My stand on gun control, in rhyming couplets.

......Ha ha! No, Dear old First Nations would not do that to you. But I eventually do mention it, so there.

Everywhere I've ever lived I wind up next door to nutty people. Not loveable nuts or even wacky adorable nuts but pathological fucked up fucking nuts.

I got thinking about this when my dogs went out to bark at the neibors' cat this morning. The cat owners live across the lot from us in a big old house surrounded by overgrown garden. The whole fam damily is comprised of nutty people and so, in accord with the Nutty Peoples' Charter of 1756 they own an untold number of animals, mainly cats...much to the unending delight of my dogs, who enjoy the tasty snackfood they produce.

The daughter is a pallid, unwashed behemoth with tits like two mammoth unwashed behemoth conjoined twins dangling from her chest. She likes to stand on their back deck at 11:pm and shout gibberish at the top of her lungs (but only in good weather).
The mother is a tiny, tiny little wren of a woman who trembles like she's being electrocuted; the obvious source of her daughters' grooming tips. She seems to occupy the livingroom downstairs. I've peeked in...it's a warren of paper boxes and newsprint and dog crap and a cobwebbed Christmas Tree with an aging labrador retriever sleeping under it.
There are two sons, both redheads, twins, in their late twenties or early thirties. One escaped and lives at the end of the block with an actual female type woman.
The other remains at home, getting fatter and paler, emerging only to mow the grass. If you wave at him, and happen to catch his eye, he might wave back. Unless he decides to pretend he didn't see you. And this is painful to watch; he doesn't realize it's obvious.

Nobody has seen the father for going on four years now. When we first moved here he would wander around in the yard occasionally in his pajamas, but then suddenly he was gone. I kind of suspect he's the source of all this. Theres a good deal of pain going on inside those walls.


The last place we lived bordered a wooded greenbelt. Directly across from there lived a tall, rather handsome man in his middle thirties who was a foaming schizophrenic. I would be out working in my yard and he would stand right next to the surveyors' flag at the ultimate edge of his property, facing me across the greenbelt, and scream. Not words, just...screaming. Until the veins bulged out on his neck. He'd clench his entire body and tremble with the effort. After awhile I figured, scream at the fat lady's ass all you want; I'm still going to pull weeds.

Place before that, it was the guy who worked for the business next door. He lived in the parking lot in a camper. Every weekend some big ol' girl would come rolling out of the back all blearyeyed and hungover and drive off, and he would come out and sit on the back bumper looking straight in through my glass patio door, grinning like a Halloween pumpkin.
He opened the shop up in the mornings. As I was getting my daughter ready for gradeschool every morning you could hear him berating the help. "What're you doing, faggOT? You fucking FAG! Get the fucking RIGHT wrench and bring it here, faggOT! God! I oughta BEAT your ASS!" Oh yes... like the call of the lark at days first dawning.
One night he went through each of our cars, I know it. And sometimes at night he would walk around our house, around and around. I heard him out there a couple of times, and I found his fingermarks trailing along on the siding.

Back in Seattle, it was the upstairs neibors Melvin and Sheila. Melvin was a stewbum who always wore a white construction hard hat, and Sheila was his live in something or other. She was about fifty, weighed maybe 90 lbs - none of it where it was supposed to be - and she earned her living as a street prostitute.
This woman would go out in one of those 80's t-shirts that had been shredded into tassels and then beaded. Yes, sans brasseire. Yes, her long old tits hung out the bottom like a pair of athletic socks with a baseball in each toe. And she got play, kids. Kind of makes you lose faith in humanity doesn't it.
Once or twice a month old Melvin would get lucky and she'd break him off a chunk. What came next was a couple of hours of elderly 'OH, BABY, BABYBABYBABYBABYBABY, OH MAN BABY, OH YEAH BABYBABYBABY overhead, making the chickenwire securing my ceiling plaster flex, until she finally bucked him off. Seriously. I guess she'd get tired of it or it went on too long or something. You could hear him hit the floor like a sack full of antlers and then they'd get into a huge screaming fight...no more baby baby then; it was 'YOU DIRTY OLD FUCK! YOU GIT YO ASS OUT! THIS MY PLACE! I DON'T WANNA SEE YOU DIRTY OL ADD HERE AGIN!
She'd put him out of the room butt-ass naked. Except for the hardhat. You'd find him crawling along the hallways on all fours like that, or on the stairway, or the balcony...anyway, he'd wander around with his situation hanging out and his white hard hat until he passed out in one of the share baths in a puddle of piss.

Before that, it was a roomate. He was an official in the Church of Scientology. Chief of Public Relations. Oh yes. And an admitted child molester. No, I wasn't dating it. But I mean, we lived in the same house, and he admitted it to ME, folks. TO MY FACE. Like it was nothing. After all, he was a Scientologist and that was only some 'out 2D' shenanigans. But he was over it.
Meanwhile, here's me with a baby on the way? Yeah, I got the fuck out RIGHT QUICK.

Before that there was the 9th and Pine building, a virtual Roach Motel of weird. The freaky inbred landlord-family was right off the set of the origional Texas Chainsaw Massacre. All night long and all day long they spoke to each other very loudly and very toothlessly in stgrange, Kentucky-accented hooting sounds.
There were the Moron Lovers, two people of such identical filth, rotundity and feature that I still think they were brother and sister. They would sit out on their front stoop in the summer and neck for hours, until the spit ran down their shirts.
There was the car-dating Potato Prostitute who looked like just that; a Downs' Syndrome potato in white gogo boots. One day I witnessed the amazing power of heroin thanks to her...I was sitting out on my stoop one afternoon, and out of nowhere she plunked herself down next to me, pulled a spike out of her purse, nailed herself right in the foot, took a deep breath... and suddenly became a normal person. My God, I have never, ever seen anything like that in my life. It was like watching Lon Chaney in the werewolf movies, only she stayed pretty much as hairy as she'd started out.

But it turned out all right. Now the nutjobs are dead, or in another state, or at least live in another building entirely behind lots of foliage, where I don't have to hear them and don't have to deal with them.
But tell ya what, hippie or not, I own several guns.

God Bless the Second Amendment.
God Bless America.