Sunday, December 20, 2009

My Neighbors Blow

Now I admit I'm not the most neighborly guy.  I haven't taken the time to meet, greet and glad hand the denizens of my particular neck of the woods all that much, couldn't tell you their names or really much else about them.

When their kids were of stick ball and street hockey age I put up with their projectiles flying over the fence from the church parking lot into the side of my house, only occasionally chasing them away when they came within inches of my windows one too many times.  I never caught the fuckers in the act of breaking those windows since it always seemed to happen when I was away, but I knew well enough who they were.  Hell, I even retrieved the balls that landed up onto my second floor deck in the spirit of neighborly fun.  They've since grown up and graduated to drugs and petty crime, I'm guessing.

Still, I'll confess: I'm not a touchy-feely, chat-it-up stalwart member of the community.

Now I feel vindicated as to why: they're all vicious swine, the lot of them.

Each one apparently has a state of the art snow-blower, one fancier than the next. With all the bells and whistles. Vibrating, heated recliner seats, 20000 PSI, 12 cylinder gas-guzzling, power-mad electronic beauties that could clear a path up Everest while serving you breakfast and clipping your toenails.

I'll admit it was hard to see clearly all the way up to the end of the block this morning through the 50 foot high plumps of pressurized snow emanating from the parade of humongous blowers but I swear the particularly evil white-haired Nazi encamped at the corner had a machine that was simultaneously clearing his walk, shampooing his scalp, and giving him a reach around. I squinted a bit harder and am sure I saw Dustin Hoffman strapped to the back of the thing with some diabolical dental instrument cutting into a fresh nerve at the root of one of his teeth.  Is it Safe?

The noise was deafening this morning, sort of like pit row at the Indy 500.  My head is still exploding from the sounds and the fumes while the taste of gasoline-laced snow consumes my tongue and throat after getting sprayed in the face with it over a sustained period of time.

Yes indeed, every Who in Whoville was out with their shiny Snow Blow Job 3000s save for one poor muck - me - hunched over in pain with his $5.00 plastic shovel, friend to the environment and procrastinating masochist, making about a foot of progress for every hundred yards the spit shine push button industrial complex all around him cleared.

And not one of these shitheads offered to come to his aid.

No, quite the contrary.  They took particular delight in spraying huge mounds of icy white stuff all around this Who's property line, spilling deep into his hard-won hand-shoveled walk, erasing his back breaking handiwork and forcing him to endure the Bataan Death March Redux.  And all the while these beasts were cackling with glee high atop their gleaming weapons of snow-mass destruction, rubbing their hands together C. Montgomery Burns-style.


I plan to break into each garage in the days ahead, filling the tanks of their Snow Suck-n-Spray 9000s with nitroglycerin. The next storm will be a real blast, my good neighbors.

A plague on all your houses!!

Oh, and Happy Holidays!

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