As is the case with most townhomes, ours would be improved dramatically if aliens were to abduct our next-door neighbors and take them somewhere far from this planet, where they could live out their lives as an exhibit in some zoo-type structure. "Rednecks of Earth," maybe they could call it.
This is not to say that things are bad at the new digs. Quite the contrary, the first couple of weeks have been wonderful as long as you pretend not to notice all the boxes that are currently making up much of the decor. The commute is a dream, the place is ideally located for us, and most of the people living in the development seem nice. Even the next-door neighbors seem nice in a phony sort of way. They're just a little loud, a little weird, and, well, they're just losers.
Last night, I was getting ready to go into the front area to lock the gate. We wouldn't normally put a lock on the front gate because the area seems safe, but we recently purchased an expensive outdoor grill. Because you never know when some thug with aspirations of giving up the hard life and becoming the next Bobby Flay is going to be wandering our neighborhood late at night, we've decided it's in our best interests to make our new toy as inaccessible to intruders as possible. Frankly, if they can figure out a way to get a 200-pound grill over a five-foot fence without crushing themselves or an accomplice to death in the process, they probably deserve the thing more than we do.
Before opening the door, I peeked out the window and noticed our neighbors were just getting home. They were dressed up, or at least they thought they were. She was wearing a rather frilly red dress, and he was sporting a dark suit that had a true "rental for the junior prom" look to it. It was late and I wasn't in much of a mood to make small talk with the village idiots, so I figured I'd wait them out. They'd go inside, I'd duck out and lock the gate, and we'd be done with it.
However, about five feet from their gate, he stopped and faced the street. He appeared to be staring at the nondescript white truck parked at the curb. I began staring at it as well, and concluded it was no more interesting than it had been before. He continued to stare, standing stationary like a cat preparing to pounce on an unsuspecting pigeon.
Then, without little warning other than his fixed gaze on the dull white pickup truck, our neighbor began to projectile vomit a la Monty Python's Mr. Creosote in "The Meaning of Life." I won't go into great detail, but I was rather amazed at the force. Had he angled his head just right, I think he could have actually reached the opposing curb across the street.
I think the truck was spared, but I really didn't have the heart (or the stomach) to analyze the situation in great detail. I can only assume the lawn separating the sidewalk from the curb will never be the same. I also really hope nobody was expecting the driver of that truck to give them a ride anytime soon, because they have little idea what's lurking in the grass waiting to welcome them.
I am someone who actually goes out of my way to not vomit. Not to sound too much like a character from "Seinfeld," but I have not thrown up since 1988. I was a freshman at San Francisco State at the time. I was coming down with a flu, and in my infinite wisdom this did not stop me from eating a pepperoni sandwich. I'm not saying these events are all linked, but I've never eaten a pepperoni sandwich since then, and shortly thereafer I dropped out of San Francisco State to pursue my education elsewhere.
My point is, as much as I hate vomiting overall, I'm really against vomiting on a patch of grass directly in front of my house. Prom Boy had plenty of time to walk up four stairs, fiddle with his keys, and head straight for the small bathroom located maybe six steps on the other side of the front door. That's what I would have done. For me, vomiting is one of those private matters whenever possible. I guess we're all a little different.
For those wondering, I seriously doubt the neighbor's effort to fertilize the lawn had anything to do with an actual illness. I'm sure he said something along the lines of, "Man, did I get shit-faced last night," when he arrived at work this morning. You can just tell. Drinking is really the only thing a salesperson can do to convince himself he doesn't have a small penis.