Sunday, January 23, 2011

An Open Letter to the Idiot with the Chainsaw

Dearest Neighbor,

  How are you this fine morning? I trust that you realize it is morning. Quite early in the morning, as a matter of fact. Were you aware of this? Perhaps not. Maybe you’re one of those people who leap out of bed without any concept of time, and then race outside to pull the ripcord on gas-powered devices that don’t have any “inside voice” settings. As such, there are a few things which we need to discuss.

  First, there are actually some people who don’t live quite the same lifestyle that you have chosen for yourself. These other people have rich and meaningful lives which they pursue with relish, lives that sometimes include activities which require them to stay up late on a Saturday night. When this late-night activity takes place, it is customary for these happy, satisfied people to not arise from their slumber at the butt crack of dawn. They instead prefer to sleep in a bit, and then have a nice brunch where mimosas are served and people have conversations in hushed, soothing tones.

  Now, having laid out the details of this alternate manner of living, a pursuit of life that may not be familiar to you and the other people that grew up in whatever horrid little country from whence you came, do you see how your tawdry obsession with the usage of fossil fuel-depleting implements, before the newspapers have even been delivered, might cause some consternation among folks who are still in their bed chambers when you attempt to jump-start the Apocalypse in your backyard?

  Second, what do you possibly have in that backyard which requires such vicious mechanical savagery? I know you don’t have any trees back there, you wiped all those out the very day you purchased that Antichrist of a chainsaw. Were you perhaps attempting to remove part of your house that you didn’t find particularly pleasing? Were you trying to instill some terror-based life-lesson into your children who refused to stop smacking their gum? (Oh, wait. You don’t have any of those, either. I seem to recall your offspring being removed from your possession some years ago. Those little urchins of yours were weeping with joy as they clamored into the police van.)

  And just to make sure you understand the impact of your recent actions, let me share with you exactly how it transpired that I became aware of your grievous hooliganism at such an early hour. I was in the midst of a very pleasing dream, wherein Ryan Reynolds had done something or other which required that he take a shower in my house. Being the gracious host that I am, I was standing nearby, wearing something revealing (translation: nothing), in case he should need assistance of any kind.

  Things were going splendidly when, to my utter shock, Ryan apparently let loose with the most resounding instance of flatulence that mankind had known up to that point. My infatuation with Ryan dimmed briefly, then I decided that some things could be overlooked in the name of lust. Then it happened again, with the shower door nearly being blown off its hinges. This was becoming entirely too much.

  Then my dream began to blur as bits of me became conscious, and I eventually surmised that the ass noises where apparently something else entirely. And the noises seemed to be coming from above my head. I slowly cracked open one sleep-encrusted eye, and the window above the bed came into view. By the dim light filtering in, I could tell that dawn had barely broken.

  And some idiot was using a chainsaw next door.

  I tried to ignore your heinous activity, flopping about in the bed and attempting to cover my head with various pillows and startled pets. But it was right at that moment that you, in your treacherous agenda, encountered an obstinate section of whatever it was that you were hacking to death. This inspired you to begin revving your wretched machine until a noise filled the air that could make grown men take their own lives. And you KEPT doing it.

  This reminded me of Thanksgiving days as a youngster, when our grandfather, bless him, didn’t really understand the anatomy of a turkey. Despite his ineptitude with avian biology, he was the head of the gathered household and therefore responsible for carving the turkey once Granny presented it to him at the dining table. Family tradition required that, despite being nearly faint with hunger, we must all wait for PeePaw to decimate the bird completely before anyone could take the smallest nibble of anything.

  And it always played out that PeePaw, slashing around with the fancy electric carving knife that some fool had purchased for him, would encounter the skeleton of this year’s creature, and would once again fail to understand that he should NOT cut through it. When he ran up against something solid, he would simply increase the speed of the knife until Tom T. would start to disintegrate and fly about, creating a mushroom cloud of death and poultry, with little bits of bone and stuffing raining down on the upturned faces of the assembled and terrified grandchildren. To this day, the mere sight of an electric carving knife makes me wet myself.

  So, neighbor of mine that I really can’t stand, do you see how your crimes of the early morning might have set me off a bit? Not only were you stupidly sawing at something that obviously didn’t need your intervention, but you kept revving. It was the revving that forced me to take pen and paper in hand and jot off this missive of passionate dissatisfaction with your very existence.

  In summary, should you ever again take it upon yourself to do anything with a gas-powered yard tool at 7am on a Sunday morning, I will not hesitate to immediately march to your house, even if I’m currently nude because that’s how I roll when I sleep, and beat the hell out of you with that freakin’ chainsaw. Because nothing comes between me and Ryan Reynolds. 


Thank you for your time,

P. S. And your house is ugly, too.

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