Some of you may be aware that Chris and I don't always get along with our neighbors. We're not always on the same page. We don't always see eye-to-eye. They're fishing, we're cutting bait. We enjoy a quiet, beach bungalow-type existence. They do everything as loudly as retards with charley horses.
You may be wondering what that tension has to do with our upcoming trip to Argentina. Well, we're leaving on a Thursday. We're coming back two Tuesdays after that.
For two glorious weeks, our unattended trash cans will languish in the fetid stink of the alley, playing hosts to the little colony of maggots that has already come to know them as home. (No, I'm not kidding. I have to hose that crap down.) You see, Jeffty Jeff's muscles are only zoned for surfing and preening. None of his body mass is tagged for any sort of functional activity like dragging the trash cans all of three feet to the edge of the driveway on a Sunday evening. And certainly no one can expect Heidi to touch grody things. Someday, I'd like to somehow communicate to her that her boyfriend is Retardo Montalban. I'm just afraid that after I ripped off her giant Spider-Man-sized sunglasses in an effort to make eye contact, I'd be met with a dead, vacant stare that would haunt me as I lay awake that night. I think she's made of plastic, and it scares me.
So place your bets now, folks. I'm not planning on telling them that we're leaving. What will it take for our neighbors to take out the trash? Oh, this is so exciting. It's like Fear Factor, but without the cash prizes and self-loathing.
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