It's very hard to piss me off indirectly.
As in, you can be the loud douche at the end of the movie ticket line who's constantly cribbing about the line being too damn long and you being super late for the movie because clearly you're the only one around who's being denied a faster entry, but that won't piss me off. (That is, of course, with the exception of you standing right behind me and constantly whining. If that were the case, I would turn around and hit you. Hard.)
So in all technicality you will need to irritate me in a consistent manner, over a period of time, and at regular intervals, for me to go ape shit crazy. You know, after I reach my "point of no return".
Enter: my loving neighbors.
I live in an apartment that is so closely boxed together with another building that you can literally hear them clip their toenails. (I kid you not. Every Sunday, to the beat of their favorite Tamil Gospel song.) Honestly, though, they aren't the problems. They are at least evolved enough to understand the basic request of lowering their volume.
The college numbnuts that stay above us however, beg to differ.
So they're living on their own. This OBVIOUSLY means freedom to swing your junk all over the place, scoring some excellent weed from God knows where and then getting stoned out of their ruddy minds. But this results in a lot of running around. (And falling) Oh. and did I mention the ugly taste in music?
I know I sound like a cranky old man when I say their music is too loud.
But it is. At TWO in the MORNING, hell YES it is. NO one wants to hear how Pitbull got himself crunk or how the club can't handle Flo Rida.
Almost every night, I walk up to the intercom, having been woken up by some illiterate rapper whining about asses and bitches, and call my oh so considerate neighbors up, and ask them, politely, to turn their music down. They apologize and say that it won't be repeated. All is calm.
That works for about an hour.
Then they decide to watch Two and a Half Men and laugh their balls off. And again, I call them, this time, a little obviously irritated with their stupidity. "Oh so sorry we didn't realize" they say "We'll turn it down."
No. They don't.
They start DANCING. And judging by the amount of times of what I presume to be a really large man falling down and rolling all over the floor (Yes. I can hear that too.), they aren't very good. So I call them again. "Oh you can still hear us?" He asks me sheepishly. "Oh, no no. I called to say goodnight." I say, which, weirdly enough, gets my point across for the last time.
We all aren't good neighbors. I'm sure many of our neighbors hate our guts for blasting Floyd, Dire Straits and The Who form three different home theater systems every Sunday afternoon. We have our imperfections and our quirks too. But given the fact that we've never been complained against, I think we're doing a pretty terrific job of keeping it quiet enough.
So what about these numskulls who don't seem to understand a simple request? Do I pray to the Lord to give me the strength, patience and tolerance to deal with their lack of brain cells? Or do I leave a graffitied warning on their door to get my point across?
I know I sound like a cranky old man when I say their music is too loud.
But it is. At TWO in the MORNING, hell YES it is. NO one wants to hear how Pitbull got himself crunk or how the club can't handle Flo Rida.
Almost every night, I walk up to the intercom, having been woken up by some illiterate rapper whining about asses and bitches, and call my oh so considerate neighbors up, and ask them, politely, to turn their music down. They apologize and say that it won't be repeated. All is calm.
That works for about an hour.
Then they decide to watch Two and a Half Men and laugh their balls off. And again, I call them, this time, a little obviously irritated with their stupidity. "Oh so sorry we didn't realize" they say "We'll turn it down."
No. They don't.
They start DANCING. And judging by the amount of times of what I presume to be a really large man falling down and rolling all over the floor (Yes. I can hear that too.), they aren't very good. So I call them again. "Oh you can still hear us?" He asks me sheepishly. "Oh, no no. I called to say goodnight." I say, which, weirdly enough, gets my point across for the last time.
We all aren't good neighbors. I'm sure many of our neighbors hate our guts for blasting Floyd, Dire Straits and The Who form three different home theater systems every Sunday afternoon. We have our imperfections and our quirks too. But given the fact that we've never been complained against, I think we're doing a pretty terrific job of keeping it quiet enough.
So what about these numskulls who don't seem to understand a simple request? Do I pray to the Lord to give me the strength, patience and tolerance to deal with their lack of brain cells? Or do I leave a graffitied warning on their door to get my point across?
