Another weekend has passed and I once again find myself embroiled in another unfathomable situation. Now, before you lay into me with your verbally spiteful tongue, no, I didn't set up another pyramid scheme in Florida in hopes of bilking retired people out of their pensions and using the proceeds to purchase glue and breath mints. No, this situation is much, much more serious and I feel that you, the assembled crowd, people I consider friends despite talking about you frequently behind your back, ought to be the first to know.
The truth is that I have contracted cholera. This isn't your standard run-of-the-mill case of cholera either. This is the real deal, the big budget summer blockbuster movie version of cholera as produced by Jerry Bruckheimer and starring Tom Cruise. Cholera, for those not in the know, is an acute infectious disease of the small intestine, caused by the bacterium Vibrio cholerae and characterized by profuse vomiting, muscle cramps, severe dehydration, and depletion of electrolytes. You may have occasionally heard your contacts on the street refer to this as something else, because that's what contacts on the street do but trust me, it's cholera. If you heard that it was jaundice, you would be incorrect and I would have to fine you $300 and take all of your spoons.
Actually, what I said above isn't true. Well, except for the part where I stated actual facts. You'll know they're true because I am referring to them as facts and not "stuff I pulled randomly out of thin air." Much to my relief, I don't actually have cholera but I wish I did. I can get rid of cholera with some medication and a few 40oz bottles of my favorite malt liquor. Instead, I have a psychotic next door neighbor who I truly believe is trying to kill me or, in the very least, beat me into submission while I beg for my life. We're not talking about some kind of playground bully-style beating. No, we're talking more on the magnitude of what a teenager does to himself while watching his first porno. That kind of beating. Well, without all the groin pulling. At least I hope he has no intention of coming anywhere near my bikini area. "That's daddy's secret spot," I'd yell while being pulverized into something resembling Hamburger Helper.
Seriously, I joke about a lot of things in these updates but I am, for once, being 100% honest when I say that this is scaring the living hell out of me. He has armed himself with a rather large block of wood which he uses to beat everything in sight ranging from his trash cans to the pavement in his driveway, all the while yelling obscenities and spending long periods of time glaring at my house. This guy could seriously burn holes in steel with the amount of hate eminating from his eyelids. Aside from starting his tirades around 6:00 in the morning with the aforementioned trash can beating, he has taken up regular patrols up and down his driveway, generally at either half-hour or hour intervals. Of course, by patrol I mean he walks around quite furiously and proceeds to bang his stick around like he's a blind man looking to cross the street. Additionally, if I didn't know any better, I would say that somewhere along the way he tripped, fell, and fell face first into an advanced case of Tourettes Syndrome.
Now I know what you're thinking, something along the lines of how could someone as sweet and innocent as myself get into this much trouble? Either that or you were trying to remember if you needed to pick up milk on the way home from work but I am going to bet on the former. Trust me, I sometimes wonder the same thing. But hey, they killed Jesus didn't they? And he was supposedly a pretty great guy, making fish and wine and all that for a bunch of homeless people hanging around a field. I'm fairly certain that the level of noise eminating from my house during times of party is what's to blame here but, honestly, I can't be sure. I'm not the brightest bulb in the world but even I know that talking with a raving lunatic who is threatening your very existence with a large piece of wood isn't conducive to me seeing my social security money.
Still, I have a plan. It's not a great plan mind you, but you're not exactly dealing with Rommel or Hannibal here. Initially this plan consisted of hiding for as long as it takes and praying at random intervals that he might get a brain tumor. This plan, while enticing, isn't very feasible and will probably wind up doing more harm than good. My second thought was to try and rush him while he wasn't looking in hopes that I can get within range and hug him for a while. I'm sure that's all he really is after, a nice hug. But that plan had too many variables: wind speed, random arm flailing, and the fact that I suck and sneaking up on anything. Plan two: scrapped. On to the third and final plan which consists largely of me "working on my car" outside in the hopes that this timeframe coincides with one of his patrols and I can finally get to the bottom of this. Some of the more astute readers may have noticed that I put the phrase "working on my car" in quotes. This is because I don't know squat about cars and spend the entire time pulling at various measuring sticks and tightening already tight valves. This is pretty much the extent of my engine knowledge but let's just keep that between us. I wouldn't want to be known as a sissy or something. So, for better or for worse, I shall face him in mortal combat tonight at dusk in the driveway and hope that I live long enough to eke out part two of whatever this update winds up being.
The truth is that I have contracted cholera. This isn't your standard run-of-the-mill case of cholera either. This is the real deal, the big budget summer blockbuster movie version of cholera as produced by Jerry Bruckheimer and starring Tom Cruise. Cholera, for those not in the know, is an acute infectious disease of the small intestine, caused by the bacterium Vibrio cholerae and characterized by profuse vomiting, muscle cramps, severe dehydration, and depletion of electrolytes. You may have occasionally heard your contacts on the street refer to this as something else, because that's what contacts on the street do but trust me, it's cholera. If you heard that it was jaundice, you would be incorrect and I would have to fine you $300 and take all of your spoons.
Actually, what I said above isn't true. Well, except for the part where I stated actual facts. You'll know they're true because I am referring to them as facts and not "stuff I pulled randomly out of thin air." Much to my relief, I don't actually have cholera but I wish I did. I can get rid of cholera with some medication and a few 40oz bottles of my favorite malt liquor. Instead, I have a psychotic next door neighbor who I truly believe is trying to kill me or, in the very least, beat me into submission while I beg for my life. We're not talking about some kind of playground bully-style beating. No, we're talking more on the magnitude of what a teenager does to himself while watching his first porno. That kind of beating. Well, without all the groin pulling. At least I hope he has no intention of coming anywhere near my bikini area. "That's daddy's secret spot," I'd yell while being pulverized into something resembling Hamburger Helper.
Seriously, I joke about a lot of things in these updates but I am, for once, being 100% honest when I say that this is scaring the living hell out of me. He has armed himself with a rather large block of wood which he uses to beat everything in sight ranging from his trash cans to the pavement in his driveway, all the while yelling obscenities and spending long periods of time glaring at my house. This guy could seriously burn holes in steel with the amount of hate eminating from his eyelids. Aside from starting his tirades around 6:00 in the morning with the aforementioned trash can beating, he has taken up regular patrols up and down his driveway, generally at either half-hour or hour intervals. Of course, by patrol I mean he walks around quite furiously and proceeds to bang his stick around like he's a blind man looking to cross the street. Additionally, if I didn't know any better, I would say that somewhere along the way he tripped, fell, and fell face first into an advanced case of Tourettes Syndrome.
Now I know what you're thinking, something along the lines of how could someone as sweet and innocent as myself get into this much trouble? Either that or you were trying to remember if you needed to pick up milk on the way home from work but I am going to bet on the former. Trust me, I sometimes wonder the same thing. But hey, they killed Jesus didn't they? And he was supposedly a pretty great guy, making fish and wine and all that for a bunch of homeless people hanging around a field. I'm fairly certain that the level of noise eminating from my house during times of party is what's to blame here but, honestly, I can't be sure. I'm not the brightest bulb in the world but even I know that talking with a raving lunatic who is threatening your very existence with a large piece of wood isn't conducive to me seeing my social security money.
Still, I have a plan. It's not a great plan mind you, but you're not exactly dealing with Rommel or Hannibal here. Initially this plan consisted of hiding for as long as it takes and praying at random intervals that he might get a brain tumor. This plan, while enticing, isn't very feasible and will probably wind up doing more harm than good. My second thought was to try and rush him while he wasn't looking in hopes that I can get within range and hug him for a while. I'm sure that's all he really is after, a nice hug. But that plan had too many variables: wind speed, random arm flailing, and the fact that I suck and sneaking up on anything. Plan two: scrapped. On to the third and final plan which consists largely of me "working on my car" outside in the hopes that this timeframe coincides with one of his patrols and I can finally get to the bottom of this. Some of the more astute readers may have noticed that I put the phrase "working on my car" in quotes. This is because I don't know squat about cars and spend the entire time pulling at various measuring sticks and tightening already tight valves. This is pretty much the extent of my engine knowledge but let's just keep that between us. I wouldn't want to be known as a sissy or something. So, for better or for worse, I shall face him in mortal combat tonight at dusk in the driveway and hope that I live long enough to eke out part two of whatever this update winds up being.
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