We ain’t much for flowery speeches down here at apartment 1108. Hell, last time I made one was at my cousin’s wedding, and that ended with people throwing rice at me. I tried to correct them loudly with a scolding finger pointed at their fat faces, “Hey, I’m not the one getting married, fat-faces!” but the volley continued for quite awhile. In between absorbing the shots that landed and making the “jack-off” motion in the direction of those who missed, as if to say, “Ha! You missed me, jack-off!,” I thought to myself, Hey, I thought you wasn’t supposed to throw rice at weddings anymore ‘cause they make birds explode. And then, Nah, probably just an urban legend. Fireworks and some bread, now those are what you want if bird-explodin’ is your game.
See? Not much for flowery speeches.
As your neighbors, we feel it’s important that we keep the lines of communication open, Pete and I. To close them off would be a bad idea, like having too much white zin at your cousin’s wedding and wondering aloud if the bride to be had ever been to the Eiffel Tower, if ya know what I mean. (Uh, the sex act involving two men and a lady, not the landmark in France.)
Your complaints about the noise coming from out apartment have not gone unnoticed, Butthurts. Too many people smoking cigarettes outside? Complaint. GG Allin’s voice rising through your floorboards, filling your apartment with too-vivid descriptions of less-than-palatable sex acts? Complaint. The mysterious case of all those birds exploding? Complaint. And all duly noted, Butthurts.
Where we seem to differ is in what we find offensive to the ear holes, and with a nod to the communication thing, we feel it best to be earnest to this point.
First off, what’s with the wheelchair? We’d never complain about this if we were sure that Mr. Butthurt was truly infirm. But sometimes I see him outside, just rollin’ along, and it sure looks like he could get up at any moment and surprise us, like the bad guys in movies always do. (I’m not comparing you to a movie bad guy here, Butthurt, just pointing out that you have that look to you. Sure you get that all the time.) As for that machine that lifts the male Butthurt, wheelchair and all, from the base of the stairs to the front door: sure it might be convenient, but it sounds like a robot getting a dry hand-job from a lady robot. So sir, we beg you: If you are truly crippled (doctor's note?), please consider finding a method of getting from the ground to your apartment that’s more respectful to your neighbors (pulley system?).
Another thing: have you ever heard Mrs. Butthurt’s voice? As the Jews might say (apologies in advance if you guys are Jewish. No offense! Big fans of the Coen Brothers! LOL!), oy vey. My uncle spent six months in a cage designed for (and filled with the feces of) lar gibbons back in 'Nam, and was poked with sharpened bamboo chutes for hours at a time each day. (Except for his birthday of course, when his captors baked him a cake--which sounds nice, granted, but Uncle Terry maintains to this day that he tasted an unmistakeable hint of lar gibbon turds in the frosting--bunch of tricksters, those VC guards.) Anyway, when I listen to Mrs. Butthurt talk, it’s all, Whoa, somebody find me a lar gibbon cage! You know?!
Of course, I’m exaggerating for effect here, but you know those birds? Grackles, I think they’re called? Yeah, she sounds like a grackle who has learned to speak through some terribly regrettable miracle, and only uses its new gift to complain about stuff. “Who keeps throwing all these beer cans on our patio?!”* What a drag.
Anywho, I’d never presume to know the relationship between the two of you, but since she so reminds me of a less comical Edith Bunker, maybe she’d think it was funny (and get the point) if you were all like, “Stifle yourself!” Ha, great show.
Hope this letter finds you well, Butthurts, and that this may clear the path for a future of mutual respect, and perhaps even friendship--Heck, I was thinking about going to Halloween as Wolverine this year, and I could use a convincing Professor X... Mr. Butthurt, I’m looking at you! (‘Cause of the wheelchair, I mean).
Neighborly,
Your neighborliest neighbors
*To fully appreciate the tone of the letter, Mrs. Butthurt’s quote should be read in a hilarious, grackle-that-somehow-learned-to-talk voice.
