Website of the day: http://www.rottenneighbor.com
What a lovely, voyeuristic tool this is. And it makes me feel so much better to know that other people out there have horror stories that easily put mine to shame. My neighbor’s three tiny, yippy, constantly-barking dogs are nothing compared to skeevy Peeping Toms or the stench of death from a creepy backyard.
Funnily enough, there isn’t a single complaint or grouse listed within my ZIP code. I don’t think this means that we necessarily have nicer-than-average neighbors; I just think that they fear retribution.
Totally-true-story side note relating to retribution: when I was in my junior year of college, my buddies and I were hanging out at an apartment shared by four of our guy friends. The whole group of us numbered about twelve. And — this is the best part for later on — this group of friends happened to be my Bible Study group from church. Not exactly a bunch of reprobates.
But, being that we were college kids, we were drinking beers and cheering on two of the guys as they played the newly-released Grand Theft Auto III. This was on a Saturday night, around 9pm. Apparently, we were being too loud for the tender ears of their next door neighbors, a foursome of girls who personified the uptight, humorless Puritan that — by all rights and means — really should have been our college mascot.
The Puritans called the cops on us, without even bothering to first come over and ask us to turn the TV down. The cops came, in droves, since there’s truly nothing more satisfying for a jaded, miserable Waco cop than to arrest an uppity Baylor kid. They brought seven police cruisers, two McClennan county sheriff’s cruisers, two Baylor D.P.S. cruisers, a wagon (in the hopes that they’d be able to haul a bunch of us to jail) and two helicopters.
That’s right. Two helicopters. For a twelve-person “party.” Such was life in Waco.
Long story short, they arrested the four guys whose apartment it was for providing alcohol to minors (the three of us that were 20 years old at the time). And the three of us minors received MICs. The next morning, after church, I headed over to the McClennan county jail to bail out the last remaining guy (the one whose parents hadn’t immediately wired money to the jail), my friend James. He came out from the holding tank looking totally disheveled and madder than a wet hen.
As we pulled up to his apartment, James calmly got out of the car and started hunting around on the ground for something — what, I didn’t know. I got out of the car, too, and asked if everything was okay. No response. He kept looking around, in bushes and under cars. Finally, he spotted something and snatched it up. It was a brick.
Still calm and with a slight smile playing around his mouth, James took the brick and — with all of his 6′ 3″ height and 200 pounds — hurled it as fiercely as he could through the windshield of a Corolla that was parked in front of his next door neighbor’s apartment. The entire thing shattered out from where the brick smashed through, and crumpled down into the car. The brick bounced around and finally came to rest on the driver’s seat. My jaw dropped and after what seemed like an hour, I finally screeched at him, “What the hell did you do that for?”
“Bitches get what they deserve,” he happily replied.
And that’s what I mean by fear of retribution.