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.