This absolutely happened. You can’t make this shit up. Um. I made this up. (No, I didn’t)
Last Sunday, in preparation for Hurricane Sandy, my brother came up to my parents’ house, I carted the cats over, Dad got gas for the generator, and he and my brother blew the leaves so they wouldn’t be all matted up and gross after the storm. Around 3 pm, a weirdo neighbor that I’ve never met approached my brother, seething.
Asshole Neighbor: Do you think it’s APPROPRIATE to be blowing leaves on a Sunday afternoon?
Brother Banshee: Yes.
AN: I’m trying to watch football.
BB: I’m trying to get ready for the storm.
AN: But it’s too loud out here! Sunday is a day of rest!
BB: Listen. I work six days a week. This is the day I can do this. Would you rather I do it at 7 AM? Cause that can happen.
AN: *stomps off*
Then the storm hit, and it was pretty awful. We were extremely lucky that there were no trees on (or through) our house, but there was some pretty horrific destruction all around us. We didn’t have power for days, (we’re EXTRA lucky that it’s back on now – there are tons of people who are still without) and we could run the generator a few hours a day. Gas became impossible to get, so the generator was only run first thing in the morning and at night. Again. Very, VERY lucky.
My Dad and brother, being the investigative (and very bored) men that they are, canvassed the neighborhood to assess the damage. In their exploration, they passed Asshole Neighbor’s house, and saw curious packages, wrapped tight in garbage bags, at the bottom of his driveway. Brother Banshee said he saw something white in one of the bags, but they let them be, and walked further up the street. When they turned around and walked back, the packages were gone.
DUN DUN DUN!!!!!!!!!
When they relayed the story, I crowed “20 KILOS OF UNCUT COCAINE! He’s running a drug house! DRAMA!!!” and my family ignored me, as they are wont to do. Sigh. So typical. The next day, we were hanging out at the end of the adjoining street, which was closed due to trees being down on power lines but was still heavily populated by idiot drivers who don’t understand signs like “ROAD BLOCKED” and “LOCAL TRAFFIC ONLY” and “DEAD END”. People are wicked smart. So, being scandalously bored in the dark, and getting a little burnt out on Stephen King, I followed my family to the end of the street, where we met up with two neighbors from the blocked road. We stood out there, making with the gallows humor, and yelling at the morons who STILL thought they could go up the blocked road, even though there were now SIX PEOPLE standing in the road shaking their heads and yelling “NO NO NO”. Good lordo.
Conversation progressed to shameless gossip, and my dad and brother relayed the story of Asshole Neighbor And His Mystery Packages. Our two neighbors, sassy women if I’ve ever met one, deadpanned that they had found similar packages around their properties, and had taken the opportunity to do what we wished we had done. They had opened them. Awesome!
So WAS it 20 kilos of uncut cocaine? Nope. It was EVEN BETTER. The packages were jammed full of lingerie, dildos, and size 11 high heels. And if you’ve never heard a senior citizen that you’ve known your entire life say “dildos” ,well, you haven’t lived, my beloved little squirrels. This was shaping up to be an AWESOME day.
So what the hell is going on over at Asshole Neighbor’s? Methinks he wasn’t concerned about watching football last Sunday. Methinks there is an honest to god porn studio in my parents’ neighborhood and the leaf blowers were messing up the sound. And that, dear friends, is COMPLETELY RAD. My only question was why were these delightful items put out on the lawn, all wrapped up? Why did they vanish 10 minutes after my brother and dad discovered them? These are the people in your neighborhood, INDEED.
DISCLAIMER: Remember, this is
entirely true. I mean, I totally made this up. (No, I didn’t) Don’t sue, Asshole Neighbor! And keep your dildos to yourself, I mean, JEEZ.
Unless you’ve got James Deen stashed up there. I really admire his, um, body of work.