Dear Thug Life,
It’s 2:59 am EST and I’m awake. Not awake in the sense that I’m doing something productive like rounds on the oncology ward or recording the nocturnal habits of lowland gorillas. I’m awake because you, my 3 neighbors at the condo (to whom we refer as Thug Life for reasons about to become apparent) have launched another ante meridiem assault on the neighborhood. I’d like to offer some assistance to you and also get a few things off my very sleepy and rather cranky chest.
Since you moved in about a year ago, we have seen one of the gaggle of scrawny testosterone-inflated of you taken away in handcuffs. We have listened in horror as you and your testosterone-inflated posse members and your gaggle of shrill drunken ladyfriends proposed creating a bonfire on your deck. We’ve nearly been run over as one or many of you peel out of the parking lot in your pathetically tricked-out jalopies. You wake us up with profanity and the gonglike clang of your many many beer bottles when you play beer bottle basketball and use the dumpster as a basket. You and your girlfriends get drunk, high, stupid, mad, and obnoxious with alarming regularity.
I have personally called the police on you twice. Once the 3 am conversation went like this, and mind you it was raining:
Me: I’d like to report a loud disturbance.
Dispatcher: What’s going on?
Me: Well, the white guy just threw the black guy’s clothes and stuff out in the parking lot. And they’re yelling obscenities.
Dispatcher: Have you seen a weapon?
Me: No…Oh, there goes a stereo…And a big bunch of jeans. That white kid is MAD.
Dispatcher: Are they cohabitating?
Dispatcher: Domestic disturbance.
I sort of expected one of you to return with a boom box and blare “In Your Eyes” out there in the rain in manner of John Cusack, but it didn’t happen. I thought you might find it humorous that the dispatcher was really trying to figure out if this was two gay guys having a little tiff. Especially since one of you, the white one, never has a shirt on. By the way, may I suggest that this is why so many of your ladyfriends find you a less-than-desirable mating partner since your concave chest and puny arms suggest nothing more than a freshman weakling too small for the starting lineup? I know they find you less-than-desirable because they shout such things as they squeal out of the parking lot at 3 am. I’m sorry she’s so unhappy with your size, by the way. I’m sure you have nothing to be ashamed of and the right girl won’t mind that you’re a little small and lopsided.
I’d also like to suggest that you improve your vocabulary. The dramatic scenes where you and your friends all flow chaotically into the parking lot to put on the semi-weekly Nighttime Profanity and Violence Revue would be truly improved if all your lines did not consist solely of pronouns strung together with curse words. For example, let’s see how we could’ve improved tonight’s little tete-a-tete, featuring one of your ladyfriends, Shirtless Boy, and another of you, Schlumpyman (seeing as how you favor the oversized jeans and sweatshirts of an overweight suburban hausfrau): *Note, language has been modified to protect my feminine sensibilities.
Ladyfriend: You motherfrocker, frock you askhole!
Shirtless Boy: You gorram birch, get the frock out of my house!
Schlumpyman: Frock frock frockity frock frock!
A more effective version might have been:
Ladyfriend: I am overcome with strong drink and shall take a constitutional for some fresh air.
Shirtless Boy: Yes, let us get some air in the hope that we may resolve our conflict rationally.
Schlumpyman: This disagreement is too much for me, my darling. Yes, I shall follow you to the courtyard and regain my composure.
See how much better that was?
Now, what I would really like to say to you is that I really hate that you’ve moved into my neighborhood. We were all getting along just fine. Oh sure, we had the occasional hiccup – the time S put his daughter’s baby wipes in the toilet and clogged up the entire condo’s sewer lines, D’s car alarm that goes off twice a day because she can’t work it properly, the guy who listened to that one Christian rock song over and over in his car outside our bedroom window for forty-five minutes until Husband went out and told him to QUIT – but nobody ever got arrested. We have never before suspected anybody was selling meth out of their kitchen. We have never had to call the police on ANYBODY before now. Even the dramatic teenagers next door aren’t nearly as obnoxious as you.
We have complained to the condo association. We have called the police. We have seen one or two of you arrested, but sadly you always come back. One of your fathers – we believe it’s Schlumpyman’s – has purchased this condo fair and square and installed you and your cohorts Shirtless Boy and Sideways Hat/Manpris-man, into this condo without our consent. Though he swears each time will be the last (the condo president calls him) there is nothing we can do. If we should confront you during your violent outbursts, we fear we may be harangued. Or shot. You probably have weapons and Schlumpyman certainly has a lot of room to store them in his baggy baggy pants.
So frock you, Thug Life. If there is any justice in this world, or karma, or a very clever police officer, may you get all your just desserts, your comeuppance, and what’s coming to you. I’m going to try to go back to bed.
The Writing Spider and Husband and Probably all the other neighbors, too
PS – I ended up oversleeping from the fracas and missed my yoga class. I wish you’d come to my yoga class, Thug Life. My yoga teacher would have you begging for your mommies in ten minutes flat.