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I Dare You. I Double Dare You Motherfucker .

One bad thing about living in a warm climate, are the fucking renters. The assholes who come down here for one or two weeks a year and because they're on vacation, presume everyone else is too. Which leads them to do such things as crank their fucking stereo at 11:30 at night, with all their windows and doors wide open so everyone on the entire fucking lake can enjoy their music selection. What's worse? it was Crosby, Stills and Nash. Look, I'm all for shaking the house on a Friday or Saturday night, but when it's a school night -- and two days after fucking Daylight Savings, which has got me fucked up enough as it is? DON'T YOU EVER ASK THEM WHY, IF THEY TOLD YOU, YOU WOULD CRY No way man. I can't take this shit. But being the patient fellow, I thought hey maybe they had a bad day. So I'll let them crank this one song and then they'll quiet down. Right? SO JUST LOOK AT THEM AND SIGH beeeeeeeoooop! AND KNOW THEY LOVE YOU. Song ends. DJ comes on. Volume still cranked. So I lay there in bed for a minute, growing angrier with each passing moment. Is a little fucking respect too much to ask for? I decide to pop my head outside and see if I can tell where the music is coming from.

And as I make it outside and get my bearings I can tell that no, it's not just my imagination or being overly sensitive... they really do have their shit up loud. Which leads me to the seasonal rental that's four doors down from me. My normal nighttime serenade of bullfrogs and crickets is being drown out by some asshole telling me there's never been a better time to buy a used Honda. So losing patience, I yell out, "Hey turn that down please." No response. "Hey, TURN THAT SHIT DOWN." No response. So I can do one of two things, I can be 'that guy' and call the cops or I go over and knock on their door. By the way, I'm angry. Door it is.

So back inside I go to throw a pair of shorts and a t-shirt on, and I proceed to march through the vacant lot, feeling the occasional strain of spider silk brush against my leg, but I'm too pissed to really care. I make it up to their front door -- the only fucking door or window closed on the entire damn house -- and beat the shit out of the door pane. I see Middle-Aged-Fat-Guy towards the back of the house, sitting on a chair with his back to the lanai/lake. He hears me knock -- or more like sees me actually since now we had moved on to Simon and Garfunkel's timeless rendition of Mrs. Robinson -- and motions to someone else that someone is at the door. Middle-Aged-Skinny-Guy approaches the front door, stops a few steps away from it, and bends down to take a better look. I have a quick fantasy play through my head where he answers the door and I stick a shotgun barrel up to his nose. Heaven Holds A Place For Those Who Pray (Hey, Hey, Hey...hey, Hey, Hey) But as tantalizing as this is, I instead knock again to reassure him that oh yes, someone is indeed standing outside. He opens it and stares at me through bleary bloodshot eyes. I let a few seconds of silence pass to see if he'll be able to figure out why a bald fat guy he's never seen before chose fifteen minutes before midnight to introduce himself. He doesn't. "Nice stereo," I say while fighting the urge to strangle the fucking guy, "maybe you can turn it down because it's almost midnight on a week day?" "Oh yeah, yeah," Middle-Aged-Skinny-Guy assures me, his can of Bud drifting to and fro. "That shit is carrying all across the lake." "Yep, yep, I'll turn it down right now, sorry." "Thank you," I say as I turn and walk back down his sidewalk towards the street. Okay, Regulators, mount up.

I get to the foot of his driveway and the music still continues to blare behind me. GOD BLESS YOU PLEASE, MRS. ROBINSON I wait for the volume to be lowered. And wait. And wait. Sure, why should I expect this to be easy? Because that's what drunk people do. I should know, I usually am one. But not tonight. Tonight there isn't any Jack Daniels coursing through my veins, only rage. I shuffle and kick me feet, are you fucking kidding me. How long do I wait? Thirty seconds? A minute? What's the appropriate amount of time to let a nice 'fuck you' sink in? So back to the fucking door I go. This time I don't knock. I kick. Hard. Chips of paint from the moulding around the door begin to flutter down. A NATION TURNS ITS LONELY EYES TO YOU (WOO, WOO, WOO). Middle-Aged-Fat-Guy sees I have returned and with a tip of his Bud can, motions to Middle-Aged-Skinny-Guy that they once again have unexpected company. As Middle-Aged-Skinny-Guy starts his walk towards the door this time, I don't give his the chance to wonder if someone is really outside, my incessant kicking of his door pretty much puts that debate to bed. By now, I'm starting to hear a metallic rattle come from the bottom door hinge. Through the curtains I can see Middle-Aged-Fat-Guy reach onto a small table next to his chair and retrieve a remote control. A red light flashes and the volume lowers. I keep kicking, each one echoing through the now quiet house. Inside, a Beat-Up-Looking-Middle-Aged-Woman passes from my right to the left.

The door opens and once again I'm face to face with Middle-Aged-Skinny-Guy. Playing our little game, I let a few seconds pass before speaking, giving him another chance to guess why I'm here. I am decidedly less polite this time, I didn't ask, I spoke. "I thought I said to turn that shit down." "Yeah it is down, I just turned it down now." "You know we're not all on mother fucking vacation around here." "I just turned it down." I look over his shoulder at Middle-Aged-Skinny-Guy, who is staring intently. I turn and walk back down the sidewalk and hear the door close behind me. Now I'm fucking waiting. Fucking waiting to hear that fucking music get louder. Go ahead, I dare you. I double dare you motherfucker.

But no, my listening early only pick up crickets. I begin the trek back to my house, getting totally fucking creeped out every time I step through a spider web this time. Back in the house, I lay down to go back to sleep. And fucking lay there for the next two hours, unable to fall asleep because I'm fucking seething. Listening, praying they turn the fucking music back up. Nope. Cocksuckers. I finally dozed off and had a dream I set their house on fire. So if you don't mind another subtle Samuel L Jackson reference, take a little leap of faith with me here. Because enough is enough! I have had it with these muthafuckin penguins on this muthafuckin plane.

Well, I dunno about living the dream anymore -- it ain't 2006 anymore and it ain't like I'm rolling around in a new BMW 335i. Shit, for that matter, it ain't 1972 anymore, either. But trust me when I say this crazy apple didn't fall far from the crazy tree

But I do hope with every shred of my being, that this guy wins his case. By the way, the radiation levels from the backscatter x-rays? Ten times higher than the TSA had originally expected. Great job, fuckheads.

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