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Posts Tagged ‘the Next Doors’

Dear the bearded shirtless man (a.k.a., the patriarchal figure (presumably) of the Next Doors),

By all accounts, it is still October.  When I left this morning, barely beating out the sunrise, it was approximately thirty degrees, not even counting windchill.  I was wearing multiple layers and a winter coat.  You were… not.  You were, at seven in the morning, in October, in the Northeast, sitting on your porch, as bearded and shirtless as ever.  I appreciate that you bustled indoors once you heard me emerging from the safe cocoon that was my warm (oh so warm) abode, but it did not spare me the image of your vast, fleshy, perplexingly naked back shuffling off.

Does the beard keep you warm in the winter?  Is that it?  You don’t need all of those flashy Halloween decorations you put up circa-September.  When the small children approach your house tonight seeking candy, they’ll see you and be frightened enough.

Yours,

the Brain

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You know what they say. (You know, because they only say the one thing.) ‘Art imitates life.’ Wait, no, that doesn’t apply here. Hold on, I’ll think of it. Tortoise and the hare… nah… Um, a stitch in time… that’s not it, either… A watched pot never… nope. It’s on the tip of my tongue, here… Ah, yes. ‘If you make fun of your hillbilly neighbors often enough, you too will become a hillbilly.’

In my defense, the enormous couch on my front porch is just there for a few days, a transitional thing because it can’t go out to the curb for pickup until Wednesday. And because by actually physically moving it out of the living room, I am officially One Step Closer to actually getting rid of the damn thing. It’s temporary hillbillyism.

Of course, that was before Jason the Window Guy came to redo the windows. Now there’s a bunch of leftover wood from the frames and a smidgen of pink insulation (honestly, I don’t know why that’s there) on the porch. BUT, the Next Doors took a look at that and decided to up their ghetto quotient by removing the screen from their front door, so they can just climb in and out without opening it.

Who is the real winner in this scenario?

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Actual conversation overheard between some of the Next Door Jrs.

“Does anyone even live there?”

Some people live there…”

You heard it here first. That crotchety old man, who never answers the door on Halloween, whose beady eyes can be seen peering from just behind the tattered curtains, who’s rumored to have been dead for ten years? That’s me.

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It should be noted (should it? Should it really?) that currently on the Next Doors’ porch are six dining room chairs, a rug, a rocking chair, an end table, and what appears to be some sort of armoire. Now, I try not to judge, really I do. But seriously, what are they going for here? Is this a future locale for a Seven Dwarves cocktail party? Do they rent out to a brood of cats who like to nap on sun-warmed cushions and want to eliminate the window middleman? Perhaps they’re hoping to establish some sort of porch cafe for an upcoming B&B?

But the most important question of all may be: is there any actual furniture in their house?

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Things the Big Brain enjoys:

  • Well-done young adult novels.
  • Board games.
  • The 50 Cent/Lil Kim classic “Magic Stick”.

Conversely, things the Big Brain does not enjoy:

  • The Next Doors, who are a raucous bunch with, as near as I can tell, a revolving door as far as cast goes. The only constants I can determine are the mentally damaged six-year-old who likes to follow neighbors into their houses, and the bearded fat man who likes to sit shirtless on the couch on his front porch at all hours of the day. (Really, he is there and shirtless when I haul myself to work at 7:30 every morning.) The Next Doors tend to throw loud parties on the weekend, which I do not mind, complete with barbecue smoke that leaves all the laundry on my line smelling mesquite-y, which I do mind.
  • Cranberry juice. This is a necessity, good for cleaning out one’s, er, front plumbing, shall we say, but also something of an acquired taste. I have an acquaintance who swears by the stuff and drinks it – get this – for fun. Personally, I find her crazypants, from her loafers up to her belt. The taste is bitter, vaguely reminiscent of grape juice but not enough to con my taste buds for more than a millisecond at best, and seems altogether cruel, like most health food. And this is coming from someone who consumes no soda to speak of, and only 100% juice. A beverage elitist. Normally, I’d be all over this good-for-you drink. So what’s a Brain to do? Would I still get all the sparkly health benefits of le cran if I switch to a cran-grape or cran-blueberry or cran-pom blend? Or will that cran taste just contaminate everything it touches? (Et tu, Cosmopolitan?)

A side note: this very afternoon I found a spent firecracker-type thing on my roof. My roof. I’m looking at you, fat man.

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