So it’s 11 pm and I’m finishing an article that’s due and the college-age/young professional “frat” boys renting the house next door are vroom-vroom-vrooming their ugly Akira-esque large cylinder Japanese motorbike while standing around with drinks in their hands. I march out and stand in our driveway with hands on my hips like a true adult dad and say in a rather loud but gruff (simultaneously frustrated and angry) voice: “Guys, it’s 11 o’ clock.”
One of them is walking to his car to lock it up for the night and I’m glaring at him and he has the audacity to say “What?” (as in “What are you glaring at?”)
“Dudes, (I actually say “dudes” for goodness sake, but several decibels louder now) it’s 11 o’clock!” And I continue glaring.
He explains “He’s parking it in the garage now. What do you want us to do?”
What do I want you to do? Let me count the things…
I think of saying “I want you to be quiet. I want you to move back to the bellies of the sandworms you crawled out of. I want you to neuter yourselves so you can finally practice silence and ensure you don’t multiply. Or is it just-wake-up-the-neighborhood-and-make-as-much-noise-as-you-want now? Because, mwahaha, I can play that game if you really want me to and I’m betting you’ll begin vomiting by the 27th hour of nonstop Kylie Minogue remixes at full volume. All the while I’ll be spinning around/get outta my way/I know you’re feeling me cause you like it like this.”
But then I have no desire to teach them that, like the POTUS, I too “invented” my own phrase and it is “GOING MENTAL.” Because they can learn that rough lesson for themselves after they’ve cheated on their gloriously selfie-obsessed girlfriends who, several years from now will divorce their sorry posteriors and teach them what MENTAL really means by defacing their sports cars with nail polish and eggs. Also, I have no desire to get punched in the face. I may be mental, but I’m not a Fight Club devotee.
The same dude who asked me “What do you want us to do?” — I’m now calling him Babyface in my head due to his lack of facial hair and his reversed baseball cap—adds another sentence before I can decide what level of crazy I actually want to unleash on these amateurs.
Babyface says: “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”
Ugh. He defuses it before it even ignites. And I was seriously spoiling for a chance to shout at full volume while beating my chest like a gorilla. Perhaps even mark my territory with urine. The problem with that idea is that I would need to be adequately hydrated and I’ve had 4 coffees today. So… raincheck.
Oh well. What can you say after an apology? Like a true adult dad, I mumble to myself while shuffling back into the house to finish my article.
Oh and that article? It is fabulous, darling, absolutely fabulous.
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(The top image is a wallpaper of Akira and his motorbike. My neighbor’s motorbike was white and green and tawdry. And sounded like a cross between a sonic boom and a giant robotic fart. Tacky, boys, very tacky.)