Saturday, February 6, 2010
Tsk, tsk, T, L & C! To take something so private and make it so public... Your neighbor doesn't know which one had her fingers on the pleasure button this morning, but her emotional ejaculation must have been overwhelmingly intense. After all, who doesn't understand the mounting urges arising from WEEKS of icemaker abstinence? He was so proud of you for making the effort, nonetheless, and had high hopes for your success in driving that demon, ICE, from your life.
Ahh, you flash back to those good old days... For six euphoric months you could run both the icemaker AND the outdoor radio for your selfish, guilty pleasures. Then someone, somehow, penetrated the impenetrable and you were forcibly persuaded to shut off the icemaker. Arrgh! For the past few weeks you demanded relief from the inassuagable* upwellings of emotions and cravings. You wanted it - you needed it - and, by God, you were going to get it!
And the backup plan was in place, wasn't it? If you couldn't screw that neighbor frontally then, by God, you'd assault him with your back door!
In the forward thinking of your agile mind, last June you strategically placed an outdoor stereo speaker near the fence and pointed it at his house. Were you not justified in this retaliation because he had served a noise nuisance lawsuit on you? (“Absolutely!” says you.) So, on holidays and weekends, when you are stuck in your business yard and cannot drive off in your fairy princess roach coach, leaving a raise-the-dead wake of noise and clatter, further promulgated* by your left-behind accomplice... at such powerless times, you crank up the radio instead - and your hormonal fix flows through your veins. ("Take that, you effing bastard!")
But like other illegal drugs and businesses, you need MORE - and you snort it earlier and earlier. First you started the radio up at 8:00 a.m. Then you moved it up to 7:00. Christmas morning was greeted with public serenade at 6:15 a.m.
But the pressure keeps mounting, doesn't it? That idiot neighbor sends interrogatories that you and your friends and your "free" insurance company lawyer have to figure out how to avoid answering. Then the bugger sends admissions that you and your accomplices have no intention of admitting - unless you think he has pictures of you doing it. Finally, the asshole sends documents over in October that no one knows what the hell they mean, so your insurance company's attorney ignores them for three months - until the second submission of those same documents arrives in January.
What you think: 'This guy is beginning to chap my hide! He can't call us xxxxbubbles* and get away with it!'
What you say to your friends: {censored}
Your performance for the public: "{sob} Why doesn't he just leave us poor little old ladies alone? {sniff} We never make no trouble for nobody {dab tear from eye}."
Saturday morning you woke up all warm and tingly because, at long last, in five days you get to confront that prick. In your competing erotic dreams your knight in shining Farmers' Group armor tears the Lilliputian* tormentor limb from limb, then blinds him and guts him and feeds him to your five dogs. Even his children don't recognize him when you're done with him! Or, maybe you're just overly anticipating tomorrow's Super Bowl.
Whoa, a two-fer! What a surge! Fondle that rheostat! Crank 'er up! You NEED to get off on some LOUD radio. To hell with it being 5:52 a.m.!
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* Damn! I keep forgetting to use 5-cent and 10-cent words for this particular audience.
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