Hi! Remember me? I'm the neighbor whose front lawn you
destroyed turned into a parking lot a couple of years ago when you had that open house about eight months after you surrendered your home to the bank disappeared completely, then got it back (under mysterious circumstances) and moved back in with a new man (who, on off months, parks his car in the back yard instead of the driveway or the garage.) Yeah, I pay attention. Think Gladys Kravitz from "Bewitched".
I don't (particularly) mind the
daily occasional annoying high pitched squeals of delight that emanate from your twin daughters and their older sister or when they fight over every stupid toy the water slide, but I'd be remiss if I didn't bring something to your attention that has been bothering me since you moved back in about a year ago.
You have REALLY loud sex.
Several times a week
more often than I do in a year.
And, quite frankly, it's beginning to
make me jealous become quite boring predictable.
Remember that famous deli scene from "When Harrry Met Sally" that suddenly turned Meg Ryan into
a complete slut America's sweetheart? You sound just like her. In surround sound, but much louder. At all hours of the day. Even when your kids are at home. Funny, I never believed for a moment realized that they are hearing impaired going to buy that the sounds you make are coming from Barney. (I watched three episodes on Hulu to check my facts).
You see, this is where we have a problem. I
hate Barney really enjoy sex. Do you see where this is going?
I like sex several times a week
if and when I can get it as much as the next person. But I don't want a rerun of the same sounds routine. I like to change things up a little. You and Barney are running neck and neck.
So, as a favor to me, would it be too much to ask for you to disable the "Unh, Unh Unh UNH UNH UNH" feature as I am
rhythmically fantasizing about my own pleasure while listening to yours?
Or, at the very least, could you at least change
positions your routine?
Considering that when the process server knocked on my door and asked me of your whereabouts when you
defaulted on your mortgage up and disappeared and I told them I had no clue who you were, it would seem only fair that you could extend some professional courtesy to me for all my troubles. You know, answering the door and all.
It seems like the neighborly thing to do. And, while we're on the subject, would you mind it terribly if on occasion I would come and borrow a cup of
whatever he's drinking sugar? I'd like to hear that howling at the moon sound coming from me for once.
P.S. I really love your new
landscaping Mercedes. I notice these things.