Ho-Bag Returnths

Puff, Nan the Blogless Porkchop and I went out to dinner on Saturday before going to a Chocolate Making Class. The hostess sat me down at a table while I was waiting for my friends to show up, and who do you think takes my drink order?! HO-BAG!

On one hand I was really excited because she wasn't dead, like I had feared; in fact, she was still Ho-alicious. On the other hand, I briefly wondered if I should ask her to wear gloves whilst handling my food, lest I catch one of her many STD's.

But I digress...

Ho-Bag has one nasty little lisp. And afther justht one Ketel One and Tonic I couldn't help but thay everything with a lithp. I mean, it wath tho hard to keep a thraight fathe while the Queen of Trojanths wath athking me if we needed anthing elth. I was completely bethidths mythelf. Jutht athk anyone.

*No, that's not a picture of Ho-Bag. Ho-Bag looks more diseased.

Young Man

Ho-Bag supposedly moved out of my apartment building a couple of months ago (I secretly thought she was killed by our landlord). In her stead, two twenty-something guys moved into her old apartment.

One of them owns an old brown, rusted Bronco with a decal on the side saying, "Injun Racin'". As much as that scares me, it doesn't nearly come close to the horror of walking to my car and finding a Trojan wrapper in the parking lot next to said Bronco.

Obviously, Ho-Bag wasn't murdered, she got a sex change. She probably goes by the name "Steve" now and works construction.

Ho-Bag Is Gone

It's been quiet on the home front. Too quiet. I haven't heard screaming through my cardboard-thin apartment walls, nor have I seen dirty underwear strewn across my lawn. In fact, I haven't seen Ho-Bag's car in weeks. Yes friends, I'm afraid my favorite neighbor has finally departed. I shall miss her 3 a.m. drunken phone calls beneath my window as much as I will miss the emptying of her car's ashtray next to my front steps.

But lest you think my home life will now be uneventful, I submit to you this photo. Roofers have been patching up our home for the past two weeks. Every night I come home from work, a different piece of trash is in my driveway. Friday night I came home to this. It is obviously two human skeletons; ones you might find in Mr. Brightly's AP Bio class my senior year in high school. But what, pray tell, is it doing in my driveway? I couldn't tell you. In fact, I'd much rather not know why my landlord might have something like this stashed away in his attic.

But I will say that the disappearance of Ho-Bag and the timely surfacing of these photos could be the key to my rent never rising.

Dear Ho-Bag (Part IV)

It's been awhile, hasn't it? I believe the last time we spoke had something to do with you leaving used condoms in the building parking lot. How I've missed you...

That's why I was pleasantly surprised when I awoke to your siren-like screams at 3:30 a.m. and subsequent car doors slamming, ignition-turning and squealing tires. I gather from your loud phone conversation at approximately 4:20 a.m. that you made it clear to "Brian", in no uncertain terms, that he was not welcome back at your apartment.

You proceeded to cry for at least 20 minutes longer, which I'll admit kept me awake. It wasn't so much the sobbing, but the occasional outbursts of "FUCKER!" that jolted me away from the cusp of REM.

I also couldn't help noticing as I walked to my car to head to work for the day that all of Brian's belongings seemed to be haphazardly strewn over the apartment grounds. Was the sock I found on my trunk meant as a gift? A memento of all the fond memories we share?

In closing, I would just like to thank you - again - for including me in your life. After all, if it weren't for you, who would I blame for my lack of focus and black under-eye circles?

Dear Ho-Bag (Part III)

Thank you for bringing a little piece of the red-light district to our apartment building, as I've never personally visited Amsterdam. However, I am curious; are the used condoms cast beside your vehicle in the building parking lot a calling card, of sorts? A new brand of marketing that tells potential clients: "Dirty Hoes Live Here"? Or simply a humanitarian effort on your part to spread gonorrhea: the gift that keeps on giving? Regardless, I appreciate your candor about the situation. If you can't tell the complete strangers living in your building that you're a hooker, who can you tell?

Your understanding neighbor,
-Min

Dear Ho-Bag

It's 4:30 in the morning. And although I admire the fact that you're still awake, y0ung pup that you are, I would like to remind you that you live in an apartment, and that the walls tend to be thin.

I gather from your conversation that someone has made you angry. Someone of the male persuasion. I hear "fuck", "fuck you", and "don't ever fucking call here again, you fucking asshole". And then crying. A piece of advice: because you seem so angry with...Brian, you said his name was? Because you seem so angry with Brian, why not try ignoring the telephone each time he calls back? Not that I'm counting, but I've heard it ring 7, make that 8, separate times. You can turn the ringer off, you know. Great feature, that.

And yet, I can't stay mad at you because you inadvertently have made me see the error of my own ways. When women scream out of anger - and most specifically when directed towards men - we sound like hens.

Ahh! I fucking hate you...bawk, bawk, bawk, bawk...asshole...cluck!

So thank you for waking me up so early in the spirit of female bonding.

Also, and truthfully now: if he's made you this upset, I garner it's warranted. So you can just dump the asshole. You may be a ho-bag, but you're my little Ho-Bag, and no one can treat you this way.

Love,
Min

My Neighbor Digs Billy Idol

I have nothing against Billy Idol. He was a bitchin' musician way back when I was all of 5 years old. I remember singing into my pink My Little Pony hairbrush something about a white wedding, and knowing nothing about what that could possibly mean. But I also made mud pies out of real dirt and ate them on a fairly regular basis. My point is, although I may rock out in my car to 80's tunes now and again, I cannot condone listening to Billy Idol's Eyes Without a Face. Ever. And under no circumstances should one play said song 9 times in a row.

I am convinced that my neighbor was sent by God...or Satan, whoever hates me more...with the sole purpose of torturing me until I relinquish my soul. There is no other logical reason, except for the slight chance that my neighbor is either A) a closet transvestite or B) practicing the choreography for her upcoming Color Guard competition. In any case, it is clear to me that she is evil and must be destroyed.

My Neighbor Is A Big Fat Whore

If I was to describe the number one reason I dislike my neighbor so much, it wouldn't be the fact that she somehow manages to not do anything noticeably constructive on a daily basis, nor the fact that on no less than 5 separate occassions she has woken me up from a sound sleep by holding loud, thoroughly uninteresting conversations on her cell phone right outside my bedroom window. It probably wouldn't even have anything do to with the very obvious prostitution ring she has set up in her apartment, either. The reason I wouldn't lose any sleep if my A/C unit "accidentally" fell out of my window and maimed her beyond all human recognition is simply because her taste in music is painful. Our apartment walls aren't very thick; if I have to listen to The Cranberries Zombie one more time, someone WILL get hurt.