How To Deal With Nosy Neighborhood Associations
Current mood: bitchy
I got an email from the president of the Hickory Hollow Neighborhood Association last week. I get one a month telling me to leave Stewart alone. I normally reply with an embedded picture of Peter North holding his cock with a little caption I add. One month it said, "This is what Stewart sees when he looks at you." Another said, "Keep bugging me and I'll tell everyone in Hickory Hollow this guy sneaks into your house on weekends for some pocket pool."
This month's email, however, was as aggravating as a hooker with braces. The gist of it was that I needed to remove the pile of dead wood branches at the end of my fence and spray for weeds along the cracks in the sidewalk, both of which are standard, stickin' their nose in my business, bullshit from the N.A. But these peckerheads communicate as well as a deaf translator.
"I'm dorry. The on-ee widkee derved in Fance id Dack Danul."
"Well, then I'll have the guillotine, Emanuel."
The email started with the line, and yes, I'm quoting verbatim, "While we will eventually take legal action if it deems necessary, we are requesting in a spirit of cooperation to take corrective action for the following items …"
Some men are raised by wolves. I live next to them.
My response to Jim Cleghorn, the long-standing president of the Hickory Hollow Neighborhood Association and certifiable douchebag, was the following:
I have removed the branches mentioned in this month's installment of, "How To Harass Your Neighbors," by Jim Clegnorn, Professional Nuissance. For the record, I would like to have it noted that the branches, which I own, were stacked completely on my property, for which I have paid almost $200,000, and were earmarked for use as firewood, making them recycled material used in an effort to reduce the carbon footprint of my heating and cooling system this winter. Since the branches were from trees that I own grown .. that I own, they qualify as self-sustaining energy elements.
It is, therefore, my deepest regret to inform you that the Hickory Hollow Neighborhood Association has legally compelled me to ignore local, state and federal government pleas to save our environment. The EPA will be in contact soon about your "regulations." When they asked if you were a fuck stick, I responded to the affirmative, though assured them you were, indeed, made of a polymer plastic rather than wood, like most good fuck sticks, and were, by definition, a threat to the environment.
It is also disappointing to report to you that I will not be polluting the air around Hickory Hollow with fumes from herbicides as you instructed. There are children and pets in our neighborhood and, unlike the Hickory Hollow Neighborhood Association, I have great concern for the health and well-being of my fellow human kind. The Westerman's daughter walks my sidewalk daily to catch the school bus. She has asthma. Your threatening letter to me may as well have been a direct order to murder her. I have turned over your email to the District Attorney's office to investigate your intent. I was unaware you had a problem with Shelley Westerman. For God's sakes, Jim. She's 9!
That said, I do realize that you are obligated by your oath to take legal action if I do not comply with your request. I welcome your lawsuit with open arms as I'm sure not spraying for weeds will be seen as less of a crime against the neighborhood than trying to kill a nine-year-old girl. I'll gladly give you my lawyer's contact information so yours will know who to make the check to for court costs.
And, because I too want to serve and protect the best interests of Hickory Hollow and its residents, I have also filed legal action against someone in our neighborhood for continually disobeying the wishes of residents and allowing a public eyesore to remain present. We have asked you, Mr. Cleghorn, on a number of occasions, to rid Hickory Hollow of the malfeasance in question and yet you continually disregard our requests. Your ignorance of our notices gives us no choice but to force you to protect our residents, visitors, potential property buyers and property values and, once and for all, abide by our wishes.
Keep your butt-ass ugly wife inside. She was walking your Great Dane last Thursday and if it weren't for the Mellow Yellow-esque hue to her drool, we wouldn't have been able to tell the two of them apart. She even squatted in Henrietta's yard and pissed. Your dog was noticeably embarrassed.
As always, if you have any questions, simply take a can of petroleum jelly and a dildo and sneak into Stewart's house after 11 p.m. ET.
Respectfully,
Logan A. Patterson
Currently
listening
:
Attack and Release
By
The Black Keys
Release date: 2008-04-01
I Haven’t Been In Jail But I’m Guilty
Current mood: bitchy
Category: Blogging
Guilt is a strange bedfellow. She sneaks up on you, puts her arms around your waist, rocks stead to the music, runs her hands down your thighs. Just when you're ready to turn round and see what enticing young vixen is ready to lay the deepest, most delicious kiss on you ... she punches you square in the balls.
Hi there. I'm Logan Patterson and I'm an alcoholic. That's not to say I've faced my demons and am sober. Shit. I'm four cocktails in and just about where I need to be. I just figure honesty is a good policy.
But I've been gone. No, I haven't been in jail. I've just been busy. Hibernation is what I call it. Winter time. Cold sucks. It's hard to pound out award-winning prose when you're finger tips are frozen. It's harder to be Logan Patterson when it's so fuckin' cold your balls have retreated to the same general vicinity as your pancreas.
And, of course, when it's cold outside, Stewart is inside. If he's not out trimming his bushes (God, that's ironic), I've got exactly 94 percent less material. Stupid fucker. Doesn't he know I've got a fuckin' audience?
He got one dandy of a Christmas present, though. I noticed he'd started using his fireplace. (He must have bought those gay starter logs at Home Depot or some shit because the only wood in his back yard is the horny squirrel that lives in the White Oak.) So, I set my alarm for 3 a.m. one morning, climbed up on his roof and put three chopped up snow tires down his chimney. The perplexion on his face trying to explain the tar stinch to the cops for an hour that afternoon was well worth the sacrifice.
Henrietta got a cat for Christmas. She brought it over Christmas day to show it off.
"How'd you like my new persian kitty, Mistuh Patterson?" she said.
"Well, Henrietta," I replied. "At least you now have one warm pussy in your house."
I'm not certain if this post means I'll be back here every day or anything, but I've felt bad I haven't been around. I've got a 2,800 square foot house and Michelle's got me painting everyting except her nipples. I've been working with a new client that wants me to work nights, so I'm not up late on the computer anymore and can't get used to surfing MILF Cruiser in the daylight, so the web hasn't been a priority.
I'm sorry.
Guess it goes to show you life goes on without you.
So, I'll try to pick myself up, dust myself off and get over the punch in the nuts from that bitch, guilt. And when I recover fully, the mind fucking will commence.
The Failed Exorcism of Logan Patterson
Current mood: amused
Category: Life
"Your presence is respectfully requested," read the letter. But Stewart made it abundantly clear there was nothing respectful about it.
"If you fail to appear, our next course of action will be to subpoena you, Mr. Patterson, and, well, then you'll have to appear."
"Got news for you Stewart," I said. "I will appear at your neighborhood association meeting next Thursday night, just like I've appeared at the previous three neighborhood association meetings I've been 'respectfully' requested to attend. You numb-nuts have never had to subpoena me and if you did, that would just be fuckin' stupid. You can come have your goddamn neighborhood association meeting on my deck, you fuck stick."
Stewart tossed his nose upward, turned and walked away. He's not happy I won't hide from the law. It drives him thoroughly insane that I fuck with him, his house and his prize-winning flower bushes but never quite get caught.
If you've never been to a neighborhood association meeting, count yourself lucky. This random assortment of self-righteous, nit-pickers is what tattle tales grow up to be. Each monthly meeting consists of a 30-minute bitch session about Milton and Estelle's kids parking on Cedar Lane, which is a thru-street with a no-parking ordinance. Then they go on for a half hour about Gary Walters's RV. There's apparently an ordinance against parking recreational vehicles in your driveway, too, and Gary extended his behind his back yard fence technically getting around the rule.
Five minutes or less is spent re-voting to foreclose on Clayton Davidson's house on the corner of Cedar and Tollhouse Road. He hasn't paid his $100 per year association fees in nine years. The association can technically take their collective liens on his home, foreclose and weasel the money out of his mortgage company. His mortgage goes up, the association gets its money, plus legal fees and the Hickory Hollow Tattle Tale Association feels so self-righteous they need a moist towelette.
The last hour of the monthly meeting is normally reserved for one Logan Andrew Patterson.
Jim Cleghorn, president of the Hickory Hollow Neighborhood Association and certainly a high-ranking member of some order of elk, moose, friar or swine club, actually carries a gavel to each meeting. He bought it at the "World's Largest Flea Market and Bazaar" just off the interstate in Shepherdsville, Ky., the week after he assumed association presidency which was in June of 1981.
"I hereby call this meeting of the Hickory Hollow Neighborhood Association to order. Madame Secretary, please inform the membership of any alterations or changes to the pre-approved minutes from last month," Cleghorn bellowed from his plump little self.
"You just told me the word 'dissuade' was misspelled, Jim," Wanda Skidmore said, thick as molasses.
With a sigh of annoyance at her complete lack of parliamentary procedure, Cleghorn said, "Very well, then. Mr. Davis, may we have a motion to approve?"
Stewart Theodore Davis, STD for short and the neighbor to the backside of my property, rises as one would rise to be classified as rising in a patronizing fashion and proudly says, "I move that we, the Hickory Hollow Neighborhood Association on this, the 15th day of November in the Year of our Lord, two-thousand alt seven, hereby approve said minutes of the October meeting."
"Dja get all that, Wanda?" I shouted from the chair inside the door.
Before Cleghorn could pound his gavel and admonish me for speaking out of turn, but just in time for Stewart's first facial tick temper tantrum of the evening, Wanda shouted back, "How do you spell 'alt'?"
"It's A-L-T, Wanda. What the honorable S-T-D was trying to say is 'aught' as in 30-aught-six shotgun. But he's an uppity college professor and must cascade condescendence upon us ignorant masses since it's technically spelled 'A-L-T.' God forbid the sumbitch just say, '2007.'"
The next two minutes featured gavel pounding, Stewart facial tick tantruming, murmurs of either giddy laughter or exasperated irritation from the 30 or so in attendance and me laughing at it all.
Now, before we proceed with this little number, it is important to note that the monthly meetings of the neighborhood association are held in the fellowship hall of the East Jefferson Pentecostal Church. Of the 10 Hickory Hollow Neighborhood Association board members, seven of them are EJPC members. Five of those are what I would consider devout, or to put it frankly, Lord Loony. They pray the place doesn't catch fire when they know I'm coming to the meetings.
After the commotion subsides, Cleghorn opens the official proceedings by skipping ahead to my part.
"Mr. Patterson. For the 14th consecutive meeting of this association we are going to spend a considerable amount of time talking about you. Frankly, this is becoming a hindrance to the forward progress of this body. After much discussion and consultation with our legal representation, which is in attendance tonight and will explain this in more intimate detail, we are setting forth for a vote tonight. It is a vote to draft a petition, that if signed by more than 50-percent of the 89 residents of Hickory Hollow will officially place a lien of $10,000 on your property as a fine for conduct unbecoming a neighborhood association member. This can either be paid in full within 30 days of issuance or waived should you elect to leave Hickory Hollow. This body has grown intolerant of your shenanigans, Mr. Patterson. Our community has grown intolerant of you, Mr. Patterson. And we are now going to do something about it. Ten Thousand Dollars or leave. Do you have any questions?"
"Yeah. Can you give me a second. I gotta go pee."
Cleghorn shrugged as I walked outside and called Kun.
"Go find 45 people, it doesn't matter who they are, but make sure most of them are adults. Offer them $20 each to go to a meeting with you, then tell them they're all invited to my house afterward for beer. Get 'em here and get 'em here fast."
Kun was confused, but said he'd go down to Beef O'Brady's and see what he could round up. I then told him to call Gary Walters's house, ask for his son Brad … the baseball player Gary follows around in the RV … and offer him and his buddies some extra incentive for a little fun.
"Sorry about that … nature calls," I announced as I returned to the fellowship hall. "Oh, and Stewart. Don't worry too much. It'll dry before you leave. Where were we?"
"We were awaiting your reaction to our intentions, Mr. Patterson," Cleghorn said rather impatiently.
"Well the first thing I'd like to know is why everyone … I'm sorry, not everyone … why the 10 high and mighties on the association board are so up in arms with me? Have I not paid my dues? Have I not provided beer for the Fourth of July picnic? Have I not salted the corner of Cedar and Hickory before 7 a.m. after every freeze using my own salt and not once asking for reimbursement? Have I not provided each of you with hours of entertainment watching Stewart Davis come within a heartbeat of convulsions at each of these meetings?
"Where's the love, Mr. Cleghorn? You call this a neighborhood association, right? We'll you can't have an association without the ass."
I kept close watch on the peanut gallery. Of the 20 folks watching, 11 of them laughed. I wouldn't need all 45 from Kun, but more was better.
Stewart looked as if he would cry and Cleghorn responded.
"Mr. Patterson. Here's why we are willing to move forward with a fine and declaration of unbecoming conduct. In the last year alone, you have:
• Given out association board member's home phone numbers to telemarketers recommending they call us next • Placed a live snake in someone's mailbox • Shot a lit arrow into a neighborhood association member's house • Convinced one association member to threaten another with Karate • Wrongly accused an association member of assaulting you with mace • Thrown theme parties for homosexuals in other people's yards while they were away • Paid five adolescents to deface an association member's property • Shot visiting – and association-approved – Jehovah's Witnesses with a power washer • Lit bags of animal feces and placed them on association member's porches • Spray painted the rear-view mirrors of an association member's car • Sculpted a hand giving the finger out of a association member's front shrubs • Replaced the snow tires of one resident's truck with modified beer kegs, creating a serious safety concern for them and their family • Placed 'Stewart for Dickhead' election signs in lawns without permission from the property owners • Sent prostitutes to association members' homes on family holidays • Paid 17 migrant workers to 'bathe' in one association member's swimming pool • Projected a full-color image of a flaccid penis on the side of one neighborhood house during trick-or-treat hour on Halloween
"And that, my friend, is on the first page," Cleghorn sighed. "Shall I continue?"
"No sir," I said. "I might ask the board to note, however, that only one of those accusations can officially or legally be linked to me and it is impossible threaten someone with Karate, which is a form of self-defense."
"Cut the shit, Patterson. You know you did all that!" Stewart yelled, snapping out of his normal, tenure-track elitism.
"Stewart, I'm quite certain you weren't called upon to speak," I responded. "Please continue to condescend in silence and undress Cleghorn in your mind."
The room was abuzz as the busy bodies and nit-pickers broached the image of Stewart and Cleghorn poop-shooting each other. Cleghorn must have gotten to the sight first as he nearly broke the gavel calming everyone down.
The neighborhood association's lawyer spent at least 20 minutes going over the various and sundry legal documents, by-laws and ordinances that permitted the association to levy a fine on a member. I text-messaged Hun with several car descriptions. (Don't get greedy. You'll understand in a minute.) He responded that he was on his way with 24 people, saying it was the best he could do on a Thursday. I'd have to think fast for the numbers.
The lawyer finished and Cleghorn asked me to respond if I wished.
I wished.
"President Cleghorn, members of the distinguished board of directors for the Hickory Hollow Neighborhood Association, association members, friends, neighbors … God," I raised my hands in prayer for the last entry. "It pains me to hear that this board feels my behavior is detrimental to the forward progress of this body. I work hard to never prevent a body from progressing forward, then back, then forward, then back again … faster baby … oooh yeah."
"It also pains me to know that I am thought of as some sort of outlaw hooligan, running roughshod over the neighborhood and its decorum. Frankly, looking around the room the only decorum I envision is PBR mirrors and velvet Elvis paintings, so I'm not sure what the problem is.
"To address your list of accusations I claim no responsibility for the actions, but do understand a bit more about many of them than you seem to have represented. The lit arrow went into a book on someone's porch, not inside their house. 'Defacing' property is a strong word to use to describe what a water balloon can accomplish. Power washers don't 'shoot.' They spray. No one told the Mexicans to get naked or use dish detergent in the pool. And as for the flaccid penis thing? Okay, that was me. But it was funny as hell and could have easily been mistaken for a scarecrow.
"I am not at all afraid of your little 'ten grand or go' plan here, folks. Neighborhood associations are generally fascist little aristocracies without rank or merit. Three or four numb nuts who don't like the fifth guy's lawn care techniques, get together and form an association, force him to be in it, then make him mow east-to-west instead of north-to-south. This is juicy prime rib for any number of lawyers eight times smarter than Mr. Tighty Briefs over there.
"But the real reason none of this bothers me at all is something the 10 of you clearly aren't good at: Math. Think about this, folks. I have seven neighbors who would rather stick their faces in Wanda's dried up cooter than vote for anything involving Stewart. Add my wife and me to the list and that's nine. There are 11 people sitting around this room that have not been appalled at what I've said, but laughed … sometimes out loud. That's 20.
"And then there are just the average, everyday folks who live in this neighborhood. The only way they know me is because I'm the fun guy always inviting them to join the cookout or have a beer. The only way they know you is when they forget to pay their dues within 30 days of your stupid notice and you threaten to turn it over to a collection agency. In fact, I think I see a few of them outside … hold on one minute."
I walked over to open the door. Hun and the 24 Ford factory, first-shift cocktail-hour gang piled in the tiny room, filling a U-shape around the conference table two-deep.
"If you need a little help counting, there's 24 people here, folks. That puts me at 44 – one vote short of more than 50 percent. Now you can gamble that everyone else will be against me if you like. Or you can assume that since I know Jeb Haynes across from Stewart enjoys Cuban cigars and cognac, both of which I have on hand and ready to deliver this evening, then I've got you beat before the game even starts.
"It's all about the math, folks. There are 89 people in the neighborhood association, not just you 10. You're supposed to represent us and our collective interests, not just your own. What this body needs is to have its priorities flipped over. Stop thinking about yourselves and think about your neighborhood. If you don't then the N.A. becomes the n/a … not applicable."
Stewart openly sobbed as Cleghorn ground his teeth together and dismissed the motion for the petition. The Ford gang and Hun headed to my house an admired Brad Walters's buddies' handiwork.
As I rose to leave, Wanda Skidmore interrupted whatever Cleghorn was saying.
"Mr. Patterson … excuse me, Jim, but I have something to say to Mr. Patterson."
"The chair recognizes Madame Secretary," Cleghorn sighed.
"Mr. Patterson, I just want you to know that despite your rude and disrespectful attitude and wholly unacceptable use of language in a house of God, I am going to pray hard for you. I am going to ask the Lord to come down tonight, tomorrow and for the rest of your days and fill you with the spirit, Logan Patterson. Because the spirit will take you and change you. The spirit will lead you to a better life, a better place and to being a better person. I don't like you much, Mr. Patterson, but the spirit guides me to love you and pray for you. I want the spirit to fill you and help you not treat us the way you do. I just wanted you to know that, Mr. Patterson. I'm praying hard the Lord will give you the spirit, sir."
I pulled out my flask, shook a couple ounces of Maker's into my pop bottle and said, "Well, Wanda, if the Lord's spirit tastes anything like mine, I'll have two."
By the time I got home there were 35 people in my back yard. Hun knows the code to my garage and with my kegerator freshly stocked, the beer was flowing. I'd stopped at the ATM to make sure the 24 folks who showed up all got a 20-spot for helping. Turns out only 16 of them lived in the neighborhood, but what the hell.
Thanks to Brad Davidson and his baseball buddies, it took a while for the 10 members of the Hickory Hollow Neighborhood Association Board to get home that night. I told them in my little speech they needed to have their priorities flipped over. When they finally made their way to the parking lot of the East Jefferson Pentecostal Church that evening, they found out that by "priorities" I meant "automobiles."
Wanda Skidmore called me about 11:30 p.m. and, as calmly as an irritated old lady could, said, "Mr. Patterson, you wouldn't have any idea how the 10 board member's cars got flipped over tonight, now would you?"
"Naw, Wanda. Can't say that I do."
"You sure? Because that thing you said about the priorities getting flipped kindly got us all to thinking you were up to one of your tricks again."
"Well, Wanda. I can assure you I didn't flip anybody's car over tonight. Heck, I was in the meeting with you almost the whole time."
"Well, I wonder how they got to be that way, then, Mr. Patterson?"
I’m Not Dead, I Just Smell Like It
Current mood: bitchy
Category: Blogging
Do you people realize how long it takes to get through 27 new messages and 43 friend requests, particularly the ones from 18 women with different names who all have the same fuckin' picture?
No, I'm not dead. And while I'm flattered so many of you were worried about my lack of a new Hickory Hollow tale, you have got to learn to let a man figure his way out of a 90 days for disorderly conduct sentence. MySpace don't work in TheirSpace, if you know what I'm saying.
The judge let me out after 15 days because I'd convinced all the other inmates the two guys in the cell next to me were plotting to put pipe bombs under the cafeteria salad bar. Everyone in the Jefferson County lock up thinks Ricky "Pud" Thacker from North Bullitt County and Elroy "Chocolate" Irving of West Louisville are Balsamic Terrorists.
As for the disorderly conduct ... guilty. The new chic at Third Street Dive mistakenly gave me rum in stead of bourbon. I noticed, but didn't say anything. I do like the taste of rum, but a double shot of the Captain instead of Maker's and I'd fuck a vending machine.
(Michelle was out of town visiting her mother. I was there to listen to a friend's band and keep reading ... I didn't do anything you'd hate me for ... I don't think.)
So an hour and 36 ounces of voodoo juice later, I'm walkin' down Liberty with two punk chicks thinking I might finally experience a threesome that didn't count a blow-up doll as a member when one of them says, "Hey! Let's get some Sushi!"
Sushi wasn't exactly what I had on my mind, but it was close.
So we walk into a restaurant called "Caviar" ... I knew at the door this could go nowhere but the county seat of Downhill ... and bellied up to the bar.
Caviar is an upity, swank Japanese steakhouse and sushi bar in downtown Louisville. At that time of night, the only people there are divorced CEOs and gold-digging ex-wives of other CEOs. I'm decked out in my Harley chaps and CBGB's T-shirt. The gals looked like they'd been attacked by a socket set. They had so many holes drilled in them their first names could have been Whiffle.
We sat down and ordered a round of drinks before we realized the late dinner crowd was staring at us. When one of the menapausal man hunters rolled her eyes at me, it was on.
After the senior VP of a local insurance company decided standing between me and one of those pageant moms wasn't probably good for his healthcare rates, I tapped her on the shoulder and said, "Ma'am, I do believe you just scoffed at me, but I wanted to make sure."
She peered up over her martini ... what a gay drink, by the way ... and said, "I don't think they serve Pabst Blue Ribbon here, honey. Why don't you try the next bar?"
"Well, I just came from there ma'am and your ex-husband took a couple seconds away from ramming his tongue down a 23-year-old marketing assistant's throat to assure me that you were next door and would fuck anything with hard-on and a credit card."
Well that pissed her off.
"How dare you speak to me that way you neanderthal?"
"Close ... Cro-Magnon. Neanderthals settled closer to Germany. You look like you've got a little German in you. Shit, you look like you've had a little German, a couple Polocks, three Iranians and a tribesman from Burundi, and that was last week."
Then Peter Knowsitall from the next table decided to get involved.
"Sir, I'm quite certain this woman doesn't deserve to be spoken to this way, nor do I think it's entirely neccessary for you to be disrupting everyone's dinner," he said, rather professionally I might add.
"Sorry, Malcolm Hinneywad, but I'm quite certain this woman deserves to be reminded that if it weren't for the fact she can fuck she'd have no purpose in life and I think it's entirely neccessary for you to get back to your Chirashi, ginger snap."
"Vermin," the woman spat.
"Vermin? If you're going to insult somebody, get 'em good. But make sure you know what you're talking about. The only thing that you can genuinely deduce from what I look like is that I'm drunk. Call me a lush, call me a whino ... hell, call me a cab. But don't call me vermin. I'd lay 10-to-1 odds I've got twice as many college degrees as half the people in this room, including you. The closest thing to a vermin here is either being souflee'd in the back or its that swampy, nut-eating rhodent you call a twat."
By this time the owner had called the cops and Whiffle Jane and Whiffle Mary had bolted (left, not added another rivet to their lip, cheek or nipples).
Two men were walking toward me, so the physical part of the evening was about to commence. I figured I had to get the closer speech out before I had to imbed leather riding boots in some investment banker's scrotum.
"I just hope you remember, ma'am, that everything isn't always what it seems. I'm not a reptile, a retread or a retard. I like denim and leather. You like silicone and mascara. We're not that different, other than the fact I've never been a trophy wife. But I've got news for you on that front, too."
"And what would that be?"
"Your ex-husband's trophy appears to have been a mounted carp."
Now that we have that out of the way, I'm just fine. Michelle is still pissy at me and we're not sure yet if the lawyer whose nose I broke is going to press charges or not. I left in handcuffs screaming that he was the one who cut my cheek even though a fork got me when the arresting officer slammed my head into the table.
And I got out just in time for the monthly neighborhood association meeting for which I received an official summons to appear. So there will certainly be more stories to tell.
Currently
listening
:
High & Mighty
By
Gov’t Mule
Release date: 22 August, 2006
bitchy
amused
