“Dirty Rats Using Garbage Suck”

I can’t stand drug addicts, and this includes alcoholics, because I personally think they are wasting the most precious gift that any of us could ever ask for, which of course is life.

There are so many people fighting to survive, battling some unforgiving circumstance that is beyond their control, while these people on the other hand do everything in their power to keep themselves in a comatose state, basically wasting what others are fighting so hard to keep and it makes me sick.

Now of course this doesn’t include all addicts, only those who openly and consciously choose to get high/ inebriated on a regular basis and do everything possible to stay that way, regardless of who they hurt in the process.

Before I have everyone jumping all over me and crying foul, let me explain why I feel the way I do.

Believe it or not, all addicts aren’t people who come from a dysfunctional upbringing, people who have a tortured soul and/or who are trying to mask some sort of terrible/unbearable pain.

There are some who do drugs just because they enjoy the effects internally, and disregard the effects externally to their bodies and to their loved ones, and those are the people I’m referring to in this piece.

I grew up with many people like this, and I witnessed firsthand just about any kind of addict you can possibly think of, all the destruction and chaos they caused, and the whole time never stopping long enough to inquire how their families/friends were holding up during the whole ordeal.

From the hard stuff like heroine and cocaine, to the prescribed stuff like painkillers and pills that are supposed to take all your worries away and make you feel as if you were floating on cloud nine.

And let’s not forget about those who let the alcohol flow, regardless of the brand and/or how it was obtained, like Niagara Falls.

Needless to say it wasn’t a pretty picture, not by any means, and not a lifestyle I would choose to entertain for me and my own, it was dark and dismal and actually very sad to say the least.

We are taught they have a disease; however it is us who have the disease.

They have to be the ones who are ill, because there are doctors/scientists who have told us so, "and we's two stewpid two think for ourselves ah duh", so it has to be true.

We make excuses for their behavior and allow them to feel as if they are the victims in all this, like they just have a very dangerous hobby and all our cares and concerns are only getting in the way of their good time.

I know when it comes to loved ones it’s easier to believe that, to think they wouldn’t purposely treat their bodies like a garbage truck and us like hindrance and/or pawns unless there was obviously something wrong with them, a sickness if you will.

I’ve been there, seen it for myself, and even at times made excuses and allowances for them as a result, so I know this to be the reality.

It wasn’t until I grew wiser that I was able to see the forest through the trees, I was able to see what was truly going on right in front of my eyes and all the dirty little secrets that we as a society brush under the rug to help us feel better about ourselves.

Now of course some of these people eventually wake up and attempt to change their lives for the better, to kick the habit and regain complete control of over their bodies, and that I’m all for and will be their biggest cheerleader. 

But it is something they must do on their own, we cannot force them to do it nor will any amount of begging and pleading make it happen if they are not truly willing themselves.

The bottom line is this, we must stop being enablers to these people and making excuses for their actions, because the only way they will get better, if that is even a possibility, is if we show them tough love and make it apparent to them that we will not just sit back and let them interfere with our happiness and well-being.

If they so choose to destroy themselves and waste the life they have been blessed with, then let them do so alone, that way there won’t be any collateral damage or innocent casualties.

This may sound harsh, but it’s the only way, we must toughen up and stop being just another insignificant piece in the game they are playing.

MJM

“Shopping Snafus”

I'm not your typical man, I don't mind going to the store and buying things like feminine hygiene products as most do, because I know there’s no way that the other store goers could possibly mistake them as mine, but then again in today’s day and age you never really know.

My problem is when buying items and/or a combination of items that I feel shouldn’t be sold in stores where you’re not allowed to come in with a mask on, that make me feel awkward, and even in some cases a little odd.

Would it kill them to offer you some kind of covering for you face when you walk in, like maybe something in a paper or plastic?

For example, I can’t bring myself to buy Spic and Span, and not because I don’t think it’s a great cleaning agent, but rather because I don't want people to think I'm racist…is that wrong?

I have a hard time (no pun intended) buying petroleum jelly, I just don’t want people thinking I’m going to bop my bologna when I get home, sure we all know that’s exactly what I’m going to do, but I just don’t want them thinking it.

I won’t buy any sinus headache medicine or Chore Boys in the store either, because I’m too afraid of people thinking I’m a druggie and calling the DEA, I don’t want the bad boys coming for me.

I don’t buy any cream and/or powder where its main purpose is to relieve an itch, a fungus and/or a rash, that’s just not happening for obvious reasons.

Also no hemorrhoid creams or lice shampoos, I mean come on do I really need to explain this one?

Thank God for the internet and free porn, because if I had to rely on getting my rocks of from magazines I had to buy at the store, let’s just say that unfortunately there would be many un-wet dreams to be had for this perv.

I can’t buy shoes (size 13 baby) and condoms at the same time either, separately they are fine, but together I feel like it kills they only positive stereotype I have going for me…let’s just say there are no Magnums in my grocery cart if you catch my drift.

I have a rough time buying gerbils at the pet store, mainly because I can sometimes be confused for a gay man, and well you know that whole Richard Gere rumor…no thank you.

Buying medication for diarrhea and gas, something else I’m not too comfortable with, I mean do I really want strangers knowing what happening back there, it’s bad enough they already think I have gerbils wrestling my rectum.

Do I think too much into things, sure I do, but I can’t help it, it’s just how I am?

Maybe I should get myself one of those personal shoppers, the people who love to shop for others and don’t care what’s on the list as long at the pay is right.

MJM

“Real American Heroes”

You may disagree with the war we are fighting and/or not be a big fan of the Commander-in-Chief, but don't let that taint your feelings towards the amazing men and women who give their all to serve and protect this great country of ours. Their actions warrant our love and support all the time and not just during designated holidays and/or when we as people feel the need to be patriotic, they deserve much better than that. They sacrifice so that we don’t have to, they keep a watchful eye so that we can rest peacefully and they diligently stand guard so that we can be at ease, just imagine what our lives would be like if they weren’t there.

“Forgot to Remember”…

It's easy to forget and to take for granted the many blessings that we have when we're not the ones on the front lines fighting the battle, but we must do our best to not let that happen and to always remember what we have and why we have it. We should salute our soldiers of the armed forces (past, present and future) every day, and thank them from the bottom of ours hearts for the freedoms, the rights and the peace of mind they have bestowed upon us, because without them none of that would be possible. Go out of your way to shake the hand of and/or to give a warm embrace to any person who has fought or is fighting for us and our country, show them that we appreciate it and that we are aware of their unselfish deeds.

“Foxtrot Alpha Mike India Lima Yankee”…

We must also not forget the families who are left behind when their significant other, their child/parent and/or their sibling decides to embark on this journey; they remain here with uncertainties as to what the future holds for them and their loved ones. These individuals proudly give so that we can be safeguarded, so that we can have confidence in knowing that everything will be alright and that the evils in this world would be kept at bay all thanks to the due diligence of their child/parent/sibling. They may lose a little piece of themselves in the process, but at the same time they gain a tremendous amount of respect and pride as a result of the actions and passion demonstrated by their soldiers. When you come across a family who has a loved one in the military, make sure to let them know that you recognize their sacrifice and that the absence of their family member weighs heavily upon us all. 

“The Military Machine”…

There are many components that allow this machine we know to function properly, and if we were to lose any part of it the whole thing would come crumbling down around us, so make sure to support and to show love to the fine men and women in uniform who make this world a safer place for us all. There is no amount of gratitude that we can express that is sufficient for all you have done for us and how we feel towards you as a person. With that said, I do want to thank you for your service, commitment and dedication to us and our country, I truly appreciate it and may God bless you all.

“Got Your 6”…

Keep in mind that some of our soldiers need more than a friendly gesture and/or an American flag flying outside your house. They need jobs, medical attention and/or a roof over their heads. They shouldn’t have to come back to our country, especially after everything they’ve done to keep it “our” country, to have to struggle just to survive. There is absolutely no justification for this and it is completely ridiculous and disgraceful to say the least. They fought for our lives, so the least we could do is fight for theirs. 

“A Personal Message to Our Soldiers”…

I have never served, so I wouldn’t even pretend to understand what it’s like to walk a mile in your boots, but I just wanted to share a personal experience that may be helpful to some of you. I have been down and out. I have been so low that I had to look up to see bottom. I felt like at the time, that the only way to find peace was to end it all. I can’t claim that our journeys took the same path, but I can promise you that you’re not alone and that help is out there. The trail may not be the easiest to travel through, but it is totally worth making the effort. You are worth it, and so are your family and friends. 

“Suicide”

MJM

“Links”… 

Please check out the links below, and if possible contribute to their causes, because you may feel that it doesn’t affect you directly, but trust me it does. They have scratched our backs, so now it’s time we scratch theirs.

(These are only a few charities, there are many more who would benefit greatly from your generosity) 

“Sunday Bloody Sunday”

I miss football; Sundays just aren’t the same without it.

Yes we have baseball, but truthfully I would rather watch the Cowboys win the Superbowl…who am I kidding, no I wouldn't.

I also know there's church, but it's not like we can sack the pastor and/or pour a bucket of the blood of Christ on him as if it was Gatorade for delivering a good sermon…or could we.

Honestly if we could I would frigging love it, church would kick more ass than a donkey punter and I would be there bright and early every Sunday, front row center.

Unfortunately though we can’t, we have to sit there quietly and completely bored out of our minds, kind of like being a Tampa Bay Bucs fan (sorry, I know low blow).

Now bust out those big foam fingers proclaiming somebody is number one and point them straight up to the heavens, because I’m about to take you to football church!

There are some commonalities the two share, like for example public prayers, Hail Marys and of course a person in a position of authority wearing a black and white uniform screwing someone over.

But what if they incorporated more footballsy things into church; it would really make it a heck (sorry for the harsh language) of a lot more interesting and would totally put more butts in those uncomfortable seats of theirs.

Speaking of their uncomfortable seats; or torture devices as I like to call them, what was the thinking behind that?

Whose bright idea was it to make sitting through a sermon just as much a pain in the rear as it in on the ears; this person must be fired at once or sentenced to a lifetime of being an altar boy at a church that gives out Viagra instead of those little wafers as the body of Christ.

Would a nice relaxing seat really be all that bad, I mean think about it, the reason most people don’t want to go is because the thought of substituting their cozy couch for a hard piece of wood makes their bums scream out in agony like they just sat on a freezing cold toilet seat.

Replace the horrendous benches with something more pleasant for the derriere and you may just see the attendance pick up, just saying.

Okay, enough about the seating arrangements, now back to the game…

Throw out the bible, send them to all the homeless people living out on the streets, and give them something to line their cardboard boxes with during the winter months so that they can keep warm.  

Replace it with sports card style literature, complete with action poses, stats (i.e. how many kills, how many stones thrown, etc.) and a piece of petrified gum.

Just don’t forget to throw in some rare cards to make it more intriguing, like Jesus miracle holograms and/or lost souls card which could include the spirits of people who ended up in purgatory.

Think of all the fun the kids will have trading them. 

Time to get things moving as if we were down by a score in the fourth quarter and we just hit the two-minute warning, so hold on tight because here we go…  

Smoking hot cheerleaders in short skirts shaking their pom-poms behind the priest also wouldn’t hurt, but please just no nuns in cheerleader’s outfits, ugh talk about nightmares.

A time clock would make things a little easier to tolerate too, because time flies during football season like a perfectly thrown spiral, but when in church it moves ever so slowly like a your time in a doctor’s waiting room, so knowing how much longer you had before you could rise up and fly out the door like an angel the better.

We all know that church already has a mascot, Mr. Jesus Christ himself, but he’s going to have to lighten up and stop telling everyone where they’re going when they die, unless of course it’s to the Superbowl!

Each church could have their own team name and colors, because nothing brings people closer together than being able to cheer on their favorite team while rocking out in their sweet gear.

We also must not forget about the holy trash talking, because what good is a competitive environment if we’re not able to tell opposing fans that by rooting for their church they are sinning and will burn in hell, like all those gay people, Democrats and just about anyone else who doesn’t follow our particular religion.

Having commentators give you the play-by-play of the goings on under the steeple would definitely spice up the atmosphere, especially if they shared all those dirty little secrets that are normally kept locked away like all those pesky Da Vinci codes.

Instead of just taking our money and not giving us anything in return, other than a new addition being built on to the priest’s mansion, they could really shake things up by allowing us to bet on the outcome of the service with the winner getting the collection plate proceeds.

Finally, get rid of the choir and have big name acts perform each Sunday, just like in the Superbowl halftime show, imagine going to church and seeing a Janet Jackson “wardrobe malfunction”…mmm chocolate nipple.

In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Football. A-Touchdown! 

MJM

“Facebook: Like it or Lump it”

In addition to the "thumbs up" button, they should really have a "thumbs down" and a "middle finger" button, that way you could truly voice how you feel about some of the nonsense people post there.

I feel like the “Facebook man” is keeping us down, telling us to either like it or lump it.

They want to portray this happy-go-lucky atmosphere, make outsiders think that all their users are shiny happy people without a care in the world, a bunch of Grateful Dead groupies if you will.

It’s almost as if they believe we all have a permanent smile plastered across our faces like the Joker in The Dark Knight.

“Wanna know how I got these scars? Facebook was a drinker and a fiend. And one night he goes off crazier than usual. Mommy gets the kitchen knife to defend herself. He doesn't like that. Not. One. Bit. So - me watching - he takes the knife to her, laughing while he does it! Turns to me, and he says, "Why so serious, son?" Comes at me with the knife... "Why so serious?" He sticks the blade in my mouth... "Let's put a smile on that face!" And...why so serious?”

See how mean Facebook is?

However we all know the truth, we are a bunch of cynical and miserable bitches and bastards who look at the glass as half full, and we’re damn proud of it.

We are a group of cumquats who are too hip for MySpace, but not quite hip enough for Twitter, so we find ourselves chilling out on Facebook like an ice cube in a tall refreshing glass of lemonade.

We don’t go with the grain and we don’t go against it, we just sit there like a bump on a log doing absolutely nothing, letting real life pass us by while we happily scroll through page after page of people’s useless thoughts, opinions and random crap that happened to them throughout the day.

Facebook is our life blood; it’s what keeps us ticking and what keeps as alive!

The problem is that the almighty Facebook gods don’t let us be ourselves; they keep us from genuinely expressing ourselves as if we were Madonna in the late 80s.

Now with that said, I suggest we start a campaign to show them how serious we are about wanting these additions!

We could really clean things if this comes to fruition.

Think about it, people would think twice before they just haphazardly clicked post after writing some ridiculous rambling.

If you want to fight the power, and rage against the machine, then click here and support the cause!

Now this is a cause we should really be sharing with every single person we know on Facebook, and not those stupid games, quizzes and/or causes for cures and stuff…just saying.  

MJM

“The ABCs of White-Trash”

Now this piece isn’t going to be about The Jackson 5 and their hit song “ABC”, or a trip down good old Sesame Street to get your learn on, so if you’re easily offended and/or looking for some of that wholesome humor that you would find on Lifetime then you’re in the wrong place.

This is a list of the ABCs of white-trash, a list of things that would make the Bundy's (Married with Children) blush, or at least feel a little uneasy about.

Here goes…

A is for alcoholics anonymous, because one needs something to do when they aren’t drinking. I find it funny that when they have their drunk on they don’t care about being anonymous, but as soon as they are getting help they don’t want anyone to know, it’s a secret. If you ask me I think these people are ashamed of the wrong thing. 

B is for bastard, which pretty much sums up all the kids born into white-trash families. Fathers are scarce in these families, at least ones that would admit to being the poppa without a DNA and Maury Povich. Mothers on the other hand really have no choice; it’s hard for them to deny that it wasn’t them blasting a kid of their lady parts in the delivery room.

C is for crack, and I don't mean the kind that is located down a plumber's back, which there is plenty of, but rather the kind that is white as snow and smells oh so great…or at least that’s what I’ve heard. This stuff flows like water in a white-trash household, more of a pastime than baseball is.

D is for drug test, they are to white-trash as kryptonite is to Superman. When one of these individuals is selected for a “random” drug test their stomachs turn, they feel as if they were just betrayed by their best friend. They know they are about to lose something that is near and dear to their heart, and I’m not talking about a job here, but rather something like foodstamps or their goodies (aka prescription drugs).

E is for eviction, because when mister landlord finally has enough of their shenanigans and decides to throw the bums out, an eviction is what they get. White-trash people are professionals when it comes to evictions, they know exactly how long they have before the big bad sheriff comes a knocking.

F is for fighting, fisticuffs and mouths running amok. It isn't a party until there is some scrapping going down like on an episode of Jerry Springer. Don’t get it twisted, they may all claim to hate the cops but they will call them when shit gets real, and unfortunately for the cops when they arrive on the scene they become the bad guys and are stuck in the middle of a white-trash hoedown.

G is for garbage, on trash night their eyes light up like the one working headlight on a hooptie, they get all happy and giddy because they know it’s almost time to shop. When the neighbors are nestled all snug in their beds, they hit the streets like gangbusters looking for all those great deals to furnish their trailers.        

                   

H is for hoes, which is unfortunately what all the female kind becomes when born under the white-trash umbrella. These skanks pass around STDs like Jehovah's Witnesses passing around their Watchtower crap. When their brother’s friends come over, it’s not to play Monopoly or Parcheesi, but to play naked cashier (they don’t play doctor because they don’t like to be unrealistic) with their sister.

I is for injustice, because anything that happens to them that they don’t like and/or agree with, it is labeled as an injustice. What, my car is being repossessed for lack of payment; but I’m only five months behind…what an injustice!

J is for jerk, because that is exactly what these freaks become when dealing with anyone in a customer service oriented field. They just feel it is their duty to make these people’s lives miserable.

K is for kids, and these freaks have a lot of them, from many different partners, they make BeBe's kids look like child’s play. They see dollar signs for every kid they pop out, foodstamp balance goes up and their excitement level follows suit, no more cheap hot dogs at their house. And from the birth certificate to the obituaries, these little sons of bitches are major pains in the ass and go out of their way to make our lives a living hell.  

L is for lice, what can I say, some families have cats and/or dogs as pets, but in a white-trash family they have those precious little head critters known as lice as their faithful companion. There is so much lice in their hair that they would need Moses to part them just to get a haircut.

M is for manners, which none of these douchebags have. They will make sure that you, and anyone around them, knows that they are just a few brain cells from flinging poop at each other and hanging out in the zoo in the monkey cage.

N is for noise, and white-trash individuals definitely know how to make it, and they love to make it at the most inopportune time and extremely loud. God forbid you ever have to live by any of these monsters, because trust me; you won’t be having a quiet nights rest any time soon.

O is for oblivious, which is something they all seem to be when dealing with real world problems/issues, but they sure as hell can tell you what happened last night on Big Brother or Jersey Shore without missing a beat.

P is for prescription pills, or as most call them, party favors. Take as prescribed means absolutely nothing when it comes to these little bad boys. They are eaten like candy, sometimes even kept in a Pez dispencer…one with a Rush Limbaugh topper.

Q is for queef, the ladies don’t want to be outdone by their male counterparts so when he farts she queefs. Also, regardless of which sex dealt it, they all blame it on the dog because it’s just the funny thing to do.

R is for roaches, these families have both, the ones to hold their little joints, and the big brown ones that come out at night when the lights go off, just like Batman. Surprisingly they don’t seem too concerned and/or willing to get rid of either any time soon.

S is for sue, and we’re not talking about a woman here, but rather the possibility of scamming someone, or some company over all with the hopes of scoring a big payday. These people live for the chance to sue, when an occasion presents itself they get all excited like a kid on Christmas morning waiting to open up his/her gift while mom and dad are sleeping.

T is for terminated, because nothing makes a white-trash individual feel as if they won the lottery more than getting fired from their job, because they know it’s now money for nothing and checks for free. Unemployment is their dream job.

U if for underwear, which is something that they won’t change all that often, that is unless you count turning them inside out as changing them, because then it is a little more frequent but still not enough to warrant good personal hygiene.

V is for violence; because when words just aren’t enough to hurt someone and crush their soul it’s time to get all fisty, stabby and shooty on their asses. That’ll teach them!

W is for work, which is something they try to avoid at all costs. Work is for the weak, for the people who like to pay all their bills on time and junk. And when they desire something shiny and new it’s time to hit the pawn shop to sell something they “borrowed” from their next-door neighbor.

X is for Xanax, they all take it and totally wipe their asses with the recommended dosage amount, because they are rebels and they are not having any of that nonsense. Trust me, they don’t take it to deal with anxieties/stresses in their life, considering none of them have jobs, bills or just about anything else that would cause a normal person to rip their hair out, so we all know that’s not it. The only reason they take it is to be like a kite. They say you trip when you take a bunch of it, but if you ask me, if I wanted to take a trip without leaving my house I would just watch the Travel channel.

Y is for yelling, which is an art form these kinds of people excel in. If it was an Olympic event they would take home the gold every time. They especially love to yell in public, where there are many ears around to hear all the crazy they spew from their pieholes.

Z is for zero, which is the number of times that a white-trash individual will brush their teeth and/or put on deodorant on any given day. What you don’t believe, try going to any Walmart and you will see I’m not lying here.

Well there you have it, the ABCs of white-trash brought to you by the mind of a man whose brain is stuck on crazy around the clock.

MJM

Now if you actually made it to the end of the piece without punching your computer screen and calling me something derogatory, then I got some other works you might like.

“Difference Between White-Trash and Redneck”

“The ABCs of Perversion”

“Five Reasons You Know You Live Next-door to a Jerk”

Guess what all you party people out there in internetland! I have a guest blogger visiting The Insane Asylum today…and yes she’s real and not just a figment of my imagination. Check out what she has to say about neighbors from hell from her own personal experiences, and when you’re done make sure to check out the links below for more about her.

So sit back, enjoy and show some mad love to author Nicole Maddalo Dixon!

Being a homeowner is a marvelous thing. First of all, you now have a real live, grown-up piece of equity, which means you have financial security. It also means you get to pack up your shit and make good on that promise to your parents to run away from home.

But there are negative things that come with being a homeowner. For instance, there’s Buyer’s Remorse, which, in our case meant we should have viewed the home during prime daylight hours instead of after 6PM, because our house gets no fucking sunlight. Our home is where light, and hope, come to die. Seriously, flowers and plants cannot survive on our property because…no sunlight. And then there is the worst nightmare of all: The goddamned jerky next-door neighbor.

Now these five examples all come from the neighbor my husband and I were stuck living immediately next to, in a townhome no less, for seven god-less years, but they also happen to apply to every jerk neighbor in the world, so it’s a win-win situation for the sake of this article, but a lose-lose situation for your sanity and criminal-free record when you finally lose your shit and straight-up murder them.

Non-Stop Parties

My husband and I came home from a decent, fun night out around 11PM and found out that we were suddenly living next to what was the equivalent of a frat house. Making this analogy even more precious is the fact that guests (and by guests I am of course referring to douchebags), were still arriving, and no douchebag guest would be complete without their douchey toga. Yes, this girl, in her late twenties by then, was having a real life toga party.

But Nikki, you’re thinking, that sounds awesome! I can assure you that no, no it is not. First of all, there is an ordinance against noise pollution after 11 PM for a reason, and that is to keep your black-market, nitro-amped speakers from blowing a hole through our wall, or whatever the hell kind of speakers they were (I know nothing about speakers). It is also so that I don’t have to suffer the loud din of your toga infested, douchebag guests while I am in the privacy of my own home and attempting to round off my pleasant day by falling asleep to The Bridges of Madison County.

And I’m not talking about the one-night-and-here parties, I’m talking about the every-Friday-and-Saturday-fucking-night kind of parties. Until 4:30 AM! That is NOT effing awesome! Do you honestly think I would lie about that? I wouldn’t do that to you.

And then there’s the fact that…

They Always Own One More Dog than Necessary

This jerk owned two dogs: One little rinky-dink one, and one big old fat one. Either way, both of them left their turds to fester under the hot, hot sun in the backyard that consisted not of grass, but rocks. What sort of jerk does that? I mean, really. Who makes a rock-yard for the sake of thinking it means you won’t have to clean up your little doggy messes and big fat doggy, big old fat poops?

That little one was always somehow hopping the four foot fence that separated our grass from their rocks and maybe taking a shit on our grass for good measure. And this jerk did nothing to curb her irritating little douche of a dog from hopping that fence. In fact, she even made it easier for that damned dog by carelessly leaving the gate that attached her property to ours open just a smidge. Did you understand what I just explained there? There were two hidden “jerk” red-flags in that one sentence. First, what type of self-entitled jerk installs a fence that gives access  the yard directly attached to their neighbor’s, and second, what type of jerk makes it even easier for their pesky, turd-producing jerk of a dog to get out of the yard and run around the neighborhood like a little, miniature jerk?

Then there was the weekend she went away with one of the random fellas she’d bring home from the bar (though she wound up marrying this one. Score one for desperation!). She left those ridiculous dogs, locked up I have to assume, in her bedroom with her freaking windows open. It was spring, and my husband and I had our windows open as well to let in a nice, pleasant, little springtime breeze, and apparently also the unwelcome sounds of two jerk dogs barking throughout the entire freaking night. Adding to this fun-filled night is the fact that that bedroom of hers is literally directly next to the bedroom of ours. Finally, at 3 AM, I went outside and left a note on her door that read, and I quote, “Your windows are open and your dogs are barking continuously so we can’t sleep. P.S., everybody on this block hates you.” Signed, Nikki. Yes, I absolutely signed that letter, because that’s how I roll and I would have liked her to dare try and approach me. She never did. She just hid behind the walls of that brothel townhome of hers calling me “the bitch next-door”. I found out about this little gem because…

She Finally Found Someone Who Was Also Equally a Jerk

Yes, as I mentioned, she managed to get one of the men she brought home on the weekends to stick around, and I’ll tell you why—because he had nothing better to do. She gave him a job in her gym, or whatever the hell it was she owned, and she let him move into her house because she had no self-respect or pride.

He showed up on our doorstep drunk in the evening after 10 PM to “apologize” for her behavior while my husband and I were discussing the horrifying and devastating death of a member of our family.

I did not want this brand new contending jerk to stick around, and so I accepted his “apology”, and then explained that we were discussing the death of a loved one and his memorial service in the hopes that he would get the hint and leave quietly. Instead, he proceeded to then apologize for our loss, and then proceeded to unnecessarily stick around all inebriated and wobbly-like, and continue apologizing for, and I can’t stress this enough, something he had taken no part in and so therefore did not know what the fuck he was even talking about. Plus, there was the matter of the alcohol that made damned sure that he did not know what the fuck he was even talking about!

He then asked me my name and said, during his speech of apology, “I only know you as the bitch next-door.” I had to know, so I asked him, “Are you for real? Is this how you give an apology for something that you have no idea what you’re even fucking talking about?” He then proceeded to again accuse me of dumping cigarette ashes and butts between “their” storm and entry doors.

I say “again” because…

He Accused Me of Dumping Cigarette Ashes and Butts between Her Storm and Entry Doors

So you see, this nightmare neighbor accused me of a crime I did not commit and, proving he was even dumber than I originally  thought, said he called the cops to report it. But he totally lied. Now I am a criminal justice major who graduated at the top of her entire graduating class (summa, thank you very much!), so I therefore knew that if he had indeed called the cops, that cop was on the other end of the line rolling his eyes. It turns out this was true because when I snarkily called to check up on his report, the cop whom I spoke with had a very good laugh over this ridiculousness with me.

Anyway, this asshole announces this imagined crime by telling my husband that I dumped ashes full of cigarette butts between her storm and entry doors. This is just simple proof that more people than just me hated her, because no, I didn’t freaking do that! He should have figured this out by the fact that I am obviously confrontational, and so therefore, have no use for doing sneaky things like dumping cigarette ashes between someone’s front doors.

This is how I first found out about him by the way, and I don’t need to remind you of the old adage “There is no second chance for a first impression”. Well, in this case, it was certainly true.

I was out that evening, and my husband was sitting peacefully on the porch enjoying a quiet summer night when this new jerk showed up to confront him (and he was drunk of course) about my dumping said ashes, and then proceeded to tell my husband that if I were more of a woman I would have confronted her. Now, if he knew what the fuck he was even talking about he would know that I had confronted her several times in the past which always involved me nicely asking her to be the fuck quiet.

So, my husband, understandably angry, reports this to me, and so I do what I do best and went over to confront her. But he answered the door. I told him, nicely (this was before I left that fun little post-it on her door telling her everybody hated her), that I did not in fact dump those ashes. So this confirmed genius asks me (the person who did not do it) where the ashes and butts came from then. “How the fuck should I know?” I thought to myself. But what I said was, “Well, there is a beach-bucket right there on your porch that’s filled to the brim with cigarette butts and ashes. Perhaps that’s where they came from.” I’m not even kidding—there was a beach-bucket filled to the brim with cigarette butts and ashes on her front porch. He said “No, they did not.” I don’t have to tell you at this point that these two jerks made it easy for just anyone to come along and show their dislike by using their own cigarette butts and ashes against them. But whatever, clearly they knew that the cigarette butts and ashes did not come from that bucket, and that I did it. I’m sure they combined their genius-level IQs and CSI’d the shit out of those cigarette butts and ashes between their doors and found out my tiny little ashtray did the trick and not that medium-sized beach-bucket full that was sitting right there on their front porch.

And Finally

I Did Nice Things For Her Always Without So Much As A “Thank You”.

Okay, despite leaving that really mean post-it on her door, I was nothing but genial towards her (no, I don’t know why. I’m just awesome, I assume). During all those parties I went out back and kindly asked her to turn it down, and this is how I was finally pushed into writing that note, because people can only take so much before they crack.

I also helped rescue that little jerk of a dog when it escaped for the umpteenth time through the smidgen of a crack she left between that intrusive gate and fence, and as she came outside to lazily attempt to catch him herself, she did so at the exact moment I put that dog, lovingly, ever so lovingly, back into her poop-infested rock yard and fucking closed the gate. She just stood there, silent, watching. I gave her a smirk. Seriously? No thank you for that? After all the hell she had put me through? I still helped her dumb little dog from becoming road-pie and she couldn’t even thank me. What a jerk.

If you live next to someone, or someone’s like this, who has at least 2-3 of this attributes, you may be living next to a big, fat, jerk.

The End

Nicole Maddalo Dixon is the author of Bandita Bonita: Romancing Billy the Kid, Book I, and was born and raised in Philadelphia, and now lives in Bucks County,  PA with her husband, Wallace.

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