Dear White Trash Neighbors,
You will probably never read this. I don’t mean to stereotype, but you just don’t strike me as an excessively literate couple (Hustler and NASCAR fan forums don’t count). Anyway, I need to get something off my chest here.
I know it’s like a million degrees in Los Angeles right now and there’s nothing wrong with taking a swim to cool off. I support, one hundred percent, your right to sit out by the pool with your Unfortunately Named Dog (to protect your privacy, I won’t tell my 20-30ish readers that you named your dog Truck, though I’ve been tempted to call PETA about that brazen act of animal abuse. Why not call him Turd or Nutsack?).
What I can’t abide, White Trash Neighbors, is your apparently urgent need to blast really shitty music really loudly into the courtyard, forcing your neighbors (some of whom are getting ready for work or trying to write or figure out what shit they need to get done for their wedding in three weeks or d) all of the above) to listen to the likes of Metallica and .38 Special and Motorhead and all that other godawful cock-rock you so clearly adore, regardless of whether or not they share your intensely abhorrent taste in music.
I know your welfare check probably just came in (you’re welcome, by the way) and you want to celebrate the good weather with some Corona Lights and some tunes, but you share a building with several other human beings, some of whom are stubbornly attached to antiquated ideas like “peace and quiet” and “dignity.” I realize you might want to turn your music up to cover for the fact that your conversations routinely devolve into borderline domestic assault cases (I also realize, Mr. White Trash Neighbor, that it’s only a matter of time before your shirtless, impossibly white self is chased through our parking lot by the LAPD and camera crew from Cops), but there’s just no excuse to subject your neighbors to the kinds of fuck-lousy music you like to play. As loud as you possibly can.
Am I saying that I would be less upset if you were playing good music? Perhaps, but I’d still be annoyed at your rudeness. You see, being something of an authority on what is and what is not awesome music, I tend to listen to awesome music. But I don’t think you should have to listen to it, White Trash Neighbors, so I don’t crank it up to skull-fucking volume and blast it out my front door while I’m giving my beer gut a little sunshine time. It’s a little thing called courtesy and if a dictionary happens to be rattled off your shelves by the blasting music, you might think about looking it up.
And I know that, given the fact that you are White Trash (and let’s not kid ourselves, White Trash Neighbors. Racist Dave, who lives a couple doors down from you, is racist and you are White Trash. We must accept these things and move on), I should expect a certain amount of Metallica, Guns ‘n’ Roses, and other such inferior cock-rock stuff. And I have a soft spot in my heart for AC/DC, so I might smile to myself knowingly when you blast “You Shook Me All Night Long” the first time (but not the subsequent thirty times, White Trash Neighbors. That’s excessive).
But yesterday, you were blasting “Your Love” by the Outfield. The fucking Outfield. The only time I wanna hear that song is when I’m playing Grand Theft Auto: Vice City, because 1) the song is part of that game’s totally 80s soundtrack (which also features “2 Minutes to Midnight”, which is Iron Maiden’s finest hour), which leads me to 2) I can drive around blasting the song and pretending that every ass in which I bust a cap belongs to a member of the Outfield. They need to be punished for this shit, White Trash Neighbors. I fear that, by blasting one of their two hits (the other being “Voices of Babylon”, the title track to an album of theirs that my brother had on cassette when we were little. And you know what? My brother will cop to being a little bit white trash, but even he doesn’t listen to the fucking Outfield anymore), you might actually summon them back into existence and the only way to stop them will be to cross the streams and send them back through the portal into the ghost world (I just beat the Ghostbusters video game, so I know what I’m talking about here).
And the Outfield wasn’t your worst offense, White Trash Neighbors. God, how I wish it was. No, you chose – I can only assume out of pure malice – to blast “Right Here, Right Now” by Jesus Jones, even though it is clearly not 1991 and you are clearly not ten years old. You forced our entire apartment complex to listen to Jesus Scrotum-Scrubbing Jones while you danced about in all your pasty white glory. What kind of animals are you, to subject decent, hard-working people to Jesus Jones on a Wednesday morning? This aggression will not stand, White Trash Neighbors.
I can’t stop you from listening to awful music, but I don’t think it’s too much to ask that you keep that shit within the confines of your own apartment. But I know people, White Trash Neighbors, who can build me a proton pack. So if/when you do manage to summon The Outfield and/or Jesus Jones back to destroy us all, I will be there to stop you. With science.
In closing, White Trash Neighbors, I only ask that you 1) put a fucking shirt on (this thankfully applies mostly to Mr. White Trash Neighbor) and 2) consider your non-white trash neighbors when planning your daily activities. Most people in this building are not white trash, White Trash Neighbors. They probably don’t want to hear “Hold On Loosely” through their closed doors and over whatever undoubtedly better music they are listening to in the privacy of their homes.