Turn It Down!

I experienced my own private little Joe’s Garage moment this past weekend. Let me explain.

Last Thursday evening, I’d been playing some loud music – Admiral Freebee’s latest album, to be exact. It’s the kind of tunes you have to play at full volume if you want to fully enjoy them. Came 10 pm, being the responsible citizen that I am, the volume was lowered down to a pedestrian level so as not to offend the neighbours (belgian law says you can make as much noise as you want until 10pm).

Too late.

Five minutes past 10, I get Neighbour #1 (we’ll refer to him as The Hairless Hunchback from now on) banging on my door yelling that I must “Turn it down!“. And that if I didn’t know him yet, I was about to find out! Yours truly opens up window, tells the Hairless Hunchback to chill, upon which he limps back to his cave — thoroughly convinced of my evil “let’s render the neighbourhood sleepless” masterplan.

Fast forward to last Sunday. We’re in need of some gasoline for the lawnmower so I strap the jerrycan to Gabriela’s scooter and temporarily park the scooter in front of my house. Enter Neighbour #2 (we’d refer to her as Poor White Trash Bitch From Hell from now on, but that’s a bit long. Instead, let us call her Betsy). Betsy is the kind of person that has nothing else to do but to stand in her doorway all day while watching the trafic go by – as opposed to, oh I dunno, getting a job. Betsy generally does this wearing nothing but a bathrooom robe and a wig (cigarette optional). But I digress.

So I get out of the door, and Betsy yells (and boy, can she yell): “You fuck, you better not play that loud music anymore, ‘cuz we need some sleep!” To which I reply: “It happens about once a year and when it does, I turn the volume down after 10 pm.” Her cheap wig wiggles back and forth as she retorts: “Fuck that we need some sleep and next time we’re calling the cops!”.

This, to quote Droopy, mmmakes mmme mmmmad. But I’m slow.

I mumble “whatever” and drive off for the gasoline. By the time I’m at the gas station though, my fury has reached boiling point.

At this point, I should make a confession: I can stand dumb people, but I cannot stand dumb people that lack even the simplest form of courtesy. For one thing, Betsy’s husband (we’d refer to him as “Ye Pervert Who Pees On His Garden’s Begonias Early In The Morning Wearing Nothing But White Underwear, Trust Me I’ve Seen It With My Own Eyes” but that’s a bit long, so we’ll go with Bobby Potatohead) perpetually (illegally) parks his car right in front of my garage, thus considerably complicating my stalling my car into the garage.

Hence, once I came back (Betsy was still outside, wiggling about her wig), I gave her a piece of my mind. Some of my spit may well have landed on various parts of Betsy’s facial features.

Betsy probably hates my guts now. In fact, she had Bobby Potatohead conspicuously park his car right in front of my garage. But frankly? I don’t give a proverbial shit.

Here’s to loud music.