I love Mr. Rogers.
He taught the children of my generation how to love their neighbors, use their imaginations, feed their fish, and always change into lounge wear when they got home.
Mr. Rogers, I am sorry. I really tried, okay?
But the people in my neighborhood are a bunch of rude assholes.
I am in such close proximity to all of my neighbors, that I can literally hear them when they break wind.
Mr. Rogers, this will only take a few minutes of your time. Maybe once you see just what sort of people I am dealing with here, you might forgive me for being such a cantankerous bitch.
Roxie, the dog
I can hardly blame the dog, really. I mean, dogs are made to bark. But Roxie’s mom should not own a dog. She leaves the poor thing outside for hours at a time. Roxie barks at everybody she see’s, and quite loudly.
There is no such thing as a pleasant evening out on the patio, enjoying the quiet sounds of nature. Her owner doesn’t even peek her head out of the door and tell her to hush.
My own dog makes a peep, and there I am, telling her to be quiet, because I don’t want to disturb anyone.
That’s because of you, Mr. Rogers. It’s called respect.
Bass Truck Guy
As soon as the weather warms up, a low thud emanates from the parking lot.
Yup, it’s Bass Truck Guy. He puts on some kind of hip-hop and cranks his fucking bass up all the way. (Pardon my french, Mr. Rogers.)
It gets louder and more annoying, until my walls are shaking. I have the desire to take a baseball bat and smash the hell out of his speakers.
I don’t though, mainly because I wouldn’t last one day in prison without ending up someones bitch.
Andrew and Co.
Every once in a while, a kid isn’t exactly cute.
Across the way, 4-year-old Andrew (not Andy) lives with his two insanely loud parents. It seems as though they have taught their offspring how to shout.
He has perfect use of his vocal cords.
He sounds like a Muppet that just did some whippets.
I got a special show last night, as Andrew said goodbye to each and every family member in his drive-way.
Ugh, finally. No, wait, not quite done yet.
For the love of all that is holy, please shut up.
Nope, she’s still there. Now she is having a loud conversation with Andrews mother.
They’re going to the mall today.
Eventually, they start to say farewell again.
Fucking hot damn, Mr. Rogers. Can you feel my pain?
“GOODBYE GRAMMA!” I yelled.
(My husbands loud guffaw was heard from downstairs.)
Next up, Uncle Harley Davidson.
I had no other choice but to close my bedroom window, so I could get some much-needed beauty rest.
Yes, my bedtime is earlier than a small child’s.
So, you see, Mr. Rogers? The people in my neighborhood mustn’t have watched your show. They are all kinds of stupid, wrapped up like a douche in the middle of the night.
Screw this, I’m going to The Land of Make Believe.