Let me just set the overall tone for this site. Two themes: I'm pissed and I don't care what you think. If you think you can keep that straight, great. We'll have no interaction and, therefore, we will get along just fine. If you can't, well, blow me.

Ground Rules

Fresh Fury

Almanac of Hate

Rage Ranked Rants

Site search


Other Links

Backtalk from the Peanut Gallery


(Don't be an illiterate rube...click on it. Opens in a new window.)

Neighborhood Associations

So, there I was, standing on my walk with shovel in hand hacking into the ice that seems to have become fused with the concrete. In short, I’m working, which is par for the course for home ownership. I complain to no one but myself, cursing at the icy sheet as though it was some rube who cut me off in traffic (that subject, however, will have to be covered in another post). It was an indian summer day (politically incorrect?  Perhaps, but I don’t care). The ice, however, was undeterred by midday’s warmth, stubbornly remaining steadfast in its consistency and adhesion. Determined not to let the laboring man go about his work, toiling on his walk to make it safe for passage, a “man” (heretofore referred to as “ass clown”) with a bad combover putters up to my house atop his shiny new scooter. Yeah, that’s right—a scooter. Just a brief glance tells me everything I need to know. All too often I’m afforded the opportunity to instantly judge a person and quantify the value of their entire existence with just a passing glance only later to find that my assessment was dead on target. This was one of those moments. Remaining on his mount—his valiant steed glistening with brilliant plastic flanks and gummy 10″ shoes—ass clown looks to me (still toiling with shovel) and calls out “howdy neighbor.”

Immediately, I knew this would not be a pleasant encounter, and probably less so for “him” than me. (Rule of thumb: any male of the species who rides a scooter cannot be referred to using a masculine pronoun without quotes. It’s just not acceptable usage.) So, I return the greeting from the scootered ass clown who sports a bad combover and, by logical dictate, posseses indeterminate sexuality and inclination.


“I wanted to talk to you about your subdivision dues,” he said. Oh, here we go. He couldn’t send an email or letter. He had to make a personal visit. It’s obvious where this is headed. This fee, which when taken in aggregate from the other neighbors’ allotment, is routinely squandered on “necessities” like a new $12,000 subdivision sign that when finished looked neither different nor better than the one it replaced. Nice. Naturally, it’s not on my priority list of bills to pay. That said, I always do begrudgingly pay the fee, just not on their timeframe. It also bears mentioning that it’s a rarity that I look at bills that come in the mail, as I pay all my bills online.

As a brief aside, it’s of critical importance that I provide you, the reader, with a little insight into my thoughts of subdivision committee men and women. The only people who gravitate to these positions are those devoid of any and all substance in their lives. They have absolutely nothing better to do with their valueless time than to spend it making nightmares of the lives of their fellow neighbors. For it is fortuitous for them to be afforded the opportunity to get in the faces of their productive counterparts and foster contempt for themselves from all who surround them.

Oh, and by the way, if you are a member of a neighborhood association…get off my site (this is the Internet equivalent of being told to “get off my property,” which I’m certain you have heard many times during your tenure as meddling ass clown).

So, I answer back “yes?” From there, mindless combover boy atop a scooter with questionable sexual proclivity went on to inform me that I hadn’t made payment, to which I told him that I’d send a check out the coming week. That was the point where he felt the need to get on his high horse (or high scooter, whichever you prefer) and lecture me about how he had to come by the last two years to collect payment. This, by the way, was where he had pinned his hopes and dreams when he assumed the position…of meddling ass clown, of course (where did you think I was going with that?). Finally, he had the auspicious opportunity to lord over his neighbors and engage his already overdrawn community piety in an act of authoritative superiority. Ironically, he did so whilst sporting a bad combover and riding a scooter. All during the conversation, he sat perched upon his scooter with none so subtle insinuation about my finances. To make a short story long, then short again, I responded by telling him not to come to my house and lecture me—about anything; that my finances were absolutely none of his business nor anything he could possibly have any insight into, and to start peddling his little Moped the hell out of here.

If neighbors suck, then scooter-riding, bad combover-sporting, meddling ass clown neighborhood associates are the vacuum into which all community peace, serenity, and happiness are drawn and lost forever. All too often these mindless f*%k chimps get into the faces and disrupt the lives of their otherwise reclusive or private neighbors all because their cheap, inconsequential lives are utterly devoid of accomplishment, influence, and value.