22 April 2002

I've been renting the same house since December 1996.  That may qualify me as the "Fuckhead of the Century" for paying this shitbag's mortgage for (almost) fine and a half years, but that's besides the point.

About two years ago, my neighbors (to the west, for those of you anal assholes who need some sort of direction for everything to follow the plot) sold their house to this guy.  This KID, since he's younger than me, and since I'm over the age of 30, and he's under 30, I think I have been granted the right to call him KID by whatever deity you may worship.  Anyway, since he moved in, he spent months fixing his lawn sprinklers (which, as evidence by the lack of green in his yard as of today, don't work), but was derogatory of me if my bushes and yard weren't cleaned up.  Well, him and his twat live-in fuckmonkey (aka. girlfriend).

So, about a month ago, he, in negotiation with my landlord (fuckhead #2), planned on rebuilding the fence between our yards.  The original was a wooden fence, and the plan was to build a block fence in its place.  His (twat) girlfriend (who, I might add, I would fuck in a heartbeat, along with - or in addition to - her (female) friends) asked me if it was possible to keep my (four) dogs locked in the house while the workers erected the new fence.  I, being the jovial neighbor (and not trying to be the dickhead I can be if prodded), agreed.

When the date for said "doggie lockup" came and passed, I was curious.  And then I come home and see the fence between our two yards altered minutely and assume that the transformation of the fence has commenced.  I went into the house and looked in the back yard to see the original fence (the wooden one) closer to the house, much, as I assume, MacBeth would have noticed the trees closer to the castle (although not as dire a circumstance).  I went into the backyard where my neighbor told me that he moved the fence so that he could work and still allow my dogs use of the yard.  I thanked him for said maneuver (which was a cool thing at the time) and asked him how long before the guys were done.  He then told me that the estimates he got were ridiculously high, and that he would do the fence himself, but it would take a "couple of weeks."  Seeing as how he worked for a construction company (or at least did when he moved in), I assumed that he would be done in a "couple of weeks."

Well, days went by, and days, after seven, turn into a week (funny, huh?), and then a week, when coupled with another seven day stretch, turn into the plural, and when you have one week and one week, you have two, and most people would assume two to be a "couple" (kind of like when you and your 'significant other' go to a restaurant, you're viewed as a 'couple'), and soon, one would begin to wonder when the "couple of weeks" window was going to expire, or more exactly, how the progress of the block wall was going.  So this evening, full of booze, I, after venturing home from a long night of alcohol-induced silliness, peered over the "temporary" fence that was erected to view the progress of the more permanent wall, I saw this:
                    A wheelbarrow with cinderblocks in it;
                    His pool (green, a color that swimming pools aspire to be only if you are trying to prove a biological theory);
                    And not much else.
When I say "not much else," I mean "not much else" that would lead me to believe that the wall, agreed upon weeks ago to be "just a couple of weeks" in the erection, was, indeed, being erected (and for those of you who now are aroused by the word "erect" used multiple times... get a clue).  As a matter of fact even I, being NOT as classically trained as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's famed detective as some, in my rudimentary studies of the arts, could tell that there was an absolute lack of progress on the wall, which could only be paralleled by the absolute progress finding someone to service my winkie.  To put it more bluntly, as evidenced by my inspection of the "construction site," I'd get Natalie Portman to make me breakfast in bed before that fucking wall would be done.

Ergo, full of booze (much the same booze that I write this rant now), I wrote the following to my neighbor (and his twat girlfriend who, while not the subject of said letter, still lives there and is, de facto, a recipient of this):

Jason:

I was wondering how long it would be until you were done with the wall that you have planned on erecting between our properties. Normally I wouldn’t be querious about such matters in the abstract, but seeing as how summer is right around the corner and I would need access to the yard for my lawn service (among other things), I thought it would be nice if I was actually able to use the gate that is currently inaccessible by the “temporary” fence you erected, and seeing as how it is past the “couple of weeks” estimate that you originally gave me for the completion of said fence, I thought this would be a good time to, perhaps, nail down a more specific date as to when the “temporary” fence would be removed and the more permanent one would be erected, not necessarily in that order.

I apologize for writing this letter; I would just like to know at approximately what date I can use my gate to remove items from my backyard, rather than taking them through the living quarters of my house, not to mention the full access of the property boundaries of my yard.

Thank you,

Kenny
(8656 East Vista Dr.)

I know, you're wondering, "Well?  What, if anything, did he say?"  Since I put it on his door five minutes ago (and it's now 12:33 a.m. PST, and the complete lack of lights in the house lead me to believe that he - and the twat - are asleep), I honestly cannot give you an answer.  If it gets good, I'll let you know.