A Day in the Thug Life

Last night Husband was working on the wires for our new TV and I was in the living room. Montel and Cherrie came out and put le Enfant Terrible in the Golden Jagular. For about an hour, they had her/him in the car seat with all the car doors open, car running. Le enfant terrible hollered bloody murder the whole time. I”m still not sure if their plan worked… I guess if I had a zillion dollar automobile and lived in a mediocre condo rental, I’d spend a lot of time in my fancy car, too. But I have a ’96 Volvo that I just realized is sporting a dangling headlight wiper which sort of makes it look like the car is crying.

We went out for dinner and returned to see four Thugs smoking around the entrance to Asshat Manor.

I went to sleep at 11:15, exhausted.

It started around 12 midnight this time. In my half-asleepness, all that registered was the word “F*CKING” in a loud male voice.”BLAH BLAH MALE AGGRESSION FUCKING BLAH BLAH TESTOSTERONE-FUELED RANT BLAH BLAH FUCK FUCK.”

Of course. The weather’s been gorgeous and autumnal which means a frost warning and an 85% chance of scattered asshats.

They carried on for more than an hour after I woke up. Then Husband got in bed. He’d been messing about online and heard the arguments also. I did what I’ve started doing since two years ago when they moved in. Called the police.

Me: I’d like to report a SERIOUS noise disturbance.

Dispatcher: What’s the address?

Me: 555 Asshat Manor Drive

Dispatcher:Is this a house or an apartment?

Me: They’re inside and outside of a condo.

Dispatcher: Looks like there’s already been a call about this and officers are on their way. Call us back if they don’t stop making noise.

And ten minutes later two police cars arrive. Three cops went inside – they stepped over the storm door frame instead of opening it –  and I could see them moving around the house with flashlights. Husband suggested going over there, grabbing the Thuggalo who’s on house arrest, bonking him on the head to knock him out and, then driving him far enough away from his home and dumping him out to make the incarceration bracelet thingy to go off. Or whatever they do. Send up an asshat’s alert to the police?

So apparently, according to Husband who has bat ears and sonic hearing, and whose office is acoustically amenable to eavesdropping,  there were two issues on the table at Asshat Manor. 1.) At least two Thugs will be participating in some kind of trial and they must be “prepared.” Apparently, one Thug is not doing his homework. Their “story” isn’t “straight” and it better be before the court date or else… and 2) One of the brothers was schtupping one of the Thuggalettes and now she is schtupping the other brother which, everyone present agreed, is pretty f*cking weird. Aggression ensued.

Husband expressed his theory that all this power posturing was ridiculous and they should just fight.

“You mean like physically?”

“Yes. They just keep yelling and it’s totally pointless. If they knock the crap out of each other they’d shut up.”

“Husband. They’re not lowland gorillas.”

It dawned on me that my husband and I were psychologically analyzing our asshat neighbors. Because that’s what all the cool kids do on Saturday night.

Eventually, the police left and there were no more noises from Asshat Manor. Nobody got arrested (unfortunately. I mean, if I”m paying the police salaries shouldn’t I get a say in what happens when I call them to fix my crap neighborhood?).

I used to think that the Screamy Teenagers were the worst we could do. How naive!

 

7 Comments

  1. Nothing like the sounds of intra-family love triangles and newborn grief to make the coldest of nights all warm and cozy. I lived in an area briefly wherein some drunken asshat (with your permission) showed up at his previous place of residence, crying and yelling into his cellphone and the front door simulatenously. I could see his ex standing in the living room up above him–it was a split-level townhouse–being held and reassured by the other male room mate, which was quite neighborly/roomatey of him. Of course then they started making out while the drunken asshat below continued to yell/cry and then pound on the front door. Naturally.

    After my call to the police, along with a few others, police (my wife calls them Christmas) lights could be seen coming up the road. Like any sensible drunkard who’d been dumped, he jumped into his car and sped away out of the complex with 3 police cars giving chase. They vanished into the holiday night (I think it was Christmastime), 3 pairs of Rudolph’s nose heading off into the fog.

    Looking back, I realized this had absolutely nothing to do in response to your post, but I was feeling like sharing my asshat story so, there you go.

    Good luck with your asshat and miserable screaming child. Good times indeed.

  2. Pingback: It’s a hard-knock life « The Writing Spider

  3. We have some “activity” like the one you have told here. There is nothing like waking up to “FREEZE!!! Get down on the ground! I said FREEEEEZZE!”

    Go outside and see some kid on the ground with a police officer’s foot on his back (presumably to keep him from running) and the other cop taking off after the accomplice. Ten minutes later there are 20 cops out there doing..well, I don’t know because our thug had been taken away already.

    Ah… Inner city living🙂

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