You can get fucked. In a world full of shitty neighbors the three guys that live above us are by far the worst sacks of goose turds that anyone could ever gather. I would prefer a screaming baby or Sean Connery’s amplified voice playing on a rotating continuum saying things like “I’d like some strawberry flavored schnapps” or “I play the glockenspiel.” Anything would be better than listening to these ass muffins march around in what can only be high heeled cowboy boots or performance tap shoes. I cannot imagine how shitty they must be in real life if they’re this shitty just having to listen to them through wooded panels, pink insulation fluffies, beam workings, and… I don’t know what I’m talking about….what the hell are floors made of anyways? Well, through all of that.
I imagine one of them to be a 7 foot tall gormless ogre that lives under the draw bridge that he had specially made to fit in his room. The other two guys think this was a huge waste of time considering drawbridges are way out and that he should be more focused on how to appropriately angle his fedora (this is how tool-ey I suspect them to be).
Not interested in fedoras, ogre man tolls people as they enter his room as only an ogre does, pouncing upon them and demanding the change that nobody cares about. Along with bridge tolling (a dying craft really), he excels in clumsily march/stomping around and terrorizing villagers. It’s the combination of this giant monstrosity of a man, him most likely wearing Frankenstein platforms, and the raising and lowering of his fucking useless drawbridge that creates this inscrutable racket.
When we finally had enough of the douche-clouds carrying on as they please we asked our landlord for the key to the upstairs entrance (I have no clue why they gave this to us ??..we could murder..?) so we could knock on their front door and speak to them like adults rather than filing an loud and stumpy feet complaint (as adults do).
One evening when I was at my wits end listening to the endless stomping, slams, object droppings, whistles, break dancing, man-on-man tussling, and games of bowling ball shot put I decided to go up there and have us a talking with. I knocked on the door to no answer which was perplexing in itself because clearly he/it/they was clearly home. My roommate had since walked up to front of the town home to see me through the glass door aimlessly trying to enter an apartment that wasn’t ours. She came in, asked me what the fuck I was doing and then started to help with the forced entry.
Since the door was no longer an option we began tapping on their window to hopefully spawn some kind of urgency. To our surprise, the lights went off and a face popped in between the window curtains. FINALLY! The ogre. We looked at him completely dumbfounded like, why the fuck aren’t you answering the door? It’s two girls out here and we don’t have any flaming pitchforks so there really isn’t anything to worry about. After luring the ogre out from behind his protective curtain he eventually opened the door. I questioned him as to why he didn’t just open it from the beginning but he avoided giving us an answer other than just looking like a complete asshole hiding from two girls that were completely unarmed. Furthermore, he looked completely apathetic and was giving us kind of a “look at these annoying bitches” vibe before we even started speaking…dick. What he didn’t know was that morning I happened to wake up with a case of the “don’t-fuck-a-arounds.” Which meant today, I really didn’t want to fuck around.
Me, talking from out of my face: “Hello there. We live below you…and…..(my eyes wander towards the floor).. I can see that you’re wearing your boots,” I noted immediately.
Ogre nods, “Well…yes.”
“It would be of great appreciation if you could be a little bit more conscious of when you are pacing to-and-fro wearing your medieval knee boots as it is an incredibly loud noise for us that live beneath you my squire,” I said with a slight curtsy-bow thing. (I’m not sure why I spoke to him in renaissance peasantry. I guess when I’m in uncomfortable situations I use different era accents as a defensive mechanism)
What I wanted to say was: “Can you shut your colossal fucking feet up? How many ogre belongings can you forget in your fucking cavernous room that would call for you to lap it 20 times in an hour wearing man’s heaviest boots?”
He apologized and said he normally paces when he is on the phone, tends to never take his boots off and they have no carpeting. WELL. That would effing’ explain it. He shewed us off to return to his boiling ogre cauldron (or phone call) and briefly said that they would try and not wear boots in the house while pacing. Thank you?
In addition to the ogre, apparently Tootles from Hook also lives upstairs. He, as we’ve always known him, still has the clumsy annoyance of continuously dropping and losing his marbles. Every couple of hours a bang hits the floor quickly followed by what sounds like 50 rolling pieces dispersing from the original source and knees marching into the floor after them in obsessive retrieval. If it is Tootles upstairs, I would like to speak to him about couple things: a) Neverland b) his relationship with Rufio and if I can get an introduction c) bag options for his marbles. There are plenty of other carrying mechanisms (maybe just a normal bag with a zipper?) that would effectively hold the marbles rather than using a crushed velvet cloth rag with a draw string which clearly isn’t working. Basically, we have a lot to go over.
Last but not least, I’m convinced that the rogue fourth member of Creed also lives above us. He has by far the worst taste in music I’ve ever heard and will relentlessly practice songs about picture frames or whatever the fuck Creed actually sings about, maybe arms that are wide open? Whatever the case, he has the musicality of a swamp rat. Which says nothing and everything at the same time. He sucks.
On top of it all, the ogre, Tootles and the lost member of Creed are trying to collectively start a band. Which is horrible news for me and everyone on earth. So, during their weekly band practices or impromptu jam sessions we hear the horrendous beginnings of people trying to learn instruments. I’m all for creativity and jamming but their music sounds like farts.
I don’t mean to be harsh. I can also take criticism. I was told by my guitar teacher who had been teaching for 15 years when I came in strumming all of the cords he taught me at once that he had never seen someone do something so utterly and entirely wrong and that it would be in my best interest to just give up. Which I believe is the only thing a teacher should not share with their student.
All that being said, it will inevitability be a long time until I have a noiseless slumber or no longer fester a fiery rage for the upstairs fuckle tarts. Mainly because as I type this I can hear that the effing’ guy is wearing his boots again, the bag of marbles just dropped, and a song is gearing up that starts with….”Well I just heard….the news today….”
For fucks sake.