Wednesday, June 15, 2005

Not so Neighborly

You know, I have been so caught up in the trials and tribulations of my darling students this year, I had almost forgotten the sublime joy to be found in witnessing a little redneck squabble.
Luckily, though, a fine specimen of the redneck tribe has moved into the house behind mine and, I feel confident, will be providing much entertainment in the months to come.

My first evidence of this was this morning’s comedic episode.

I was out in my backyard, putting up a special anti-squirrel birdfeeder (a trickier task than I realized when I first began) when I heard the unmistakable rumblings of an imminent brawl.
“F*** this!” The woman screamed. “F*** this, and f*** you, and give me back my f***ing Visa. I know you f***ing stole it from my f***ing purse, you hear me, you f***ing thief?”

Since I live a few doors down and I had no trouble distinguishing every beautiful word, I’m pretty sure the f***ing thief heard her loud and clear. Unfortunately, I couldn’t hear his reply but I’m pretty sure it was equally as insulting since about thirty seconds later, a large amount of male clothing was flung out of the back door into the yard.

Clothing that, at the time of this writing, is still decorating their pitiful excuse for a lawn.

The clothing was followed by a furious man who stomped out the door and stormed over to his car (a decidedly un-redneck looking vehicle that I made a mental note to avoid in the future.)

In any case, as the guy was storming out, the woman came skipping around from the front of the house.

Yes, skipping.

Skipping and chanting “You’re not leaving without me!” in a little girl voice that was disturbing on a lot of levels.

If you are thinking that it sounds like the woman had been perhaps been imbibing an alcoholic beverage or two, I would have to say that you are one hundred percent correct. While I am never one to judge (ha ha), I would like to point out the following things that I found disturbing:

A. It was NINE-THIRTY in the morning. I mean, seriously! Who, other than a RAGING ALCOHOLIC is so drunk at NINE-THIRTY that they skip around the yard? (I considered leaning over my fence and sharing this little tidbit but my expertise at Conflict Mediation led me to believe it might have been counter-productive.)

B. The woman outweighs me by an easy fifty pounds yet had no trouble skipping around in Daisy Duke shorts that I couldn’t have gotten on my left leg. In addition, she was wearing a tank top that would have been snug on my five-year-old niece.

For those of you who remember the horrible years that I lived in Cincinnati, let me assure you, the sight was frighteningly reminiscent of the obese alcoholic who set my apartment building on fire and had to be dragged out bare-ass naked.

Anyway, the woman continued skipping around, blocking the man’s exit, at which point he threatened to call the police.

Which, of course, started the oh-so entertaining back and forth repartee that consisted of “You can’t call the police, I’m calling the police! No, I am! No, I am!”

I considered yelling “If you don’t shut up, I’M CALLING THE POLICE, YOU RIDICULOUS REDNECKS!” but again decided it would be counter-productive. After all, I didn’t want to give the two of them a common enemy upon whom to vent their drunken rage.

As the neighborhood expert in Conflict Mediation I, of course, also considered popping over the fence and offering my services but before I could react, the drunken woman pushed the old man out of the way, flung herself in the car, and locked him out.

Ahhh, sweet victory.

I honestly have no idea how long she stayed in the car because as soon as the man started beating on the window in a rage, my ridiculous animal woke up and his finely honed guard dog skills kicked in, which caused him to start barking at the top of his tiny little lungs.
This, of course, threw both the drunks a little off. The man actually jumped a foot and began looking all around for some vicious killer dog.

At which point, I was completely overcome by a bout of hysterical laughter. And since I doubted the rednecks were in the mood to appreciate humor at their own expense, I grabbed my little mongrel and fled to the house.

So, as I said, I don’t know who finally won the Battle of the Buick. All I know for sure is that the car is gone, the clothes are still in the yard, and this is probably not the last I’ll hear from these fabulous new neighbors.

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