Entry 157 - Wherein I Act Curmudgeonly.

Wherein I Act Curmudgeonly.

So, I might be getting old.

I can tell, because this past Friday, my folk’s neighbors left town, and didn’t take their maladjusted 21 year-old son with them.

I think there’s definitely something to be said about the age of 25 being a watershed; at 30, trying to comprehend the actions of anyone younger than 25 is difficult at best, especially when you have first-hand knowledge of how stupid and incomprehensible people can be in their early 20’s. All that aside, I tolerate them. For the most part.

Sue, the mother of the the aformentioned miscreant, is a really nice person. She never has a bad word to say about anything or anyone, and she has dealt with some pretty serious health issues in the last year. Keeping this in mind, one need but look at her interaction with her son to see that he really is the worst kind of arrogant, disrespectful, I-own-you Columbia kid. I’ve only been back here about three weeks or so, but by week one I knew this confrontation was coming. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s lippy, line-stepping little fucks who think the world owes them a Snickers™ bar. Strike One.

Sure, I partied hard when I was younger – really hard, in fact, so I was willing to put up with the loud bullshit on Friday and Saturday night. Last night around midnight however, one of the drunken twats that have been traipsing up and down the driveway for the last few days decided to tell my “stupid dog” to “shut up”.

Bad Idea.

Apparently, dear reader, he did not see me standing in the garage enjoying a Camel, as I am wont to do. I’m not sure exactly what I said, but I know it contained these phrases: your bullshit, elsewhere, ever fucking, my dog, axe-handle, and of course, your name on it. Asshole party guests. Strike Two.

On my days off (most of them anymore), I like to keep the dogs on fairly long ropes out in front of the house, as this is where exists the highest concentration of squirrel activity, and other objects that might pique the canine curiosity. The asshat in question–who apparently fancies himself Dale Earnhart Jr.–has thusfar ignored repeated entreaties from both myself and my parents to slow down as he’s coming down the shared part of the driveway.

So; let us move forward to today.

Sue (asshat’s mother) had asked me on Thursday last to feed her cats while the family was away. This actually left me quite confused, because as of this writing, asshat is still in town (I believe she was under the impression he was going somewhere else for the week, a job maybe). Being a typically amiable fellow, I decided I’d hang out in front of the house with my dogs until asshat showed up, so I could politely ask him when I was to take over the cat feeding duties; I don’t particularly like cats (at all), but I love animals, and I wouldn’t put it past this fuckbag to let them go hungry.

Of course, Mr. Hat comes tear-assing down the driveway in his father’s sportscar. Strike Three.

So, long story shortened, I won’t be feeding the cats this weekend. And Mr. Hat has now been informed – succinctly and without any possibility of future misunderstanding – that if he ever comes within ten feet of hitting my dog with his little cock-maneuver down the driveway, I’ll be going to jail for a felony, and he won't be feeling quite so speedy ever again.

Life on the Cul de Sac. I’m anxious to see how this works out.

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