bigpimpinmba's Diaryland Diary
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It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood
Ahhh Spring.
Warm breezes.
Flowers blooming.
Horny creatures buzzing around copulating wherever they damn well please. (In fact, this entry is an entry that describes the bug pornography industry that has set up shop in my yard
Love (YIP!) is (YIP!) in (YAPYAPYIPYAPYAP!!!) the�.
Excuse me�
PITTY-PAT!!!! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, COULD YOU PLEASE STOP THE GOD DAMN HAMMERING� (Shit. Wrong quote�.)
PITTY!!! SHADDDUP!!!
OK. I�m back.
I just had to go have a little talk with my best buddy.
Who�s your best pal, Pimp?
That would be Miss Pitty Pat, my fuzzy, cuddly extremely psychotic little pal that lives behind me.
Ain�t she just adorable? This picture is just about how she looks all the time, just barkbarkbarking her lil� heart out. Precious little bag of evil that she is.
You may remember my buddy Pitty Pat from last summer�s hijnks here.
She seems to enjoy driving me absolutely Sybil by barking at me, regardless of what I am doing.
Mowing? BarkBarkBark!
Walking by? YipYipYip!
Farting? YapYapYap!
Maybe you see my conundrum. I�m not a big fan of Pitty.
(I�m currently trying to contact Newman to see if he can �take care of� Pitty for me, just like Elaine�s dog-friend in Seinfeld.)
Well, with the coming of Spring comes the soothing sounds that are the whir and hum of lawn equipment as proud homeowners (huh huh) cut their lawns and trim their bushes.
But not at the Pimp Household.
The state of the Pimp compound has been quite appalling in the lawn-care department. Between the shitting of my pants and a few other sets of extenuating circumstances that have been going on in my Casa have precluded the cutting of the lawn. This has made it a wee bit difficult to fit in cutting the lawn instead of taking care of the explosive asses in my house. Call my priorities crazy.
Well, it really got a little ridiculous as most of my neighbors had cut their grass a minimum of twice, while I hadn�t even gotten to cut it once.
Now, some of my neighbors have never had what you may call a green thumb. In fact, I�ve seen my next door neighbor George let his lawn grow to a point where his 4-year old literally has a hard time seeing over the grass in the back yard. But this year, George has been on top of his lawn like Michael Jackson on NAMBLA website updates.
Of course, I�m all sorts of �What the�.?�
I found out, when I got home from work early one day, George�s secret�.
That bastard has a stable of Mexicans taking care of his lawn for him. Que Pasa with that? That showing-up bastard. He knows that I can�t afford Mexicans of my own to make my lawn look all pretty.
It had gotten to a point where I would have to duck into my house quickly after I pull up in front of my house after work, just to avoid the snarling and spitting of my neighbors for bringing down the values in thetrailer park errrrr�. Neighborhood.
You can see by the picture just how deep my lawn had actually gotten. My dogs may not look like the massive, mutant K-9�s that they are in the picture, so I made our pet T-Rex get in for scale too.
One reason that I couldn�t cut my lawn was because I couldn�t get my friggin lawnmower to start. Some of you may recall that I bought myself a brandy-new lawnmower at the end of last season and I was very proud of my new piece of machinery. There was absolutely no reason that I could figure that my new mower should not start.
I came home one night after struggling with my mower to have my younger, FEMALE cousin tell me�. �You know that you should drain the fuel at the end of the season or your mower may not start in the spring, right?�
Me, �uhhhhh�.. Of course.�
Cousin, �You really are a dumb ass, aren�t you.�
Me, �Uhhhhhh��. You want to watch some Three Stooges with me?�
Well, I finally got the lawnmower started and that bitch is purring like a kitten and was cutting the front lawn, just to try to get the neighbors to stop staring at me and my Little Shop of Horrors-esque plant life in the more noticeable front yard.
When I get to the back yard, I have to do a �poop patrol� before I start mowing. The alternative is to have my mower grab every errant pile of feces on the ground and have it throw the shit in every conceivable direction, including at me. Kinda along the lines of an angry monkey at the zoo, taking a dump in his hand and playing hand grenades with you.
Ergo, the poop patrol before mowing.
I�m not sure if I�ve mentioned my neighbors behind me before, but they, along with their dog, Miss Pitty-Pat, are a real treat.
We�ll start with Ricky, the son. Instead of a true description, I�ll just throw a quick list of fun stuff that Ricky does or has done in the past that makes us worry about what type of future he has outside of the fry cook at McDonalds. Ricky is about 9 years old:
Ricky will stand in the back yard for hours, by himself, making the EEEEEEEEEOOOWWWW sound of a dive bombing plane, followed by the PCHHHH (I have no idea how to spell the throaty explosion sound, but that was my pathetic attempt. Deal with it.) He will do this for HOURS at the top of his lungs.
Drives.
Us.
F-ING NUTS.
Ricky likes to walk around his back yard, carrying a giant crucifix that he had nailed together using two pieces of wood.
Ricky enjoys being in either his pajamas or his skivvies. All day. Good times.
There�s other stuff, like when he says in his creepiest, Nicholson voice, �Piiiiiiiii-teeeeeeee. Come out, come out wherever you are! I�m not going to hurt you.� This is when I cower under my bed in fear.
There�s Mary Kate. She is the younger sister, who is probably seven. And she weighs no less than 150 pounds. And is probably 4 feet 4 inches tall. I�m not kidding She�s a big girl to say the least. We actually feel really bad for her.
Mary-Kate actually seems like the most normal one of the entire family, but has obviously decided to handle her issues by eating.
Then there�s the Mom. What a peach she is. Everything she says to any member of her family is said in a snarl. And at the top of her lungs. She is an awful human being and a terrible mother.
Dad, Ricky Sr., has obviously just about had it with Mom. He does as much as he can to avoid being in the same place at the same time with Mom. And I can�t really blame him.
Pitty Patt � You�ve all heard at least a little about Pitty. She is kept outside about 95% of the time (Summer/ Winter/ Hail/ Tornado/ ALL THE TIME) and nobody really pays too much attention to her. Lucky me, this manifests itself in Pitty yapping her fool head off at me or anyone in my yard as often as possible. Lucky us.
Well, today was apparently bath day for Pitty. The Mom and Mark Kate had dragged out an aluminum tub to give Pitty a bath. Remarkably, Pitty was pretty well behaved during the initial, bathing portion of the bath. The trouble seemed to creep in as it was getting to be time to rinse off Pitty.
The Mom was holding Pitty in the tub and sent Mary Kate into the house to get some water to rinse off the dog.
Mary Kate disappears for about 4 minutes and finally emerges with a bucket of water to dump on Pitty, do clean the soap off. Well, Mom decides that the temperature of the water in the bucket was too cold for her precious Pitty Patt. Mind you that this is a dog who they leave outside, regardless of how cold or hot the weather is. I�m guessing that the Pittster is happy if they are doing anything more than throwing full cans of beer at her.
Well, Mom screams at Mary-Kate and tells her to go inside and get some warmer water to rinse off their precious little mutt.
I hope you can see where this is headed�. Mary Kate disappears for another 4 minutes to get a fresh bucket of water. When she gets back, I was privy to the following exchange�. (This is just about exactly what they said):
Mary-Kate: �Here�s the water, Mom.�
Mom: �THAT WATER IS ICE COLD!!!!!�
Mary-Kate: �I�m sorry, Mommy. I did my best.�
Mom (And this is a quote): �I SWEAR TO GOD. YOU ARE ABSOLUTELY USELESS!!!�
So, then, Mom yells at Mary Kate to hold the dog while she goes inside and gets a new bucket of water, which is the right temperature. I reiterate that Miss Pitty Patt is a dog that almost never sets foot inside their house, whether it is snowing, sleeting or hailing outside and -50C. I seem to think that Pitty wouldn�t give a rat�s ass whether the water was a bit chilly, so long as it isn�t a bunch of ice cubes being dumped on her.
And this is all going on, Mom screaming at the top of her lungs at her kids without shame, with me literally standing about 25 feet away. And it�s not like she doesn�t know that I�m there. She actually said hello to me about 49 seconds before beginning to lay into her daughter at full volume.
Now, I�m in a bit of a quandary.
Do I root for this poor little girl�s future well being and mental health and hope that Pitty Patt stays in the tub while Mom is in the house?
Or�.
Do I root for Pitty to jump out of the tub and run away, rolling in the mud and shit in her yard while Mom is in the house?
Hmmmm�.
It�s like the scene from Animal house with a DevilPimp on one shoulder and an AngelPimp on the other.
Devil: �Run Pitty. Run like the wind!�
Angel: �Stay Pitty, stay in that tub. Let the girl have 10 minutes of sanity without her white-trash mother yelling at her.�
It was probably a little wrong that I had a pennant made for the occasion, but what the heck, you know?
Knowing how much I hate these people, I guess you all know who actually sat down and openly rooted for Pitty to make a run for it, even egging her on.
I am awful. It�s not like this one situation wasn�t just another in a string of bad parenting. It�s just that I don�t get to see the other instances of stellar parenthood taking place mere feet from our back door.
Well, the angel actually got it�s wish and Pitty stayed put.
Serves me right for being a complete bastard.
I can�t wait to see what summer has in store for us.
5:47 p.m. - 2005-05-12
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