How to Spot a Rude Neighbor

The houses in my neighborhood were erected over 100 years ago, which is to say before most families owned cars and before the craze of “talkies” invaded the silver screen. Parking in the street is therefore a precious commodity since most houses do not have driveways. Ever since the new rude neighbors moved in across the street there has steadfastly been an impenetrable wall of massive navy truck parked in front of my house such that I can’t park in front of my own house. I’m a reasonable person. I don’t hold grudges. I’m more direct and less inclined to leave a passive-aggressive note on their windshield threatening to key their car because they didn’t learn the number one rule of being a good neighbor. I will eventually twist off one day and ask the neighbors politely if they could park so I might access the fucking walkway to my house, but until then I’m going to stew for a bit and make fun of rude people on the internet. You, readers, are my virtual therapist, and I thank you for that.

rude neighbors

It isn’t the fact that they park in front of my house and block access to my walkway on an almost constant basis that sends me into orbit. If there weren’t any available spots on the street in front of their own house, then by all means park in front of mine, albeit don’t block access to my house-to-street sidewalk. The rub is from the fact that they don’t park in front of their own house. Like they don’t want to crap-up or low-rent how their house looks from the street. That self-centeredness drives me IN-SANE. My next door neighbors had a dumpster set in front of their house for over a month which abutted our property. That dumpster didn’t bother me one bit. The dumpster had a purpose and was not a rude physical reminder of how douchey neighbors can be. The neighbor on the other side has a 40 ft. tall bamboo forest in his back yard and routinely has guitar jams, but he is responsible about both. Approach matters.

The primary dark blue Monster Truck the neibs park in front of my house (they have two trucks as best I can tell) is larger than the dumpster was. It’s freaking ENORMOUS. It may not look enormous in this photo, but trust me when I say it spans half the length of the curb in front of my house. The tires are taller than my elementary/middle school aged children. You could squeeze thirty illegals into this truck. At least that would give it a purpose I could understand. There must be some serious over-compensating going on with the ownership of such a monstrosity. To prove it’s member-enhancing magical testosterone equalities, it is a full-size Ford  F-350 Super Duty Lariat, V-8 turbo diesel, F X 4 Offroad, 6.7 Power stroke. It’s the Ambercrombie & Fitch homo-erotic truck which wet dreams are made of. Which is to admit I have no idea how to relate to it other than to bristle and mumble inane epithets about it’s evil vehicular cousin, Christine. Or  perhaps its automobile brother from Stephen King’s Maximum Overdrive in which uppity tractor-trailers try to kill off the humans. I realize that I’m irritated by the humans parking the trucks and not the trucks themselves, but as I never see those people and I get to stare at the rotting blue auto caucuses day-in/day-out, I have developed an irrational reaction to the sight of them. “Fuckers!”

If that Truck-o-Rama ends up with immovable truck nuts/novelty testicles welded to the bumper, I officially have no idea how they might have gotten there.