Santa Claus' Radio Room at the Top of the Rainbow

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As we wait... and wait... for the court to get around to docketing the misdemanor charge, it is time to recap the pervasive and invasive nature of Three Beaches (five) dogged determination to perpetuate the "feeling" of a business establishment on BOTH of our residential properties. (Of course, their property retains the "business look" with all of the vehicles, structures, equipment, appliances, and fixtures still illegally residing where they have for twenty-three years.)

The BDGs began their Great White Noise Cover-Up in June 2009 by installing the outdoor radio speaker. But, because of the continuous icemaker noise, the 3:00 a.m. hour-long Ice Bucket Brigade, the 4:30 roach coach departure, and the diesel-powered vendor delivery trucks, the afternoon radio usage was the least of the noise pollution.

With the January 2010 icemaker shutdown and the February 2010 discontinuance of the catering truck runs, the radio nuisance came into its own - finally assuming the true malicious reason for its existence. As the chart below shows, its scheduled use also elongated from their former afternoon return time of approx. 13:15 hrs to its present daily startup of 07:00 hrs.

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  The blue line shows the BDGs consistent (and illegal) start time at 07:00 hrs over three months. The once a week dips to 08:00 hrs is the "bone" they toss me on Sunday mornings before turning on gospel rock. How "Christian" of them... 
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  The pink line shows how the BDGs average bedtime has slipped as the Spring days got longer and stayed lighter - until they got TV. 
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  The yellow line and data points are the difference between the daily start time and the daily stop time. It shows how many hours each day the radio speaker is broadcasting into my house and yard. 
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  Linear trendline analysis shows that daily radio nuisance increased from just over 12 hours to just under 13 hours daily (average 12.27 hours.)

My best guess is that Mega 100.1 FM, KQOD Stockton was the station the Barefoot Dirty Girls treated themselves to (and to their poor customers) while plying their ancient trade on the streets of Tracy, California - as referred to last Christmas morning.

Oh, what was that noise? My ears took the hit!

'Twas the loud strains of soft rock that accompany the shit

Served up from the roach coach they defensively guard

Within the bleak compound of their half-acre yard.

The serenades, football games, news breaks with smokes,

Station identifications, the advertising blokes -

It goes on all day and well into the night.

Just their way of saying, "Yep, we're here to spite!"

 
Noise is so hard-wired into their reptilian neuro-circuitry that they appear unable to function in its absence - they HAVE TO create noise to prove their existence, an external manifestation of their self-loathing, refusing to live quietly inside their own heads, allowing nothing but self-chosen stimulus to block out the world around them. This radio, a po'-mouth perversion of Muzak (c), is supported by all three residents, who take nuisance promulgation assignments from the Supreme Generalissimo.
 
I was surprised (more like, ecstatically tickled) yesterday morning when the radio did not come on at 07:00. The BDGs were distracted, much too high, (gone all a-fluttery?), by the imminent arrival of a crew of roofers to do some stripping. It was a full 22 minutes later that one BDG stated the half-question to Lynda, "We forgot our music." Of course, that environmental deficiency was immediately remediated. (We are compelled to let our @$$-hole neighbor how we feel about him!)
 
Of course, I pay zero attention to whatever is programmed by the radio station. I only hear ONE tune (retaliatory nuisance noise) and only ONE repeating lyric - exemplified by my neighbors - a two-word vulgar expression that starts with the letter "F" and ends with the letter "U".
 
Truly a BDG gift that never stops giving... the finger.
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Christmas Gopher Named Blackwell

Gophers are active in my yard at the moment - possibly two, maybe three. The only sure count I have is the one that is NOT active any more...

But even that assessment is open to interpretation.

The new Sherlock Holmes movie was a kick to watch. The illusion surrounding Lord Blackwell's "death" fooled both Holmes and Watson for a while. So maybe this denizen of the underworld also staged his own demise, then came back to life? You see, after I took this trophy picture and left for a few hours, upon my return the gopher had disappeared!

Ah, what elementary factors may we deduce to be at work here? Hmmm, maybe the underground rat ate some narcoleptic roots and was just playing dead, despite the crushed midsection, and just crawled off after being sprung from the trap. Maybe this was a rare flying gopher and it flew away. Maybe one of the numerous "farm cats" my neighbors feed and house snatched up the delectible rodent and retreated elsewhere to enjoy his toothsome repast.

Regardless of the method by which Gopher Blackwell rescusitated or re-ambulated, the lesson is:

Never trust anything that looks like a gopher - dead or alive.

They Gave You WHAT For Christmas?!

Friday, December 25, 2009


The morning was peaceful at daybreak - and calm.
My dreams were a joy; they served as a balm
For the indignities suffered living next to the famous
TLC Catering, run by Andy and Amos.

My half-sleep was shattered at seven-fifteen
By banging and yakking and a gravel-voice sing.
The Grinch was up early this fine Christmas Day
And her mission was something that no one dares say.

Oh, what was that noise? My ears took the hit!
'Twas the loud strains of soft rock that accompany the shit
Served up from the roach coach they defensively guard
Within the bleak compound of their half-acre yard.

The serenades, football games, news breaks with smokes,
Station identifications, the advertising blokes -
It goes on all day and well into the night.
Just their way of saying, "Yep, we're here to spite!"

The speaker they mounted just over the fence
(By design that only to them makes some sense)
Is directed at my window, at the side of my home,
To broadcast their presence, their frothing, their foam.

The three rabid cookies, running this scam for years,
Do everything possible to assault all the ears
Within earshot - those of their most hated neighbor
Who dared challenge permit, and dog count, and trailer.

They continually scream, "Don't you look, but now HEAR me!
Ain't nothin' that you can do, 'cause we're in the cuntry!"
The control freaks next door demand homage or scraping,
"We're here, but we're not here," is the game that they're playing,

So with trucks, and with trailers, deliveries, and ice,
Stinking barrels of fry grease, they lie and aren't NICE.
They are troublesome parasites, sucking milk from the city
Whose breast is exhausted, just a saggy, dry tittie.

We live in a town, you see, ruled by committee,
Who's idea of action is to preen and look pretty.
Their powers of judgment offend in extreme
And to listen for moments makes one want to scream.

Their minions - no better - can spin many words
From brains that are smaller than ‘most any bird’s.
“Sue them on your own,” say the powers that be,
“’Cause we don’t know nuthin’. You get nuthin’ for free.”

So much for this Christmas. So much for Three Beaches –
Those big greasy trucks run by neighboring leeches.
This God-awful nuisance! When the lawsuit is over
Perhaps then some peace returns. Come Springtime; come Clover.