I'm Not Your Babysitter

Get this. I come home from work tonight, only to find a gaggle of slackjawed children on the sidewalk in front of my palatial estate. They were playing some kind of game involving crudely drawn chalk patterns and jumping. Not to mention noise.

"What the hell is going on here?" I barked at them, causing a few to instantly scatter.

"We're playing hopscotch Mister Carver," one of the remaining brats explained. I think it was Bendemix's daughter, but to be honest all children look alike to me. Just a bunch of hairless chimpanzees in midget clothes, crawling with disease and snot.

"Hopscotch? I don't see any goddamn scotch. I see a lot of goddamn kids trespassing on my goddamn property! Now beat it, you little shits! Get the hell out of here before I eat you all for dinner!"

Beat it they did, leaving me to some well-deserved peace and quiet. Sure, there'll be the usual round of angry phone calls later tonight. So what. As you may have noticed, I rather enjoy confrontations.

I Like My Sabbath Like I Like My Coffee

The day started in one godawful manner. I was sleeping comfortably in my luxurious king-sized bed when my slumber was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a lawnmower. I tossed and turned a bit, but to no avail. Glancing at the clock, I saw it was only 8:30. 8:30! Someone was going to get a piece of my mind, that was certain.

"Who the hell mows their lawn this early?" asked Trixie, the whore who was in bed with me at the time.

"A very sorry individual, if I have anything to say about it," I said. I threw on a robe and stormed out into the cruel light of day. My new neighbor, Greg Bendemix, was tearing it up like nobody's business on the back of a high-powered riding lawnmower.

"Bendemix! Bendemix!!" I shouted, getting his attention. He shut down the mower and walked towards me.

"Morning Oz," he said with an easy grin. "What's cooking?"

"Cut the shit, Bendemix. What's the big idea, mowing your lawn at 8:30 in the morning?"

"Hmm? Oh, sorry about that. Wanted to get it done before me and Marsha take the kids to church. You know, so I can watch the rest of the draft later."

"Church?! Listen shithead, next time you inconvenience me so you can go bow to some pagan god, I'm dousing gasoline all over this lawn of yours, got it? Then I'm driving down to your stupid little church, taking a nice, fat dump on the altar, and using the run-off to sign your name to the deed. Do we have an understanding?!?"

I guess my message got through, 'cause Bendemix went white as a ghost and nodded. One of his kids had come outside to watch the exchange, and was now bawling in the doorway. I smiled.

"Besides, what kind of welfare recipient doesn't have a lawn service in this day and age? Stop being so tightfisted and put some deserving Mexicans to work, you cheap bastard."

With that, I went back inside and enjoyed a rigorous session with Trixie. Then, while Bendemix and his family were off at church, I severed the cable line leading to their house. Where's his Jesus now, hmm? Where is his Jesus now?

That's A Lot Of Pudding

Here's how it went down. I was using my new ZoomMaster 9000 telescope this morning. You know, taking the lay of the land. It's one of those big jobs, about the size of an oil drum with a lens that could burn a hole right through you if you were dumb enough to put it between you and the sun. Serious business, just like everything I do.

Anyway, I decided to take a peek at my neighbor's bathroom, and was lucky enough to catch Bob Laudermilk's wife, Ivette, as she was coming out of the shower. Talk about a goldmine. And by goldmine, I mean two very succulent hooters. I wouldn't mind burying my face in those beauties for an hour or so, that's for sure.

Better still, Bob works for me. Which means finagling some "quality time" with Ivette shouldn't be a problem. At least it better not, not if Bob still wants that promotion. And weasely little men like him always want a promotion.

Good Old-Fashioned Fun

Heh. Heh heh.

That's three nights in a row I've crapped in my neighbor's lawn.