming interrupted by me almost getting hit in the head by flying cigarette butt from upstairs window.
1 p.m. - telephone call to potential wedding vendors occur as such: in that the wonderful service cingular provides means that i can only make a clear phone call on my cell phone when standing right next to the entrance to our apartment, every other sentence i speak is punctuated by upstairs douche-ape screaming obscenities. like so: (me) hi, i'm calling about your event space- (douchebag, while stomping) FUUUUUUUCK! FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!! SHIT! SHIT! (potential wedding vendor) excuse me?
2 p.m. - engrossing episode of "homicide: life on the street" periodically interrupted by swearing, stomping, cloud of secondhand smoke pouring in living room window, lit cigarette butt landing on windowsill and setting leaf on fire.
i could go on. and on and on and on. and on. but i won't, because if i don't get out of the house RIGHT NOW, i'm climbing up the fire escape and throwing lit bags of cat poop through their window.
ok fine, i'll go on. he's also a huge drunk, the wife's kind of stupid, and their other roommate is so unpleasant and anti-social that i would be entirely unsurprised if he had the corpses of, like, 12 headless transvestite prostitutes under his bed. it doesn't help that our new downstairs neighbors are completely normal and friendly and actually thank me for signing for their packages when they're out - unlike count douchesylvania up there, who can't be bothered to stop giving himself emphysema and screaming "fuck" at the top of his lungs long enough to answer the damn door, and couldn't possibly be bothered to pull his head out his ass enough to thank me for being his freaking secretary. also their friends are dumb, and their dog is ugly and annoying, and our cats live in constant terror from all the stomping and barking, which i liken to living in godzilla-era tokyo. thank you. now i have to go, because thinking about this entitled assholery while sitting beneath rather aggressive stomping and yelling is giving me a migraine/the homicidal rage.
I sympathize, I really do. I've never had the misfortune to live close to douchebags like the ones you describe, but I did share an apartment wall with a dude who played his guitar (badly) and sang (off-key) at all hours. Once, our apartments flooded, and as I was helping the maintenance guy tear up carpet, I heard that damn guitar and warbly singing. I could just picture that guy, stranded on a chair in the middle of his flooded living room, strumming and singing despondently.
And of course that mental image cracked me up.
Posted by: Whitters | 2006.10.25 at 17:21