Every so often, we come across a post so hilariously funny and misanthropic that it deserves to be quoted in its entirety. Michael Orell over at Metroblogs' NYC site has written just such a post in response to his neighbors waking him up at 4am last night. Suggestion for Mike: probably best to stay away from caffeine and sharp objects for at least a couple of weeks:
The following is the note I left on my neighbor’s front door this morning on my way to work after they woke me at 4am up with a wonderful symphony of screams, laughter and bloodhound wailings. Unable to fall back asleep, I scribed the below…
It’s all fun n’ games until you wake me up at 4am with the crashing of glass against our communal wall. God, I hate you. Why hasn’t one of you stabbed the other one? I will loan you a knife. Shit, you don’t even have to return it. That’s the kind of neighbor I am. Firstly, I wanted to address some of the points brought up last night throughout the course of your fight in an effort to problem solve. I think you’ll find my solutions most agreeable.
1) “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Thomas I believed you bridged this topic last night in response to Darlene’s vacation to lunacy wherein two minutes of uncontrollable laughter was accompanied by five minutes of sobbing. The answer you seek is “a fuckload.” The solution: stab her. Stab her good.
2) “Why are the police here?”
First and foremost, I wasn’t the one who called the cops. I’m a firm believer in uninterrupted mediation. The local constabulary only made things worse didn’t it? Something about your last warning and jail, hmmmm? If you didn’t make so much noise, nobody would feel the need to call them. Solution: stab eachother in the jugular. You can still fight all you want, but it’ll be like fighting with the volume on mute.
3) “Why don’t you fucking leave?”
Why doesn’t Thomas leave you Darlene? *Cough* co-dependent *cough* unemployed. I don’t know. You’re a diseased gutter squirrel and he should have stabbed you a long time ago. Solution: stab him first. You see him eyeing your stomach, that bulbous mound of veiny cookie dough you stuff with Kraft singles and Wild Turkey with? Any man who knows his Oz knows that’s where you shank your victim to maximize both the pain and the amount of blood loss. Better get him, before he gets you is all I’m saying.
In closing, die.
Yikes! Orell sounds like he could teach Number One Fire Perv Peter Braunstein a thing or two about sadism!