The Neighborhood Douche

Can somebody please explain something to me? Why, in the name of all that is sweet and holy and good, do some guys feel the overwhelming need to take a perfectly good, nice car and strip it of all its muffling apparatus in order to purposely sound like a herd of Hell’s Angels driving over bubble wrap, erupting with fury from the bowels of hell? Why? Why, bitches, why?

Take this guy who squats on a couch a few doors down from us. I know he squats because of the nature of his doucheness and the fact that he does not get driveway parking privileges. We’ll call him Neighborhood Douche. This is not to be confused with the DBV driver with whom we are all well-acquainted through driving the highways and by-ways of L.A., or by being semi-close to a high school. No, the Neighborhood Douche is a far more sinister creature. He drives a nice, reasonably new Mustang that is kept in good condition. But for some unfathomable reason, he finds it necessary to warn anyone within a five-mile radius of his impending arrival by breaking the sound barrier whenever he is close. And as if that isn’t enough, he also finds it necessary to accelerate up to 60 MPH through the residential streets and squeal around corners, I suppose to highlight his “2 Fast, 2 Furious” prowess.

I say “he” because I know it is a “he” for a couple of reasons. In my lesser inebriated moments, I have had to hear the impending douchousness and suffer the resulting douche annoyance shudders that always accompany the sound, followed by which I am compelled to glare out the window at said Douche and shoot imaginary bubonic plague-dipped darts with my eyes. In my more sauced up moments, however, it goes more something like this: I stick my head out an open window and shout at the top of my lungs, “Shut the hell UP, DOUCHEBAG!!!”

I also know it is a “he” because in my extensive travels of these mean streets, whenever I encounter the Sound of the Douche and whip my head in the direction of the offending party to express my disdain, there is never, ever, ever a female behind the wheel. Well, actually there was one once. But I am convinced that her Civic was in the shop and she was forced to borrow her boyfriend’s car as she was hunched low in the seat and seemed to be fairly mortified.

I guess the real problem I have with the ND is that he brings back bad feelings of a bygone era when we lived in Crackville, Venice. There was a person there whom I referred to as “Ghetto Honking Bitch”. And when I say the “bitch” part of her name, I don’t use it affectionately like I do with you all. Oh no, it was meant to represent all the vilest, meanest, nastiest attributes of the word. She would pull up in front of the house across the street, sometimes at 7 a.m. on a Sunday, sometimes at 3 a.m. on a weekday, but always at the worst, most inappropriate time, and always daily, and honk the horn of her ridiculous SUV like her ass was on fire. Talking to her nicely about it, screaming “SHUT UUUUUUUP” out the window, all had the same effect: It made her do it more. She was one loud, obnoxious voice in a sea of loud, obnoxious voices in that area – people who are noisy and don’t give a shit that there are people living nearby. They want you to hear them and your peaceful enjoyment of your home be damned.

So I have these awful flashbacks of previous unsavory living conditions and I run this imaginary dialogue in my head with the ND. It usually goes something like this:

ME: Hey… Douchenferry McDouchealot? Hey, can I just call you Douche for short? Great. Hey, listen, I was just wondering…. See all these cute little post-WWII houses? The ones with the lawns and flowers and stuff in front? See the kids’ bikes and toys lying around? See the cars parked in the driveways and on the street? Yeah, um…. I know this might sound crazy but um…. People like, live here and stuff. I know, who knew, right? People live here and watch movies here and have children who might be napping here and people talk on the phone here and see, every time you drive by, which is often, you are the equivalent of bad cell phone coverage that causes people to LOSE THE SIGNAL OF THEIR LIFE for a few moments because of you and your douchey ass. The douche shudders of annoyance are seriously cutting into my and everyone around here’s living time and you know what, D-bag? I can’t hang anymore! So you need to take your little douchemobile into the shop, get the standard factory-issued mufflers put back on the shit, and find some other way to scream for attention that doesn’t involve your neighbors, m’kay? Perhaps with loud clothing.

NB: Gosh, ma’am. Thank you for pointing that out to me. I had no idea my douchosity was causing such inconvenience, but now I see the err of my ways. I will get the problem handled immediately. And I thank you for your candor and your feather-light touch.

ME: It is my pleasure, Douchenstein. Have a nice day!

At Least I Didn't Get Dumped

So my FINAL night of deep tissue class last night actually turned out so nice. I will get to have a life again during the week. My Tuesdays and Thursdays will be free for me to squander as I choose. Yay! I got to have a lot of work done on my neck and head, which I love. I didn't get home too late and then slept all night (woo hoo!). John, my awesome teacher made us brownies and carrot cake and they were unbelieeeeeeevable. It was such a nice end to the whole experience of having to re-take that class.

And to cap off the night and make me so grateful I don't have to come back to that dump, I went to my car alone on the bottom level of the ghetto craptastic dungeon underground parking lot where there are always homeless people and weirdos about, and there was this totally shady guy standing right by the stairs with his back turned, looking like he might turn around and shank a cracker any second. I speed-stealthed to my car, thinking if he did attack me, I could pummel him in the head with my pillowcase full of sheets. Look man, I’m badass. I’ve got a case full of Ross discount special twin-size sateen sheets, man. You don’t wanna eff with me, man. I slammed the car door, locked it and squeeeeeee! burned rubber out of there, thankful I didn't have to open up a bag of smackdown, and realized as I drove past him that he was cracked out of his mind and was likely having a bad high or something and was trying not to be noticed.

This whole scene came fresh on the heels of my being told by one of the girls in my class that recently she got on the elevator and someone had actually taken a dump in it. Yeah. A dump. She doesn’t take the elevator anymore.

Has the westside always been this gross, or am I just spoiled now that I live in the valley?

White Trash A-Go-Go

In all the hoopla that has been my engagement, I neglected to tell the story of the white-trashiest house I have ever seen. Allow me to dispense with said story now.

Kristi and I were out walking the hounds in beautiful, cozy, diverse Chico. When I say diverse, I mean all over the map: You’ve got your college kids, your old-timers who have lived in Chico longer than God (i.e., Grammy), hippies, slackers, sportos, motorheads, geeks, sluts, pinheads, dweebies, wonkers, richies, they all think Chico is a righteous place (okay, sorry, had to go with the Ferris Bueller moment there).

Anyway, as newly soon-to-be-sisters-in-law, we were chatting away about all things deep and meaningful and pertinent when I was stopped dead in my tracks by the sight of this:

Holy crap! Now, don't get me wrong. I love me some mudflap girl. I have one on a wife beater that I wear out on nights I am feeling particularly sassy. I also have a very interesting pair of clear shoes that have the iconic symbol embedded right in the platform part of the shoe, courtesy of my adorable fiancé (man, that was fun to say -- fiancé, fiancé, fiancé) who has a wee bit of a shoe fetish. So those shoes don't see the light of day much. Okay, ever. But tell me, who actually has these anymore on anything other than an item that bespeaks some sense of irony or maybe costume jewelry? This is so old school trashy, I was struck speechless for a moment.

But then my eye took in the trashtastic glory of the rest of the yard. Somebody had taken it upon themselves to actually plant, in the ground, a big huge long row of SILK FLOWERS. Of all colors and varieties, but all silk, and all covered in a layer of dust. Planted. In the ground. Like we wouldn’t notice they weren’t real.

As we moved further along this display of tacky splendor, we noticed the backyard, which was in full view, had a garden gnome and a smattering of auto parts strewn about.

I half-expected Britney Spears to come trotting out and offer us some Cheetos. But alas, nobody came out. And we walked on, inspired and awed by what we had seen.

And speaking of inspired and awed, yesterday Kristi said the funniest thing to me that I have heard in perhaps a fortnight. She was complaining about her boss who has been, shall we say, mildly frustrating to deal with lately. "He's driving me to drink Arbor Mist every night," she lamented.

Oh. dear. God. How can you not love a girl who hits the Arbor Mist when the times are tough?

Something tells me I'm going to fit in just fine with this family.