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.