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5:56 a.m. - 2006-02-22


A few months ago ... October to be exact ... I got really steamed with the British guy across the street for forcing me to throw a block party which was attended by exactly one other person on the block.

After that, I pretty much stopped speaking to Limey McBadteeth because ... well ... I was pissed at him. That's usually the reason I stop speaking to people. Unless they die. Dying usually puts a crimp in communications too.

So soon after that ... mere days, the guy puts his house up for sale. I guess he just couldn't take my silent wrath anymore. I dunno. I have no idea why he tried to sell his house. Keep in mind ... we weren't speaking anymore.

His house didn't sell the first week he had the sign out so he took it down.

Which ticked me off because I really wanted he and his wife out of the neighborhood.

Sure, they were quiet and kept their home and yard looking nice.

But they made me throw a party I didn't want to throw and then didn't even come to the thing.

Which deserves a big ol' "How dare you!?!" in my book.

A month or two later, they threw that "For Sale" sign back in their front yard.

It was up for maybe 3-4 days.

Then ... the next thing I knew, the sign was gone, a moving truck was in the driveway and the Limey and his wife were gone.

I danced a long, drawn-out, complicated jig from behind our curtains as I watched them load up the truck and leave the driveway.

I tell you all of that so that you can understand this:

...Please come home Limey. All's forgiven.

Y'see ... the family that moved in behind the Limey ... well ... they're ... ummmmm ... loud.

And we have a very quiet laid-back neighborhood.

Kids play in the street with no worries of being run over.

Neighbors congregate in the street when the weather cooperates.

We have little fireworks shows on the 4th of July.

And block parties which nobody attends.

But this new family.

They have several motorcycles.

More specifically ... not nice Harley Davidsons.

They've got those ones that ... I guess they're called Dirt Bikes. The kind that rednecks drive up over hills of dirt and fly through the air on.

But they're motorized. Which explains why I'm so hellbent on calling them motorcycles.

And they like to tinker on these motorcycles in their driveway with their friends.

And beer drinking is involved.

Lots of it.

And they tend to get louder and louder as they rev up their engines in the driveway.

And their friends all park their piece of shit trucks in the street because ... well ... there's lots of 'em.

And they've all got their wife beaters on and their mullets and shaved heads on display and they like to yell things like "Git R Done, motherfuckers!" as they rev up their engines for the neighbors.

The Limey?

He was quiet. The most noise we ever heard from him was his electric hedge clippers as he trimmed his bushes in front of the house.

And the occasional "No really, mate. You need to throw a block party! We'd all come! Go ahead, spend the $200 on chicken and hamburgers and we'll be there! I swear on my Limey heart!"

Now our quiet little suburbia street is littered with the sounds of motorcycles revving, drunken rednecks hootin' and hollering and trucks burning rubber on the street.

You can just feel the property value sinking every time you look at their house.

With that said ... you win, Limey.

You sure showed me.

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