Thursday, 7 August 2014

An Open Letter To the HillbillyTwo Doors Down

Dear Asshole Raisin,

Why aren't you in some kind of assisted living, eating Kraft Dinner and sitting in a pool of your own urine? You used to have a wife, who nagged and yelled at you with a voice like the maddening whine of a dental drill; what happened to her? I haven't seen in her in over a year. Did you finally snap and smash her in the head with a shovel, which you then used to bury her late one night under the porch? Maybe she died of bitchiness. Or maybe she left your wrinkled old ass, which wouldn't be surprising, since all you ever do is sit outside in your lawnchair, listening to country music and horking up great glistening gobs of lung butter which you spit onto the ground. Yessir, there's nothing more relaxing and/or appealing for my wife and me during our time in the garden than having to listen to you choke up a football of pulmonary mucus in between Taylor Swift and Kenny Chesney. Yum yum.

I'm sure that having to endure the agonizing decay of your own body while you're still in it makes you a touch cranky. I am not completely devoid of compassion and might be moved to sympathy for you, if you weren't such a miserable antedeluvian cunt. Maybe things were different in your cross-eyed corner of the world, Jethro, but around these parts, we're pretty good neighbours. We keep the lawn cut in the summer, we shovel the walks in winter, we park in our own garage, we keep our socializing tame and move the outdoor parties indoors past 11:00 p.m. Our car is not a massive throbbing penile substitute that can be heard three blocks over and our dogs are kept indoors. They do not bark, and when they do, they are promptly brought into the house.

So why all the hostility, Gramps? Why call the cops on us to complain about the noise when there were four of us sitting around the firepit, talking. No music, no yelling--it was a conversation, not a party. But you called the cops, who, when they arrived to investigate, weren't sure that they were at the right address because there was no disturbance.

And today, we came home from a hard day at work to discover that someone had complained to Animal Control about us having four dogs in the house, when the law only permits three. You want to bet that I called the bylaw officer to discuss the complaint, and yanno what she said? She said she visited the house today, saw three dogs, all of whom are licensed, and she was going to close the file. She also told me that the "complainant" was not willing to fill out a witness statement. So you know what that tells me, you fossilized fuck? It tells me that you feel entitled to bitch long and loud about things that don't fucking concern you, but you lack the balls to put your name on a complaint.

So here is how it's going to go from now on, Pa; the first thing I'm going to do is call the City and tell them about the handmade "No Parking" sign you have nailed to the tree (which is City property) in front of your house, despite the fact that you don't own a vehicle and you have three parking spaces in the back. The second thing I'm going to do is make my own goddamned call to Animal Control and have them seize that black, unlicensed cat of yours who comes into my yard and shits in my garden. And finally, you primodial prick, I'm going to report your backyard as a fucking biohazard. Don't worry, nothing will happen, except possibly a passing moment of embarrassment. That's assuming you have the wherewithal to be embarrassed when the Health Officers show up to find you sitting in a yard surrounded by discoloured clods of crud freshly disgorged from your bronchia.

It's on, Raisin!

Love and kisses,