Par-tay!!!!

hijackedxxxed! !!!111111!!!!!!!kekekekeek What up bitches!

Kimber and Daesy-Sue Wilcox here!!!!!!~~~<3 <3 <3

It's birthday time in neighborland; an epic joining 8 yearold chicas and business professionals. Hollla! What what.

Travel the world and the seven seas. Some of them want to use you . Yes bitches. Drink!!!

oooooohhhhhh ahahhahahahaha hheeyeyeyeye ahahhaha

effect lighting

whoam ia do disagreee

one of the writers of this blog has a striking resemblance to AH....

um. hi there.

Codename Helga was just on her cell phone discussing the Swine AIDS.

And she sounded surprised to hear about the budding epidemic. Like today was the first time she ever heard of it.

In a related story, Wolfgang is microwaving leftover hot dogs from Sunday. Another day in paradise.

Visions Of Penis

I'm pretty surprised that this didn't happen until now, but it has finally happened, so I will write about it.

For some reason, our bathroom is set up so that the only window is directly behind the toilet. Furthermore, this window is positioned at such a height so that only the central region of the standing individual can be seen. I.E.: if you are urinating in a male position, the only thing visible through the window is your bishop. This window also happens to directly face their sideporch door. Somehow, this has never been a problem before, or at least they haven't said anything about it.

Ironically, it was one of our friends who actually got yelled at for such a display. As "The Zahn" was peeing, he heard the screen door open and one of the women shouted, "Close the window!". Luckily, The Zahn is used to such comments, so he was barely fazed. It's still makes me pretty giddy thinking about them opening up their screen door and just seeing a facefull of peeing cock illuminated against the otherwise pitch black sideporch. Maybe now they know what it feels like to see 5 Drinks dance in "shorts" (read: a jean material g-string). That's right, it's like seeing a facefull of dick.

Spoken Too Soon

I would like to clarify the last post. It's not that the neighbors aren't doing anything ridiculous (right now they are blasting the radio from the truck again and having a kiddie pool party with Calamity Jane intermittenly screaming her brains out); it's just that they haven't done anything new. After living next to them so long, their antics are becoming stale. They just repeat the same tommyrot over and over again. I'm not going to post for the eighth time that 5 Drinks is wearing gross shorts and attempting to dance with her children (because right now she is). Posts will occur when something post-worthy occurs or some new revelation concerning the mystery of our neighbors strikes us.

Where are they?

Hey guys sorry there hasn't been a post in awhile. I'm not sure if there are even any loyal readers left at this point.

I wanted to explain why we haven't been posting. All of a sudden a few weeks ago the neighbors became almost normal. I no longer saw all of them out on the porch before heading off to work and saw them again as I returned twelve hours later. There are no longer screaming phone conversations on the porch or late night drunk driving excursions. The young girls don't frolic in the kiddie pool without any visible adult supervision.

In fact, if I had moved in three weeks ago I would have thought that Wolfgang and JoshO were making up all their posts.

My only theory as to why this has begun to occur is that somehow the neighbors have managed to make some friends and they now spend all their time over there increasing the dysfunctionality and volume level in some other neighborhood in this fair city.

However, we shall remain ever vigilant and will report the next noteworthy event as soon as it occurs. Hang in there internet, unlike regular trash, white trash never gets picked up at the curb.

Uluy

Here I am sitting at my desk browsing BBC.co.uk (read: searching for porn), and I hear some guy over there say, "Ugly...U-L-U-Y?". In case I thought I had imagined it, he then repeated it (again to no response). Maybe they didn't have time for "G" in his elementary class? They certainly spent ample time on the vowels - even the less popular ones. That's what education is all about: efficiency and practicality in teaching. There are a lot more "U"s than "G"s out there...it's a big world.

I also like to imagine that he was writing to his pen pal and he wanted to make sure he had all the spelling perfect because he didn't want to embarrass himself. It would be a good idea for him to use someone just learning English as a second language - that way if he does something wrong, not only will they not notice, but they will think it's correct and use it themselves. Our Neighbors: Polluting English one foreigner at a time. Here is an idea of how the letter went:

Jus had too rite quike noote abot last night theer wuz dis uluy bitch triing two get in my dick but i told her too FUCK OF!!!!!!!!! Yeah! hop u god.

Love, Simon [that's his pseudonym]

P.S. I sumtims dreem abot u.

I Only Beat Her When She Deserves It

I am going to attempt to describe what is happening right now. Let's just be clear: it's 4am on a TUESDAY night. I am up reading because I don't have a job right now. Here is what I'm not doing: waking up the entire neighborhood with drunken escapades bordering on domestic abuse.

One of the "women" next door is having a "conversation" with her "boyfriend." It might be 4.5 Drinks and Rat-A-Tat. I'm not going to look out the window because I don't like bullets, but our side door is open, so I can hear a lot. Regardless, as far as I can tell, he is repeatedly trying to leave in his truck and has been repeatedly told (by her) to leave in his truck. Sounds simple, right? Both parties seem to want to achieve the same end result via the same means. Incorrect.

Each time he starts the ignition, he turns it off after a few seconds. This has happened NO LESS than 10 times with cursing intermittent. I'm still trying to piece together what exactly is happening, but from the way he is shouting, "You psycho bitch!" after each time he starts his truck, I'm assuming she is doing something brilliant like standing in front of his truck. She is occasionally shouting things like, "Fucking Answer Me!" until he gets out of his car and probably places her elsewhere, after which her shouting becomes, "Fine, Leave!". The instant the ignition starts up again, she is in front of the truck again like the eternal stumbling block she is.

I actually got pretty scared at one point and even had to put my bookmark in my book (after many months of living next to them, I now just try to read through all commotion). It was when she started gasping like she was being choked and saying she couldn't feel her finger. This probably happened because he accidentally? slammed her finger in the door in one of his multiple escape attempts. This gave her a few rounds of extra sympathy: "[I'm not going to use his real name], look how swollen my finger is!"

She must've really been pie-eyed because I think she forgot about her finger only 2 truck starts later. Besides finger-slamming (which sounds a lot more fun in an altogether separate context), R-A-T experimented with the whiz-bang stratagem of blasting the horn repeatedly. If that doesn't work on deer, I don't understand why it would work on a drunk hooker with kids who are, by the way, "sleeping" in the house at this point. He tried the horn thing 3 times (each time blasting it at least a half dozen times) just in case there was anyone in the neighborhood who was still asleep.

Eventually she gave up and he left successfully. Well at least he's not drunk driving. Jesus.

Would It Be Possible for Any of Them to Eat a Salad From Time to Time?

On a recent jaunt into Thrilladelphia, I popped by 1Prime to exchange worn tee-shirts for new ones and pick up mail. I had a few interesting items in my pile, but mostly it was bills: power bill, gas bill ...houseboat bill.

(I expect one person to pick up on that reference and his dick is self-described as "awesome.")

To further promote the idea that I am a secret agent to the greater neighborhood, I donned reflective aviators the size of a training brassiere before heading up the sidewalk. As I traipsed up the familiar concrete steps, I noticed a NEW lady on The Neighbors' porch. I will have to consult with Suzie and Wolfgang (who actually may be dead, because I didn't see either of them during my brief stay) but I would like to christen her Codename: The Innertube, due to the tremendous jelly roll of belly fat emerging from her black tank top.

Helga Uses the Strap-On

This afternoon I heard Helga yelling at and lecturing somebody in the side yard. The shade was over the window so initially I could not see who she was yelling at but it sounded like one of the children had done something naughty and was now suffering the wrath of Helga. She was looking especially scary today with multiple tattoos visible, shorts a fit young college girl should have been wearing, a tank top, and the required cigarette in her mouth/hand.

It all began with Helga yelling, "I"m furious", followed by, "You had no right to do that. I'm fucking pissed." Nice language for our quiet little neighborhood. The next sentence was "Why did you use her phone to call Joe?" At this point I became curious about who exactly was at the receiving end of this altercation. I opened the door quietly and saw that she was yelling at Rat-A-Tat in the same manner that she had about a month ago when she caught him riding the child's bike.

I was rather shocked that he had once again pissed off the scary smoke breathing dragon he for some reason lives with despite his previous humiliation. She continued, "This has nothing to do with Joe and Five Drinks, it is between you and her mother and her brother." Now I don't know what the issue was that concerned these people or why poor Joe had been forcibly made aware of the situation through the unauthorized phone call on Five Drinks phone. It was apparent that Helga was very upset about it and had decided to fix the problem for Five Drinks perhaps because she is not mature enough yet to yell.

As if this lecture wasn't emasculating enough Helga stood there and watched him call Joe and apologize for whatever he had told Joe about or done to Joe or whatever just like when a mother watches one of her children until they apologize to the other because they stole a stuffed animal. Joe did not answer but Rat-A-Tat left a voice mail in a very sheepish voice saying he needed to talk to Joe about something.

This all went to prove that not only does Helga wear the pants and the strap-on, she has no problem using it and doesn't even care if she uses any lube.

Last Night's Phone Conversation

10:33 PM Tuesday

5 Drinks comes out on the stoop to have her phone conversation at near shouting levels so the whole neighborhood can hear. The following are some of the highlights:

5 Drinks: "What you doing?"
5D accusatory: "Why didn't you answer my call?"
Guy responds
5D coyly: "What are you doing?"
Guy Responds
5D upset: "What took you so long (to call me back)?"
Guy Responds
5D explains: "I'm actually here by myself, they went over to ..."
At this point I was shocked because this meant that the other neighbors had actually had somewhere to go for an evening.
Also at this point I assumed she was talking to her boyfriend and was perhaps inviting him over to have sex, an assumption I thought was confirmed by the next statement.
5D: "I'm wearing knickers (seriously, who uses that word?) and a black shirt."
Guy responds negatively
5D snaps: "Excuse me if I don't look good I'm just here with boyfriend, what do you expect?"

This is where I got a little lost as it became apparent she was not talking to her boyfriend unless she has multiple men. I guess that wouldn't be all that surprising since it seems most of the guys who have been over there regularly consume more than five drinks in a sitting.

Unfortunately the rest of the conversation is unknown because she returned to the kitchen, perhaps to get her present boyfriend a sixth drink to make up for her less than appealing outfit.

A New Version of the Penis Game?

Hello readers,
I want to briefly introduce myself as I make my first WTFN? post. My name is Suze and I am the summer intern here at WTFN? With JOSHO! gone for the summer doing activities with young children (read that as you will) it was decided that Wolfgang would require some additional assistance. So, I have agreed to work here for no pay. Essentially my job is to sit around the apartment, especially when Wolfgang is gone or sleeping and observe the neighbors. Earlier I was relegated to only taking notes and reporting to Wolfgang and JOSHO! but with JOSHO!'s absence and Wolfgang's recent lack of posts I have been given permission to actually write some things on my own. Anyway, enough about me, it's time to report on the most recent activities next door.

Early this afternoon as I was sitting on the side porch reading my magazine and enjoying my lunch I witnessed a few interesting events. First, there were two strange cars in the driveway which is surprising considering the number of vehicles that are regularly seen parked there. After they departed a young man and woman who could be most accurately described as white trash-y strolled up. They were inside for about 15 minutes and then both emerged holding open bottles of Miller Lite and proceeded to walk down the street. Mind you this is at about 1:15 pm on a Monday. I'm all for acloholic behavior but...

I returned to my lunch and article about Jay Leno when I was again distracted this time by a familiar tan sedan returning next door. Driven by Rat-A-Tat with Five Drinks riding shotgun it came to a stop and both emerged from the car. Immediately after exiting Rat-A-Tat shouted "GRAB MY COCK!" eliciting laughter from Five Drinks. At this point they were unaware of my presence. Five Drinks asked him where that came from to which he responded, "I dunno it just kind of bubbled up." They then walked onto their own side porch and as they reached the door Five Drinks said, "Do it again or I won't let you inside". The odd thing was at this point I know they were aware of my presence because Five Drinks was staring right at me. Rat-A-Tat then screamed "GRAB MY COCK!" again and was allowed inside the apartment where they could be heard giggling. Based on the behavior of the earlier guests I'm guessing they may have been fucked up in some way, or at least that's what I'm telling myself to explain their actions.

In any event, it appears the neighbors may have just invented a new version of a game I used to play as a child (read until last month when I graduated college) called the penis game. The only object was to yell penis louder than your opponent, preferably in a public place. It remains to be seen if GRAB MY COCK! will become a staple game next door or if it was just bizarre anomalous behavior.

grab my cock

Thanks To Landlord Called "Dead", I'm Now Homeless

Somebody go over to 1Prime and see if Wolfgang or Suzie are still alive or if they've been tied up near the furnance by Calamity Jane. The rest of us will wait here.

Who's Having Pancakes?

::audience applauds::

Thank you, thank you, you're far too kind!

And now, for my next trick, I'd like to perform...

(dramatic pause)

...an...

(dramatic pause)

...impression for you all.

::audience "oohs" and "ahhs"::

I've been working on it for quite some time. I will need complete and utter silence. It's entitled "My Sweatstains With the Bathroom Window Closed and the Dryer Running on High (Arms Aloft version)"

::audience gasps::

Here we go...

| 0 | | 0 |

::audience erupts into wild applause and cheers::

Hitting Newstands In August

While I was fetching something out of my car I heard an incensed Helga exhorting one of the Little Girls to "Be nice! Be nice!"

It's rare that anything from over there can inspire something other than creative delight or pity, but this Utopian sentiment got my thought train to leave the station.

And so, I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize to the photographer from 'Yunk Hunk magazine. I do realize that you were only doing your job and wouldn't ask me to lather my thighs in canola oil unless it was professionally required. I'm also sorry for the scissorkicks and what I did to your bearskin rug.

Apropos Of Nothing (A Reflection For The Weekend)

And now, WTFN's new mission statement/Christmas card, courtesy of Mr. Ghostface Killah (formerly of the Wu-Tang Clan):

"I don’t sell crack, yo. I ain’t movin’ no bricks or none of that other shit. I ain’t shoot nobody in like…since the early 90’s, man. How long you gonna be 40 years old and actin’ like you still sellin’ cracks and you on the block and you doin’ this and you doin’ that when times is more serious, man. We in a fuckin’ recession, B! Ain’t nobody gettin’ no money, man!"

(courtesy of Unkut and bg5000)

Helga Wears The Pants (And The Strap-Ons)

As previously mentioned, we've added another member to the hallowed hallways of 1Prime. Suzie has joined WTFN as an unpaid intern for the summer. His responsibilities will be numerous and weighty: keeping Wolfgang company during the long, lonely summer nights while I am abroad.

Actually, that should read: "a broad."

Yes, I'm pleased to announce that I'm finally becoming a lady by elective surgery.

While we were out tending to secret agent business, Suzie put down his Rolling Stone magazine and witnessed the following:

Rat-a-Tat was just rebuked by Helga for inappropriate activities in the driveway. Helga accosted him trying to ride a four year old's bicycle in a rare and refreshing display of jocularity. Helga vehemently pointed out the physical absurdity of this stunt: the byclcle in question has a weight limit of fifty pounds while Rat-a-Tat tips the scales at well over two bills.

Rat-a-Tat clearly should have had the sense not to try this dangerous activity in the first place, but instead of listening to Helga's reasoning - he continued to ride the bicycle up and down the driveway, determined to show Helga that it could support his girth. Not to be outdone, she continued to berate him as though he were a defiant elementary school student.

Details are beginning to emerge about the pecking order next door. Helga is clearly the Alpha Female over there, dominating by sheer volume all of the underlings in her ward: Calamity Jane, Shadow, Doggy and the hapless (and newly emasculated) Rat-a-Tat. After this display, it's clear that he's just another child or pet to heap abuse upon.

Texts From Last Night II

2:01:04 am Bon Jodi: "U will never guess what we just saw next door"

2:01:36 am Bon Jodi: "I think it's Five Drinks but she was giving a guy a lap dance"

!!!

Wolfgang is mowing the lawn!!!!!

Sunday Scooby Snacks

There's a half-dead bird on our side porch. Or rather, it's half of a full-dead bird. I'm trying to decide who got to it first: the creepy old "cat" guy and his hordes of cats on the other side of our building, or Calamity Jane. If it did come from The Neighbors, this is the conversation that took place beforehand:

[Shadow, Doggy, & Calamity Jane are hanging out smoking a joint]

S: "Bro, I bet you won't eat that dead bird."
CJ: "Yo man, you craaaaaaaaaaaaaaaazy!! What do I get?"
S: "I'll give you a half can of Alpo and you can pee on my territory."
CJ: "Alright, but not the whole thing..what if I just take a bite?"
S: "Stop being such a fucking pussy; if you are going to do it, do it right."
CJ: "Fine, what if I do half then?"
S: "OK."
D: "I'm so fucking high right now."
CJ: "OK, but you have to let me sleep in the house again."
D: "Did you guys ever think that clouds are actually just God's cotton swabs?"
S: "Fine, then you have to go half in on an 8-ball with me tonight."
CJ: "Deal."

I Now Check Zero Dependents

While recently having lunch with our friends Lucas and Leah, we discussed how Philadelphia is a very liberal legal town.  It's a veritable wild west of people breaking leases, shooting folks without consequences, and (most vividly expressed in the example of The Neighbors): rearing children (and pets) in an unsuitable climate, devoid of love and/or compassion, without repercussions.  There's great lawyers in this city that can get you out of ANYthing.  And I mean, EH-NEH-THING.

I have four kids in Rhode Island but then I moved to Philly and I'm not even their dad anymore!

Stale Bubblegum For All My Friends (One Piece)

Have you ever been fascinated with the topic-generated advertisements (pronounced in the British manner) Google places in the bottom right corner of WTFN?

...

...No?

Pity.

(That was a snappy attempt to start a post with a "rhetorical question".  Literary devices!)

(Don't judge, I went to a state school.)

On a recent perusal of the blog (one of the 1231092094922 times I check it daily - just slightly more than my reading list of pathetic sporting blogs) I was tickled in my Laff Zone to see four (4) ads for "Phone Call Recording" and one (1) ad for "trash/recycling."  I think our blog really appeals to Nixon-era espionage and "waste management" fans, not to mention erudite aficionados de comedie.  

We also have generated a whole 28 cents in revenue since launching this lil' ditty, so hat's off to YOU, faithful reader!  YOU made this 28 cents possible!

Stick And/Or Move (Away)

It's time for Helga to give the Little Girls a ride to school, or in Calamity Jane's case the Al Queda "Kidz 4 Allah" workshop.  It's of no surprise to anyone that the song issuing forth from the car stereo is that terrible and raunchy re-make of the Dead or Alive classic* "You Spin Me Round (Like A Record)."

Added Bonus:  Helga is wearing a grey sweatshirt AND grey sweatpants, which is one of the most convincing Rocky costumes I've ever been associated with.  I'm going to space out for the next few hours and imagine her punching cuts of beef.

*Who does Mr. "Flo-Rida" think he is to monkey with a masterpiece of '80s culture and then go for the shock value of a thinly-veiled fellatio reference in the hook?  The veterans of '80s Night at the Fuze Box in Albany must be rolling over in their Syphilis-induced graves.

Window Speaker Disconnected

I finally had the nerve to open my bedroom window shade today. Granted, I had to engage in some liquid courage beforehand, but the end result was the same (that justification doesn't even make sense). And the window was definitely open at the top, which would account for why the best notes I took were when I was trying to sleep. This blog may suffer because of it, but my REM will thank me. Maybe we'll just set up a permanent webcam outside and hire interns to watch it 'round the clock. Please send all inquiries to "The House with the High Weeds next to the House with the High Decibels."

The Klopek Korollary

I've been inordinately preoccupied with the thought of how much our current reality mirrors the 1989 classic "The 'Burbs."

For those of you slothful, uncultured jerks who haven't seen it (like Wolfgang), Tom Hanks plays Ray Peterson, a gentile family man living in a typical suburban neighborhood. Weird new neighbors move in next door and shatter the peaceful existence enjoyed by Ray and his friends Mark Rumsfield (Bruce Dern) and Art Weingartner (Rick Ducommun). The trio does what every self-respecting citizen would do - they snoop around and assume the worst about the mysterious Klopeks, infuriating Ray's wife Carol (Carrie Fisher) to no end. Once another neighbor is found to be missing (the elderly Walter played by Gale Gordon), Ray and friends plunge into full-on gumshoe mode, where they commit breaking-and-entering crimes, conduct on-site investigations and disrespect all modicums of privacy.

The film's story follows the slow progression of Ray Peterson's belief that the Klopeks are inherently evil. (Figure I)

Ray is willing to make excuses for the Klopeks and refuses to be caught up in the harebrained conspiracies spun by Mark and Art. He's willing to play off the bee attack as mere coincidence and still does not want to get involved during the "Jeopardy!" scene. In fact, he continues to defend the Klopeks even after witnessing the power surge and Hans banging the hell out of the garbage in the middle of the night.

That is, however, until the Vince the dog finds the femur. (Figure II)

Ray is now convinced that the Klopeks have murdered Walter. When confronted with the same evidence, Art now backs off his previous claims and becomes a lily-livered nancyboy apologist. Mark remains consistently insane throughout this transition.

To tie this into our WTFN reality, The Klopeks are quiet and mysterious in every way that The Neighbors are boisterous and blatant about the inner workings of their lives. Where the Klopeks are decidedly non-Slavic, The Neighbors are decidedly white trash. Where the Klopeks murder and have a crematorium in their basement, The Neighbors murder and have a crematorium in their basement (probably).

The inhabitants of 1Prime are a symbiotic amalgamation of the 21st century version of Ricky Butler and Post-Femur Discovery Ray. Like Ricky, we are consciously observing (and enjoying) the overt insanity but are removed from it (that is, of course, until Wolfgang starts his lawn-mowing job).

In summation, WTFN itself is an electronic manifestation of the pizza party thrown by Ricky in the penultimate scene. Class dismissed.

Codename Update

Newsflash:

After another glance, the staff of WTFN is considering re-dubbing Five Drinks to Four Drinks.

Or maybe I just grabbed the wrong bottle for my pre-work virgin mimosa.

hahahahahahahahaha

Wolfgang just received a $75 ticket for a High Weeds violation in our front yard.

I'm not going to even make a pot joke here, choosing to revel in the fact that he's currently pricing lawn mowers (with actual engines!) and weed whackers online.

Lawn-mowing party at 1Prime!

Florida: The Motorcycle Mecca

After finally escaping the monster that is known as “real life,” I am back to posting. And by “real life” I mean watching every single episode of Star Trek before watching the movie. I was going to write the rest of this post in Klingon, but they didn’t have a Klingon font that I really liked (Arial Klingon Narrow is only so-so).

Our summer housemate, “Suzie” (or as Josh likes to call him, “summer JoshO!”) took the following notes yesterday while Josh & I were embroiled in an afternoon of espionage. The first observation was Rat-A-Tat on the phone about how he wants to go down to Florida and “ride his hog.” Going down to Florida and riding your motorbicycle is exactly the same as riding it up here. Contrary to popular belief, the sun sets everywhere. It would be much more cost-efficient to paint a back-drop of a Florida sunset in the driveway. I was going to tell him as much, biker to biker, but my chopper is in the shop (getting new flame decals).

A couple hours later, Suzie looked out the window to see 5 girls playing in the yard. I fully support children having playdates with classmates, but aren’t you supposed to look into the host child’s parents? When meeting other parents, maybe Helga hired an actor to play her. I hear there’s lots of work for actors in these days of financial turmoil. The actor probably got paid in cigarettes.

Upon closer inspection, it was revealed that one of the “girls” was actually a life-sized doll. Then what about the doll’s mother? There has to be some sort of organization against this. PETA already came by last week: they had received calls about too many animals locked up in one place (including Sloth from The Goonies). In further news, life-sized dolls are creepy as shit.

Additionally, Suzie reported that Calamity Jane was dressed in an inappropriately short camo skirt which was blowing dangerously in the wind. This is most likely an elaborate FBI trap for pedophiles that Helga was running point on. To the untrained eye, it looks as though she is on the phone, not paying any attention to any of the girls (it’s not like they need to be watched: the big ones can look after the smaller ones). To keep up continuity, she is talking about going down to Florida. She’s not buying a round-trip ticket though because she doesn’t know when she wants to return. My vote is for never. Doesn’t she have work or something? She’s pumped out so many kids she probably gets by on child support. She probably even thinks the doll is another $400 a month for her.

Fast Forward To 3:24

I overheard yet another outdoor argument today. This one, however, was of a different vintage. Instead of the usual Charlie Brown's teacher vocal quality, this shouting match was more reminiscent of the synthesizer solo in Emerson, Lake and Palmer's "Lucky Man."

They Ran In While You Ran Out

I awoke to the familiar sounds of the Sears Carpet and Upholstery van hard at work next door.  My middle school bus stop was in front of El Cholo's Mexican restaurant in Johnson City, NY - the same El Cholo's Mexican restaurant in Johnson City, NY that featured all-you-can-drink Margaritas every Wednesday evening.  Coincidentally, the car carpet cleaners were already cleaning the vomit stains when we arrived at the bus stop on Thursdays.

I can only hope that these brave Sears Carpet and Upholstery cleaners are successful in their intrepid mission to clean up the goat blood from Calamity Jane's ritual sacrifice to the god Ba'al.  Please Lord, keep their blue tubes of suction safe in times of peril and deliver our brave Sears Carpet and Upholstery cleaners from every harm and wile of Satan.  

These cleaners are the Real Heroes; not local law enforcement, one-legged Sudanese basketball players or volunteer firefighters.  Real heroes who put their well-being on the line every day of every year while protecting the carpets of the world from the insurgence of coffee stains.  

Never forget.

A Reference For the 27-and-Older Readership

I've never gotten used to the sight of all-black squirrels, especially the ones who have fallen victim to Calamity Jane and her "Mr. Wizard" science kit experiments.  

Bangers, Mash and Boxer Briefs

Wolfgang has left 1Prime for the weekend, departing for the distant land of Dickinson where the Market Cross beacons to the weary traveler and the campus police overcompensate for perceived inadequacies in their trousers.   I'm soldiering onward alone for the rest of the weekend and pants are strictly optional.

I heard Helga screaming bloody murder into her cell phone last night, but I was too preoccupied with two game sevens in the NHL, two NBA playoff games AND the season finale of "Hell's Kitchen" to give a flying fuck about how the new girlfriend of Helga's "man" didn't start "shit" in the elevator of the courthouse, choosing to wait until Helga was exiting the elevator to "man up and talk shit."

WTFN: The Lost Archives (Part II)

Most of these LOST (not to be confused with last night's outrageous finale) posts were taken on Wednesday, April 22nd ("Lyttle Women") when The Neighbors were listening to music (and dancing if you could call it that) on the porch.

During one song (that I didn't recognize), Calamity Jane made the following statement:

"I, Calamity Jane, harbour an intense and seething dislike for this particular musical composition and think badly upon any who would enjoy such commonplace piffle; if I had my druthers, the so-called "artist" would be promptly defenestrated to the fullest extent."

Actually she said:

"I don't like this song. La la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la --" until Helga finally told her to stop.

Snow Day (Like As In "Cocaine")

While flossing after eating carrots, as I'm apt to do, I heard the plaintive whine of the Little Girls in the drive way.  It's a little after 1 pm on a school day, so I can't imagine what sort of jibber-jabber would result in their early dismissal on a Thursday.

In my elementary school experience (roughly thirty years ago), the only way you could shown the gate during the day would if be if the Little Girls were dealing blow to the Truancy Officer or giving a steady supply of handjobs to Chet the Librarian's Assistant for an advanced copy of Captain Underpants and the Attack of the Talking Toilets.

To be fair to Chet, Calamity Jane's "Facebook of Sex" profile did erroneously make her out to be 13.

New Species Spotted Next Door!

While seated at my desk, I glanced out the window to see a full-grown Flat-Brimmed Platypus in the driveway!!

Originally discovered to inhabit urban areas, the Flat-Brimmed Platypus (terriblus hip-hopus stylus) has recently migrated to more suburban areas like shopping malls and skate parks.  This migration happens to parallel the pattern anthropologists have noted amongst Honda Civics with Large Exhaust Pipes (Ruinedus Familyus Sedanus).  

Known for uncurved baseball-style caps, the Flat-Brimmed Platypus also favours baggy trousers, oversized graphic tee-style shirts and a propensity for unemployment.  Do not be afraid to provoke the Flat-Brimmed Platypus - though it may protest loudly, its bark is truly worse than its bite.

The good folks over at Fuck You, Penguin would have a field day with this beast.

Guaranteed To Make Your Neighbors Say "WTF?"

Hnk just passed this along from Craiggerslist:

Delivery Guy with a Funny Adult Delivery Twist
Will deliver pizzas, flowers or messages for you, and when they come to the door to answer, my pants will accidentally drop or your other suggestions..to give them a laugh and a delivery they won't soon forget!

This guy will Deliver Pizza, Flowers etc. & Ooops - will strip or whatever you wish. Fall Down at Delivery! Guy next door type, not a rockstar or musclehead, late 30's but attractive!) late 30's/early 40's (so very believable) available to play a memorable joke deliveryman on your friends. 

Throw in a spinning bow tie and a water-squirting flower in your lapel and you're hired to make contact!

A Chip Off The Ol' Block(head)

(josho's note: This post was composed by "Bon" Jodi from the second floor of 1Prime)

So Greg and I were sitting out on our porch commenting on how well the hops were growing when we heard our neighbor's children playing outside. BTW, who IS their mother? Helga? Misty? Five Drinks? 

Regardless, Greg commented on the fact that it's good the kiddos don't spend hours watching tv and are often outside playing, to which I agreed. One point for the neighbors. But I couldn't help thinking about mothers and the influence they have on us as children ...and then, of course, I immediately felt sorry for the little girls and almost wished I had a reason to call DCS. 

Also, it reminded me that just the other day I had heard the kids yelling at the dog just like their mother, minus the swearing. It's only a matter of time before the kids start to exhibit more and more white trash symptoms. One can only dread that day.

WTFN: The Lost Archives (Part I)

By “The Lost Archives,” I mean that I found a piece of paper in the mountains of debris on my desk that has some notes from a couple of weeks ago. Since the neighbors are currently being Boo Radleys, I will revisit some previous stories. Join me as I take a trip down Memory Lane (run montage of Helga whining at her kids in slow motion in lots of different poses).

One side of notes refers to the day that Helga was outside listening to her iPod speakers (Wednesday, April 22nd – “Lyttle Women”). However, the comment actually refers to events that had happened even earlier than that (Sunday, April 19th’s post “Home Entertainment Center” and the follow up on Monday, April 20th entitled, “The Beginning Of The End”). If you can somehow follow all that malarkey you must have received high marks in reading comprehension. Or you live your life in a very non-linear fashion.

On this day, Rat-A-Tat (at this point he did not have a name) remarked to Helga, “Why doesn’t anybody bother you guys…” I assume that he was making reference to how Sam (our 3rd floor neighbor) had gone down to tell him to stop blasting music from his truck only a few days previous to this time. Even if Helga’s puny iSpeakers could’ve matched the volume of a TRUCK with a SUBWOOFER, the rest of the neighborhood’s metaphysical eardrums were still ringing from a few days previous. I think they could do with some awareness classes. The following are all offered locally:

Quashing Douchebaggery: How You Can Help
Awareness Of Others (Honors)
Life: Stop Wasting It
Drinks That Don’t Involve Liquor
Civilization & America: Almost Nationwide
Society Hates You
Vehicle Awareness: Things Your Car Can Do Besides Play Music
Cigarettes: New Research Shows They Aren’t Good For You

Alright, they kind of became newspaper headlines toward the end, but you get the idea.

Now They're Liars, Too

I arrived home from a delicious lunch at Reading Terminal Market to find a Latino chap mowing The Neighbor's lawn, therefore usurping Wolfgang's promised (and potentially hilarious) responsibility.

Perhaps it's for the better, though. The lawn looked pretty good when compared to the lush savannah vegetation we currently have adorning the entryway to 1Prime. It must have something to do with us using a non-gasoline mower older than "Leave It To Beaver."* I liken it to bringing a tampon to a knife fight.

(*that's not a porno for those of you under 25)

After a recent bout with the front weeds, I actually used scissors from my desk to snip down the high bits. There's not even a joke to be made here.

MySpew

As some of you may have noticed, we’ve been promoting this blog on a number of social networking websites. One of the major sites that we’ve left out is MySpace. Here’s why. In one of Helga’s numerous phone conversations, I heard her mention her MySpace page. Not only does this verify that only freaks and weirdos use MySpace (actually, come to think of it, our target audience), but it also implies that making a MySpace page for WTFN would be one step closer to detection, and thereby, death (in this case). I already cannot bring myself to think of what will happen when they find out about this blog. It is one of the top four things Josh & I have agreed never to discuss (the other things are the cancelation of Stella, the terrorist organization that I briefly led in college, and that one premeditated gay orgy).

I also pray daily that they don't have Facebook. If they have facebook, the Neighborhoods application is a time bomb waiting to go off. Really, Josh & I should simply remove it, but it's so rad! And how will Helga find us when only 1/2 of us is using his real name and there are over 11 people to choose from in our neighborhood? For even more protection, I use abbreviations like "ave" and "apt" in my profile instead of writing out the entire word, so there is no chance of them tracing me. "Josh O." on the other hand...

This also finally puts to rest the ever-pressing question (and tired joke) of do they have/understand the internet. Or maybe not. I wouldn't put it past ol' Helga to only discuss MySpace because all the other cool kids are doing it. She also takes this approach with exercise, parenting, books, morals, and swimming.

Roy Rogers Restaurants - Do They Still Exist?

Helga just aimed a steady barrage of verbal commands at an unseen dog (probably that lumpy, gad-about spaz Doggy).  It's as though she expects her pets to respond like humans and comply to her throaty expectations.  That's more than slightly ironic, considering she can barely get the Little Girls to put down the assault rifles and Rat-a-Tat to take a shower.

Does she expect Doggy and Shadow to trot after her in bow tie and tails, lighting ciggys and catering to her every whim?  After they failed to guard the porno stash, it's clear these terrorists can't be trusted.

To Doggy and Shadow: one more gaffe and it's straight to the hamburger plant for both you mutts!

Texts From Last Night

I have recently been turned onto the latest interwebs smash hit: Texts From Last Night, which got me to call my guy at Verizon to get a transcript of texts originating from the cell phones next door.

In addition to a number of texts proclaiming vehement innocence and ordering tuna-and-cheese pizzas, here were some other highlights:

(773):  "OMG my fucken kid stole the car AGAIN!!1!

(773):  "dont forget that extra pregnancy test and coathanger.  just in case"

(773):  "no asshole you've got it all wrong"

(845):  "fuck you bitch"

(773):  "2 cos (-5/6 pi + 2 n pi) + pi 2 sin (-5/6 pi + 2 n pi)"

(845):  "ohhhhhhh"

(773):  "El embarque de heroina sintetica y sexo peruano prepuber esclaviza llega el sabado.       Deseo mi deniro que jode!!!"

(773):  "dont those assclowns next door ever leave??  they must be secret agentz"

Spreading Disease The Old Fashioned Way!

There’s going to be an apartment for rent in our building this summer. Josh has suggested that I ask The Neighbors if they know anyone swell that can move in. But I fear there are zoning laws against that sort of thing. Surely the carnival would sue over The Neighbors' monopoly on freakshows, and the zoo would have a number of reasons as well (e.g. poor animal treatment of Little Girl #1).

I actually have the phone number for their landlord (obviously they do not, or they would not be offering me $40 to mow their lawn when it’s the landlord’s responsibility); maybe I should call their landlord and ask if she had to jump through any hoops to get the property re-zoned to EML (Evolutionary Missing Links). She’s probably renting it on the sly. While I have her on the phone, I could suggest a 30 foot wall erected between our properties. We could even paint a picture of our building on their side of the wall so they wouldn't notice.

She may have forgotten about the property anyway; I wouldn't be surprised if they have just been squatting the whole time. The fence to the side porch fell a few days ago and is just laying on the ground. If she doesn’t fix it soon, I’m going to call CDC. If there’s anywhere that’s safe from Swing flu, it’s there. Swine flu stopped by one day and Helga’s own natural pathogens treated it like the local bully treats second graders.

I Do! (Doo-Doo)

For those of you unfamiliar with the floor plan of 1Prime, the window over the commode in our watercloset faces the Neighbors' side porch where most of the day-to-day action takes place.  Since Wolfgang left said window ajar to alleviate the heat accumulating from the washer and dryer, I've taken to leaving it open while embarking on the most masculine of morning rituals, the high point #2 in the Three S trifecta, or, more simply put:  "having a guy."

It is my sincere hope that one day Misty, Doggy or the whole gang will be in the middle of a high-decibel inter-family shitfest over some nonsensical topic/imagined injury - and suddenly - they'll stop, slowly turn around, gaze with wide-eyed curiosity into the open bathroom window... 

...only to get an face full of my ass-cheeks akimbo while I'm fastidiously polishing my browneye with a wet wipe.

The only thing that could add to this fed up neighbor's wet dream is that Al Michaels' classic call from the USA-USSR 1980 Olympic hockey game is blasted as it happens:  

"DO YOU BELIEVE IN MIRACLES?!?!"

Modest Is Hottest

Upon returning home this afternoon, we found the Neighbors' trash cans lying sideways in the curbside grass, disdainfully tossed aside like King Kong's used prophylactics.  For a primate proclaiming "I big heart Jesus with all my soul" on his Christian singles dating profile, you'd think Mr. Kong would be a little more serious about the evils of pre-marital sex.

It's taken more than a month for them to simply take out the trash (albeit drunkenly), so by mathematical reasoning and a series of difficult computations on my trusty TI-85 hand-held calculating machine, I expect these infernal trash receptacles to be sitting in the same spot for weeks.  The grass underneath will most likely turn white from lack of Photosynthesis, instead resembling my pasty pectorals after a summer cultivating my farmer's tan.

Trashy Trash

Due to rain and global warming, The Neighbors have been staying off their side porch these past couple days, so allow me to go into a little more detail concerning Sunday night. Firstly, it was pouring as Five Drinks & Misty battled the evil trash receptacles to the curbside. For secret agents, they certainly seemed to have had a lot of libations. It’s probable that they came straight from Tonic, which is a popular Sunday-night bar well known for showing hardcore “choke your girlfriend” pornography on 80% of its television screens. I dare you to take a girl to Tonic on a Sunday night and not get punched in the face. It would be like taking a deer to see Bambi.

Did drinking on a Sunday night help them with their mission? Luckily, they drink every night like it was a Tuesday night, so they have very high tolerances. All I heard amongst the giggling was, “It’s falling!” which is not a phrase you want to hear when the rain has been filling your trashcans for days. It’s why they come with lids. Though, to be fair, they probably thought the water would decompose the garbage to a fine soup that they could then eat. Who says they don’t recycle? Who am I kidding: the only chemical reaction they understand is Gin + Scotch = More Tiny Humans (and even on that one they miscalculated at least twice).

One of our more astute readers (TJC) recently commented on the fact that they just asked me a week ago when to take out trash even though they have been living there for some time. Let us ponder some possibilities of what they might have been doing with their trash before now (before they knew they could just take it to the curb):

• Lure Oscar to a new home so they would no longer have to pay for their “virtual babysitter”
• Host an eating contest
• Hope that it breeds a dianoga that they could then sell
• Hope to collect enough trash so the city would give them a trash dumpster so they could house more relatives
• Paint it white and use it as Halloween costumes of which the irony would lost only on them

Culinary Delights

While taking in a film last night with our friends Lucas and Leah, we all heard unfamiliar noises of The Neighbors taking out their trash, probably for the first time since moving in.

The best way to meet people is to rummage through their trash, or so it says in my spy magazines.  (Note To Male College Students:  This also works when trying to "score babes.")

Unfortunately for me, by the time I made it outside this morning the speedy City of Philadelphia rubbish brigade had already puttered up our block.  What I did find:  two empty cans of tuna-style fish and one flat, rectangular box labeled "Delicious Pizza."

If my camera didn't run on sixteen AA batteries I might have snapped a photo.

My Chat With Five Drinks

I was outside mowing my lawn yesterday after work (Friday) when I had, by far, the longest conversation with our neighbors that any of us have ever had. It ended with the possibility of many such future interactions, but I’m getting ahead of myself. I did that on purpose to get you excited.

I had brought a pen and paper outside with me because Rat-A-Tat had been on the porch with no shirt on cursing at the dog earlier. And just in case some conversation among them was too long, I had brought my phone so I could call Josh and dictate. We were still high off of the absurdity of what we shall call the “porno-fight,” and we were looking for something ≥

Here is what happened. I was walking down the steps to return the push-mower to my neighbor across the street (and by neighbor I mean mother). Five Drinks and Misty had just parked their car on the other side of street (there were so many cars in their driveway that I half-expected Gravedigger to bust in and mash them all). They happened to be walking across the street toward their house just as I was walking across the street toward my mother’s house. She asked me (and by "asked" I mean "yelled across the street") if they could borrow the mower. I grimaced and replied that it was on its last legs and it wasn’t even mine and that I had borrowed it from a neighbor (I neglected to mention that it was my mother).

Then she asked me if I wanted to come over and mow her lawn. Now I assume she meant physically mowing the grass on the property and not any sort of meaning that my hormonal 14-year old mind would interpret, but you never can tell with these types. I said, “You pay me?” and she replied, “Sure, just the patch in the back” (again, pretty sure she was talking about the lawn). She asked, “How about tomorrow at noon?” I hesitated for what seemed like hours before saying I wasn’t sure when I’d be free this weekend. She told me she’d give me $40 and to just come over and knock on the door anytime this weekend. I don’t even remember what I said I was so nervous. Thank god it’s going to rain all weekend. She said something else as she walked away (probably “I really like your blog about us”), but I didn’t hear it because I was too busy trying to get hit by a car so I wouldn’t have to go over there and mow their lawn this weekend.

In this situation, engaging in friendly relations with the neighbors is like raising a pig you know you are going to slaughter (or in this case, you slaughter on a daily basis). Still, I was pretty tempted to ask her if they had found the Kama Sutra book yet.

The Debriefing (Epic Phone Call Part III)

At this point, the telephone conversation ends, but she proceeds to regurgitate both sides of the entire conversation to someone else on the porch (I assume it was Five Drinks). The funniest part about this is that when she repeats her lines, she emphasizes how clever she is. I can’t even describe it; I wish I had had some sort of audio recording device. It’s like her normal state of being is 15 beers in (or maybe she was just actually 15 beers in). For you Math-heads out there, that’s 3 x 5-Beers (...and even then.....). She also is explaining it to Five Drinks as you would explain something to a very young child. I bet she practices in the mirror (diss!).

So from what I can gather she was talking to some guy who also seems to be having relationship woes (possibly with Five Drinks). I won’t mention his name because I want plausible deniability when they find this blog and take us to court, but let me assure you it’s a ridiculous name that no one would actually ever christen their child with.*

Here are a couple of lines she reiterates to her lucky audience of Five Drinks & I (though we are supposedly separated by at least 20 feet and a wall that I am becoming more and more convinced is composed entirely of sticks):

“She didn’t want to live with your parents”

I don't think she actually said this out loud to man-with-preposterous-name; she was merely venting her thoughts (or whatever passes in her case) to a grave and somber or wasted Five Drinks. For the first time since we began this blog, I can fully agree with Helga. Three people in a trailer is OK, but 4 is intolerable. She would probably have to sleep above the back wheel and orgies with your parents are never fun unless it's dress-up night. How could you expect the parents to keep up anyway? It'd be like trying to run Halo 3 with Windows 3.1.

“Everyone hates my husband; everyone in the world hates my husband. My husband is a terrible father.”

Now here I'm pretty sure she is talking about her own (ex?) husband. Forgive me for stating the obvious, but if Codename: Helga thinks her husband is a terrible parent, then she must have married Vlad The Impaler. Or a toaster-oven. Actually, a hot breakfast everyday without fail would have probably been a godsend for these kids.


*OK, if you really really really want to know, email wtfneighbor@gmail.com and I will tell you

Helga vs. Five Drinks UPDATE

Our third floor neighbor and newly-certified 1Prime legal expert Tommy also chronicled yesterday's heavyweight bout from his cave upstairs.

Apparently the "porno" in question was a book of sexual positions because Codename Five Drinks was heard to exclaim she "doesn't know much about that sort of thing"

Please. With 18 kids running around next door screaming their faces off, Five Drinks clearly has to brush up on those timeless techniques such as "Missionary," "The Cowgirl," "The Double Hidden Reverse Stranger" and the insanely advanced maneuver known as "Pulling Out."

Tommy also overhead Greg and Jodi cackling on the second floor as the argument raged.

Well done, folks. Ice cream cake for everyone!!

The Day I Made Contact

This actually happened a few days ago (Sunday to be exact), but I had forgotten about it. This is most likely because my notes are taken on anything I can find, so throwing out napkins can sometimes mean throwing out valuable information. I could be wiping my face with untold hilarity without even knowing it.

So I was taking the trash out and Five Drinks is sitting on her porch.

She says, “Excuse me, is today trash day?”
I say, “Yeah, Monday is trash and recycling”
Her, “Thanks.”

The only curve-ball I threw her was the mentioning of recycling. I’m sure Helga and crew document their carbon footprint on a daily basis and go around asking people to donate money to the environment (I did this once and it’s the most depressing job I’ve ever had). If I go through their recycling one day and find all their trash and recycling properly sorted, I will volunteer 15 hours at a local charity this summer. This is even more exciting than that guy who made that Facebook group that started all Facebook groups about the threesome with his girlfriend or whatever. I wonder if they felt like they were making history when the threesome commenced. I suppose I’d be honored to be the third person in that threesome. You might even be in a textbook someday, and who doesn’t want that? I think that’s only reason why Obama ran.

I’m almost disappointed that my first interaction with the neighbors was so pleasantly neighborly and normal. So fuck it, let me tell you what really happened: Helga comes out in sumo-wrestling-dominatrix costume with wolverine claws and slices open her heart. Then she starts grinding on her innards which are spilling out all over the place until they are all ground into the pavement. Then she eats Calamity Jane in a huge hamburger bun with sesame seeds. Too ridiculous for you? Give it time: they just moved in and it doesn’t look like they are going to get any less ludicrous anytime soon.

Found: Kiddie Porn

While Wolfgang and I were out of the house performing our ritual Secret Agent duties, "Bon" Jodi from the second floor gleefully took notes as a maelstrom of shouting pierced the suburban silence.

Helga is furious at the brown-haired girl, now officially christened Codename Five Drinks, because she's marginally more attractive than Codename Misty.  But why is Helga shouting?

Oh, only because Five Drinks was looking at a porno, fell asleep and now said porno is missing, presumably snatched up by the children.

::blink blink::

Yes, I'll repeat that:

Five Drinks was looking at a porno, fell asleep and now said porno is missing, presumably snatched up by the children.

Helga took Five Drinks to task for being irresponsible and lazy NOT TO MENTION LEAVING A PORNO OUT FOR HER CHILDREN TO FIND.

Five Drinks countered with what any normal, sober and rational person would mention during a disagreement: she threatened to move out because, and I quote, "I'm not selfish, I'm not selfish, I'm not selfish, I'm not selfish, I'm not selfish, I'm not selfish, I'm not selfish, I'm not selfish, I'm not selfish, I'm not selfish."  

And for any of you who thinks she's lazy, she's got this nugget for you: "I ain't got nothing to wake up for today, if I'd have my kids I'd probably wake up earlier."

Send Me To The Fun House (Epic Phone Call Part II)

“I’m your fucking baby’s mother and I’m not going to give you money. And our house is fucking fun.”

How do these clauses even follow each other? Does she fear that he is somehow unclear about exactly how much fun is transpiring at their house? Surely he must know. Even I know, and I just met (or actually have never met) her. He could simply ask anyone in the neighborhood! Especially if his idea of fun is walking around outside your house dressed in such a manner that people wished you were naked just so they could get it over with. Is she just trying to rub it in how much better she is doing than him? As in, “Not only will I not be giving you any money (which I have and you don’t), but I’m doing great and we are having so much fun without you.” That’s nice that everything is working out so well for her. I hope she chokes on her own face.

I can’t believe she said that her house is fun. Like some fucking fraternity house. I’m still waiting for the fliers around the neighborhood about the “dry” dance party at their house, but you have to bring 5 girls for each guy.

The funny thing is that I’m pretty sure she wasn’t even talking to her ex-husband. She was just quoting herself (or her addled thoughts, rather) to her friend. Who are these friends anyway? I don’t understand how they even exist. How do they pick up the phone everytime? It’s probably because they don’t have caller ID. If I saw her name come up on my screen, I’d drown my phone. And then my phone would thank me. It would save him the trouble of committing hara-kiri, which is something he's been considering for months. Ever since his SIM card left for another port he's been depressed. Anyway, once he had passed on, I would give him a Viking send-off in the pocket of a crash test dummy.

Holy Trinity 3-In-1 (Epic Phone Call Part I)

What could possibly give Helga the impression that the entire neighborhood wants to hear about every aspect of her life? I just listened to an entire telephone conversation that I could write a thesis on. And grammatically, the end of the sentence is where you send prepositions to.

I won’t transcribe the entire thing as it was deeply personal and I would never betray my loud, obnoxious neighbor to a bunch of strangers with internet access. Also, I was mostly asleep when I took notes on it. Because I can’t accurately do the conversation justice in a single post, I will stagger my comments over a couple of days. This will also give me time to consult my muse, who, if you would hear Josh tell it, is just some girl I lured into the basement with stale milk duds. But actually, that can’t be true because she stopped eating weeks ago.

Anyway:

“I don’t do anything wrong. I don’t do anything wrong. Anything. Move your ass.”

I’m pretty sure this is where I came into the conversation. Generally, the police also come into a conversation at this point. I don’t know which is more annoying: the fact that she believes herself to be some sort of angel or the boorish repetition. One of the reasons she probably came out onto the porch at this point is because she was probably annoying the fuck out of Rat-A-Tat. If she never does anything wrong, then I must be up for some sort of award. One that fits right next to my 2nd In Baby Punching and 3rd In Jitterbug trophies. And again, I have no idea if the “Move your ass” was intended for child or canine, but I bet she doesn’t have to repeat that one often because she is the size of the entire A-Team.

We're Boys

While taking my hockey equipment out of my car (Codename: The Rattlesnake), Rat-a-Tat waved to me!

It wasn't a "Hello Neighbor, Pleasant Day We're Having" wave, it was definitely more of a "I Can Peer Deep Into Your Soul And I Am Admiring The Contents, Let's Be Blood Brothers" wave.

I, On The Other Hand, Do Not Love You Long Time

The recent warm weather has done more than provide us with hours of overhead phone calls and piles of ciggy butts:
Codename Misty has been showing off some serious skin!

I can't even begin to make an attempt at describing the trailer park/strip club/meth lab/Walmart lingerie department (Wolfgang's Note: you just did) smorgasbourg of Bad Taste that this young woman routinely exits the house in. A Vietnamese hooker trying to woo American sailorboys would blush. And then vomit.

Pedesphobia (Not To Be Confused With Other Words. Any Other Words At All.)

Helga just said “Get your fucking foot away from me dummy!”

I don’t even know who she was yelling at. Could’ve been a child or a dog. I doubt even she can tell them apart at this point.

James Obama 007

Today Helga was using the telephone communication system on her side porch as usual. They must not get reception anywhere else. Or perhaps the cellular waves interfere with the aluminum-heroin alloy they are developing in their living room. Anyway, at one point, Helga mentioned the area code 773 (Chicago) which led Josh & I to believe that she’s one of President Obama’s undercover agents. This happens on TV all the time (especially FOX) so there must be some merit to it: pretend to be supertrash so no one will pay any attention to you if they can help it and will actively try to ignore you (unless they are pathetic enough to take notes on every word you say and then show them to other people).

Maybe all this porch talk is just planting false information. Did you ever see that Pink Panther movie where they are talking to each other on the same line and Inspector Clouseau is listening on the same line? Then he sits in glue and things get silly, but I think our neighbors are better agents than that. At the very least, I'm sure they keep their glue right between the alcohol and the whippets where it belongs. I also overheard her mention the word “email” so it’s very possible that they do, in fact have/understand what computers are (or they are Amish agents trying to throw us off the trail again!).

"Hot Enough For Ya?" (Said in Cop Voice)

Whilst sitting betwixt Greg and Jodi, who live on the second floor of our building, I had the following interaction with Codename Rat-a-Tat aka The Tattooed Rodent-Looking Gentleman Who Rides Upon The Motorcycle:

RAT-A-TAT climbs off his motorcycle and walks down the driveway towards the house.

RAT-A-TAT

"Hey, how's it going?"

US

"(puzzled as we determined if he was actually addressing us or just cursing under his breath) ...hey."

RAT-A-TAT

"Great weather!"*

(*josho's Note:  It was not "great weather", but about 90 degrees with a pantload of humidity)

US

"(lying to his face) Yep!"

RAT-A-TAT

"Hope it stays like this!"

RAT-A-TAT enters the house.

SCENE

Rat-a-Tat must be half Alligator if he thinks this climate is suitable for anyone other than the Devil himself.

I'd Be Interested To Hear What Jim Cantore Has To Say

With high temperatures in the 80s and 1Prime vacated this weekend, the neighbors will probably see fit to pull out all the proverbial stops in pursuit of abject hilarity.  A Bonnaroo of Absurdity will commence, with much of the same hygienic practices usually reserved for Tennessee being observed on the other side of the fence.

I consumed 14 oatmeal raisin cookies to reach a level of Nirvana whereby I would be able to accurately predict what will transpire this weekend.  Without any further ado:

-they will curse at their progeny

-random automobiles will arrive at all hours of the day and/or night

-pets will bark, yip, yelp and/or bray repeatedly

-they will "Get their Goose on"

-Wolfgang's Speaker Bedroom will broadcast some of the finest Top 40 hip-pop music known to mankind

-Helga will quit smoking ...hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahah

::wheeze::

hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha

-they will film a porno remake of the movie "Alive," subtitled "Eat This Meat."

Back on Sunday afternoon to once again carry the cumbersome torch of Neighborly Observation.  Maybe they'll cut our grass.

The Next Door Opera: Second Movement

HELGA

"Did you make a stinky?"

LITTLE GIRL #1

"What?"

HELGA

"Did you move your bowels?"

LITTLE GIRL #1

"What?"

HELGA

"...did you move your bowels?"

LITTLE GIRL #1

"What?"

HELGA

"I'm NOT playin'!  Did you make a mess in your pants?"

LITTLE GIRL #1

"What?"

HELGA

"DID YOU DO A NUMBER 2?"

LITTLE GIRL #1

"What?"

HELGA

"DID YOU MAKE A STINKY?!?!?!?!?!?!?!"

I threw back my head like a concert pianist as I transcribed the above exchange, pretending I was playing a concerto instead of merely typing on a laptop.  This dialogue was strangely musical and moved me...

...OHMYCHRISTOULDSOMEONEFUCKINGGUARDPAULPIERECEFORTHELOVEOFPETE

Exponential Defiance

Calamity Jane is outside hitting her sister, but don’t worry, Helga’s got it on lock: “You will not hit your sister.”

Being the good child that she is, Jane immediately complies:

“I will hit my sister” about six times followed by “I hate you…and you and you and you and you" (pointing at everyone individually as though she's just finished watching Half-Baked for the eighth time since 4/20).

I think she even got Shadow in there which I do not approve of.

Lyttle Women

They are listening to music on the porch.

“How do I get this song off my damn playlist.”

Now I’m not a die-hard Kevin Lyttle fan either (that’s not even the joke; that’s what she was listening to), but then I wouldn’t put it on the playlist I was playing if I didn’t like it. The only songs on the iPod are probably the pre-loaded ones; I don’t know if they know they can put more on (they certainly don’t know how to take them off).

Another thing is how unnecessary the “damn” was. She said it as calmly as the rest of the sentence with no extra intonation whatsoever. She must be programmed to include some sort of vulgarity in each sentence like a drunk Shakespeare. Maybe I’m overthinking things: maybe that’s actually the title of the playlist. Her other playlists are "Fist-Cock," "Coke Ballads," "Gangbang Nostalgia," "Eternal PMS," "America," "Horse-Fucker," and "Beating My Kids Jams."

I Walk Through Minefields

One of the kids was just yelling: “I stepped in dog poop!” repeatedly (and I mean repeatedly) until the mother finally decided to do something about it. To Josh's & my delight, the kid then said, “My other shoe stepped in dog poop too.” Those shoes just have a mind of their own sometimes.

With the addition of a second poop-machine, I can see this going no where good. Or everywhere good if your intent is simply to document varying degrees of ridiculousity.

I Would Put A Helmet On Mine

Oh, look at this bourgeois bad-ass!  He's wearing a necktie!

Either he's here to tune their piano or they've made friends somewhere other than Cockfighting Anonymous meetings.

The Beginning Of The End

Today we found out that one of our neighbors on the 3rd floor of our building actually went over yesterday and told them to shut the fuck up. That's pretty awesome; however, the last thing Josh & I need is to give them another reason to hate our apartment building. If they even had a glimpse of this blog (which would require at least a 3rd grade understanding of the internet, so I'm not too worried), I would fear for our safety or at least the safety of Josh's car which is green and has the license plate JFP - 1468 and is usually parked out front.

Our neighbor on the 2nd floor of our building had a major surgery a couple days ago, so she probably wasn't so keen on yesterday's Pickup Truck Orchestra. That being said, my doctor did mention to me that Lady Gaga is the new penicillin of the 2000s. But then he told me that I had scurvy, so I had to spend the rest of the day leeching the bad blood out.

Evidence In Plain View

There's been a surprising lack of activity today, but I guess that's not all that surprising considering it's 4/20.  They're probably in the house right now singing "happy birthday" to their (doubtlessly) named "bong" and ready to blow out the "marijuana" candles on the cake.

Lunchtime Musings

I sometimes wonder if the perceived socio-economic disconnect felt on this side of the fence is replicated "over there." For instance, are We the weirdos* because there isn't a half inch of ciggy butts on the side portico? Or due to the fact that Wolfgang and I don't have any kids (not like we haven't been trying!! But that's a story for another day...), are we looked at askance?

*Thanks to electrodes attached to my nipples I was able to avoid making a "LOST" reference. You're welcome.

BUT BUT BUT WHAT IF THEY'RE WRITING THEIR BLOG?!

I'd imagine it to be something like "wtfuckfuckingneighbors.blogfuckingspot.shit".

(And yes, I do know you can't have a domain @ .shit, but given their propensity for profanity they could probably make that happen.)

If this blog actually exists, are they chronicling Wolfgang and I? They must have had a field day this morning when I paraded around the house clad only in a bath towel and my ubiquitous sweatervest.

Then again, the Etch-A-Sketch leaning against the stripper pole in the basement probably doesn't work as well as a laptop with internet access.

Home Entertainment Center

This morning I was woken up at 10:30 by music blasting at a ridiculous volume from the boyfriend’s truck. This is the kind of volume that can be heard clearly in every direction for a couple blocks’ radius. Even more so because this is a quiet family neighborhood and I don’t think anyone told them that: they are neither quiet, nor a family in anything but the very loosest of definitions (similar to the boyfriend’s muscular definition).

I think my window is actually a speaker wired to his truck. I even brought a friend into my room and he agreed that there was nowhere in the house where the music was louder than in my bed (yes I made him lie in my bed and yes that is how I get guys into my bed and yes he did enjoy it). This might be because the window might be open behind the blinds, but I’m afraid to open them because if I make eye contact I may turn to stone.

So why listen to music from your parked truck in the driveway? The only thing I can think of is that maybe they forgot how to get back into the house. Or maybe they “read” somewhere that playing the radio in a parked truck will actually refuel the vehicle based on the decibel level. Maybe they are under the impression that by contributing to noise pollution, surely that must detract from other types of pollution. There’s got to be a cap on the overall pollution of the Earth, so it stands to reason that if you really indulge in one type it must lessen the others. Apparently, later on in the day, they did figure out how to get back into the house because I could hear the music from the house with doors closed.

The Rise Of The Deathhawk

There is a guy on their porch with a Mohawk and a Sean John T-shirt. Is it just me or is this weird? Don’t get me wrong, I love the Suave-Punk scene; I guess I just wasn’t expecting it on the Sabbath. Also, I’m pretty sure I saw Sean Combs himself sport a Deathhawk (not to be confused with the Duohawk, Liberyhawk, Sunhawk, or Trihawk*) during his “P. Diddy” days (not to be confused with his “Puff Daddy” stage nor his current “Diddy” stage). Well if the dude is on their porch, he’s clearly lost or confused anyway, so his fashion sense can’t be too far behind. I’m a bit surprised he was able to fully dress himself this morning.

*For a full listing of Mohawks, check out Wikipedia

New Car Smell

A new car has pulled up.  It’s a black Pontiac, driven by a lady who resembles Catherine O’Hara’s character in …well, every Christopher Guest movie she’s been in.  Helga and Codename Catherine cleaning are now in the middle of cleaning out the trunk and piling these "goodies" on the porch.  Let’s take roll call of the contents, shall we?

-one (1) doggy crate for “Doggy”:  Here!

-one (1) white colander with one (1) yellow rubber duckie and one (1) mixing spoon:  Here!

-one (1) jewelry box with clock (set to wrong time):  yo!

-shoe box with any number of narcotics contained therein:  …what? (mumbles) Oh.  Here.

-salt ‘n’ pepper shake set:  Here!

Did they rob a bag lady?  Either way, I’m out of here for the rest of the weekend.  Wolfgang, you have the bridge.

Tears From The Other Side

I was carrying some garbage from the back of the house to the front. Of course, the neighbors are outside on their side porch as I am walking by with the trash. One of the little girls is playing kind of near the (see-through) fence around a bush. And just as I walk by her, she just starts screaming! I had been so focused on looking forward during the entire trip and I didn't want to give in now, so I just kept walking. I was so flustered that after I deposited the trash in the front yard enclosure, I tried to walk in the front door of the house which was locked. I had to call josho! and have him come open it (so I didn't have to go back to the back of the house). Then I had about 17 kegs of weed to calm my nerves.

I was terrified that Helga would blame me for the child's sudden outburst. It happened right as I walked by! I was almost convinced that I had been the reason for the little girl's cries. Is it possible that the little girl has become so self-aware that the mere sight of another being observing her ridiculous mother would set off a shameful shower of tears? Or, in the opposite vein, is she is so starved for attention that she desperately calls out to any and all persons who are unlucky enough to come within range? In all likelihood, it was probably just my striking resemblance to Uncle Lenny, who isn't allowed to visit anymore for reasons better left to the imagination.

OK, he rapes kids.

We Make Headlines!

Drexel Scientists Complete Research

Philadelphia (AP)

Scientists at Drexel University have announced a major breakthrough after researching dynamics in a local Philadelphia neighborhood in the recent weeks. After examining terabytes of data collected in and around the Wissahickon neighborhood, they announced that The Neighbors are running a deaf puppy training school.

(josho!'s Note: That’d explain all the yelling.)

The Shadow Appreciation Society

HELGA:

"Shut up!"

"(pouty) ...shut up!"

"Get over here!"

"Get OUT of the driveway!"

All this is directed at Shadow.  Poor Shadow, he’s only been over there for two days - like he could possibly had a firm grasp of the Code of Conduct for the laissez-faire hellride homelife they have brewing across the fence.  Right now he’s more preoccupied with inspecting every single Virginia Slims ciggy butt that litters the driveway, courtesy of Helga and Little Girl #2.  I can empathize with Shadow; it also takes me a long time to acclimate to new surroundings.  Only recently have I stopped urinating in Wolfgang’s bedroom in favour of the toilet.

A Message To You, Rude-y

Dear "Boyfriend,"

If I wanted to listen to a motorcycle idle for oh, let's see here: 28 minutes, I would hop on the ol' infotubes and purchase a compact disc (yes, they still make them) of sound effects from Amazon.  I'd then skip past the track entitled "Motorcycle Idling" right to "Apache Helicopter Mowing Down Insurgents."  As it stands right now, The Monkees album on the office stereo is barely audible, even with the volume set at 36.  

I'm also fairly certain Wolfgang and his Nap aren't operating at the highest levels of efficiency.

So, in closing, please take off the leather jacket and re-apply to that community college.  You can do it!

Neighborly,

josho!

PS.  Shut the fuck up.

Domestic Cars Masquerading As Imports

The broke-ass Jeep Cherokee putters menacingly up the driveway after a prolonged absence.  I greet it like an old friend and give kisses on either cheek, or in this case, either fender.

(I will spend the next five minutes cleaning up the Kraft Asian Toasted Sesame Reduced Fat Salad Dressing all over the rug after my mad dash to the window.  Don’t tell Wolfgang.)

Primal Therapy

If I were to stick a microphone in my room, this is what it would record Helga saying right now:

“Shut up!”
“Shut up!”
“Shut up!”
“Shut up!”
“Shut up!”
“Shut up!”
“Be good!”
“Don’t cry!”
“Don’t cry!”

Once again, this is verbatim. I can’t wait to have kids so I can finally relieve all that vocal tension that has been building up in my scream box all these years. Up until then I’ll just have to settle for screaming awkwardly at the other passengers on my bus to work.

The Shadow Knows

So. New puppy. From what I've overheard of the wall-piercing chatter from next door, the new puppy's name is Shadow. Shadow is actually a pretty sweet name, which means he was named before they got him. Or maybe they picked a stupid name for him like Gerald and he told them to fuck off. Either way, Shadow is now my favorite character in the play next door.

That being said, I am concerned for Doggy. It's always tough when there's a younger, hotter addition to the family. I don't think the day is too far off when Doggy "runs away" and the neighbors enjoy a new color upon their food palate. I will miss his defiant spirit.

Here is Helga's updated hierarchy:

1. Her Car
   
2. Shadow
3. Cigarettes
4. Profanity
   
5. Montell
6. Geology
7. The Welsh Grape Juice Girl
8. Calamity Jane
9. Roach Eggs
10. Mad-Dog 20/20
    
11. Jean Shorts
12. Obtaining Nirvana
13. Doggy
14. The Dudley Boyz
15. Francophones
    
16. Little Girl #2
17. Thing #1
18. Spam Rewards Catalog
19. Chlamydia
    
20. Little Girl #3?
21. The XFL
    
22. Aaron Carter
    
23. Her Awesome Boyfriend

Mother Knows Best

I found out today that my mother (who lives across the street from us) can hear Helga on the telephone sometimes. My mother, who does not throw around such terms lightly, referred to her as "white trash," so you know there’s something wrong. Also, my mother can only hear out of 7% of one ear, so it’s even more impressive of Helga. If they had a white trash yodeling competition…well…I’d get tickets. Wouldn’t that be the emperor’s tits!?!

Later: More on how “moving out of your parents’ house” DOES include moving more than 35 feet away.

I Guess We're Having Buns For Lunch

A brown-haired girl exits the house with the two dogs, clad only in a tee-shirt.  No bottoms.

Seconds later, a crying fetus clutching an umbilical cord skids by.

Title Title Title

More dialog:

Terrible boyfriend: “mumble mumble mumble”
Even worse girlfriend (Helga): “OK, OK, OK, OK, OK!” (in between mumbles)

I can think of a few reasons why certain people repeat everything they say. Among them:

- They have unprecedented speech impediments
- They are Mind of Mencia fans
- They hang with parrots frequently
- They aren't sure whether other people have ears too
- Their hooked-on-phonics records were severely scratched

I Wish I Were Helga's Kids

Here is actual dialog from today:

“Don’t say that.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Go inside right now!”
(through gritted teeth) “I’m going to punch you in the face [something slams]; don’t say that!”

I think I’m finally going to be able to achieve my Domestic Violence Intervention badge for Eagle Scout. And by intervention, I mean cowardly sucking my thumb.

Unlike Christian Millichap, I'm No Math Major

I have had a chance to sleep off the initial cute canine-inspired delirium I was feeling last night. I did not sleep well, mind you. I tossed and turned with a nasty case of night sweats at the realization that there’s now another barking dog chemical added to already volatile combination of shrieking little girls with dirty faces and chain-smoking phone-shouting Parent of the Year candidates. There’s now, by my unofficial count, 15 humans or beasts living in this primordial soup that we call "Next Door." This does not include the steady carousel of decrepit automobiles that wobble up and down the driveway during all hours of the night.

When reached for comment, Charles Darwin said "good luck with that," and then asphyxiated himself with a turtle shell.

New Addition

OHMYGODTHEYHAVETHECUTESTPUPPYEVER!!!!!!1111111111!!!!!!!!!

Grandmother Shmandmother

This afternoon, Helga could be heard on the telephone YELLING AT HER GRANDMOTHER. Who does that? I doubt her grandmother even knows where she is or what month it is. How’d she even get on the phone? My grandmother once tried to use the phone to call me and they found her three days later at the bottom of a Discovery-Zone ball pit (not those cheap-ass Chuck E. Cheese ball pits, either!).

Certainly, it is possible that the person she was talking to just happened to be named Grandma (like that character from Rounders). In this case, I fully support Helga. I would yell at him simply for having such a stupid nickname. That’s like being called Roy or Trent or Atrophy. If someone called me any of those names, I wouldn’t hesitate to curtly inform them that that was, in fact, not my name. And then I would murk them. Either that or paint a full-color portrait of them.

WTF, Dawg?

I have begun to take my notes in a format which reflects an announcer calling a game. Here is a sample of today’s action: The boyfriend attempts to leave in his truck, but the dog, ever rebellious, blocks his path. The boyfriend calls the dog, but to no avail. From the porch, Helga says, “Get the fuck out of the driveway,” and Doggy sits there for a moment before moving. After he moves she says, “fucking dog.”

I have half a mind to write to the humane society. I don’t understand how this poor woman has put up with this insufferable dog for all of these years. She made it very clear to him that she meant business and that he was to get out of the driveway and what does he do? He just stands there; the nerve! She even conveyed to him her impatience with the use of an expletive! This is some dog. If it were up to me, this obnoxious creature would be put down. Who does he think he is holding Codename Boyfriend up for his bi-hourly cigarette run? If the kids are going to ease their way into smoking, they need to be exposed consistently! Otherwise, they might not feel as cool the first time.

I Wish I Had Seen That

Remember that time I wrote about her being mad the kids would take the car?

Maybe she saw the youtube clip entitled: 7 Year Old Goes On Joy Ride

WHAAAAAAAAAAAT?!?!?!?!?!?!

One of the little girls climbs into the driver’s seat of the tan sedan and begins to play, mimicking the action of twisting the steering wheel.  Next, I hear her disengage the parking brake.  I’m fully invested in this drama now and am posted at the window as the car begins to coast down the driveway.  The little girl is screaming her head off!  Her tiny larynx is pushed to the limit!!  I’m glued to my spot, jaw agape.

....

....

Until…  

!!!!

!!!!

The tan sedan sedately comes to rest against the metal fence between our yards.  Thankfully (Unfortunately?) it didn't roll all the way down the driveway and into the middle of the street.  

If I had to categorize my feelings on a MySpace profile right now, I’d list my mood as "Terror Mingled With Curiosity."  And then I'd kill myself, because I'd have MySpace.