Dearly Beloved, we shall now convene and commence the time of year when those of us in Seattle who have been freezing our clammy bootangos all year go SUNSHINE KISS ME YOU FOOL, while others who prefer to slosh around in puddles will hide in their gollum caves saying THE FIREBALL IT BURNS US. There are those who lie in between those two extremes but Y’ALL I AIN’T ONE OF EM.
Sun sun sun sun sun sun sun sun sun SUNNNNNNNNN
One of the most lovely feelings of summer weather starting up is setting up our yard and deck for the first time. Hosing everything off, setting up the chairs, popping up the sun shades, firing up the grill, and then sitting out there for the first time with a book and drink? Major jollies are had from this, I GAR-on-tee. The only thing that sometimes stops me from getting my butt out there? Camp Dude.
I may have mentioned this last summer, but let us refresh. Living next door to me is a house full of dudes. Now let me just preface what I am about to say by saying the following. This house is a rental and, pretty much annually, we get different neighbors. We have had a lot of, well, variation over the years, and I have never had any reason to, in my heart, throw any shade toward a neighbor. There was a somewhat loud group of goth kids, just barely out of their teens, that lived there for a year, blasting their emo music and sipping what one could only assume was absinthe in their yard while draped in black like a Severus Snape picnic. Their wifi username would pop up on my computer sometimes: The Necropolis of Angels. I thought every last bit of it was adorable, including the Bauhaus that would play through my windows when I was going to bed at night. I think those were my favorite neighbors.
This year, there is nothing cute to me about what is going on with my neighbor house. This year is the Year of the Brosephs. It is pretty much a frat house over there, I think. Like, the level of it is so cliche that I almost can’t believe it is for realsies. I know you thought that the goth kids were cliche, but I guess the difference here is that I am comfortable with outsiders, but I have spent my entire life running as fast as I can from this particular brand of privileged, white, insecurely hetero, aggressively masculine bullcaca. LIKE I JUST CAN’T EVEN DEAL WITH IT. Could it really be that dude-ish over there or are they maybe just making a Zac Efron movie? Their front yard, like mine, has a large-ish patio deal, and just that alone is a sight to behold. First of all, they have strung their front fence with lights that are covered in red solo cups. I say again, RED SOLO CUPS. Then, they have a dirty papasan chair on the patio because OF COURSE THEY DO. Next up, a pingpong table, a portable basketball hoop, three coolers, and oh yeah, garbage all over the floor. Mostly crushed beer cans. I do not know what all gets consumed over there in that house but the amount of garbage bags that are piled up on their curb on trash day each week is ALARMING. Also, they yell a lot. Like, so much yelling all the time! Like there is a constant sportsball match happening in their collective brains. Some fave phrases “COME ON MAN” and also “STOP BEING A BITCH.” Are these greetings and salutations in Bro-land, and does it only count when being hollered? Whatever the case, they seem completely unaware that there is anyone else on planet earth, let alone on our street. How dare my elderly neighbor, Maggie, sit on her stoop to take in a sunset when these fine young gentlemen decide that it would be really HILAIR to have a shouting contest to see who can scream the word “PUSSY” down the street the loudest? I mean, boys will be boys, so CUTE, amirite ladies?
The only saving grace of it all is that they all seem to have other places to be most of the time, so their patio time usually happens for a couple hours a week, here and there. Still, just NOPE, NOPE, NOPE. Let’s hope this is a dudey-free zone by 2017. Because this isn’t my favorite.
Stop yelling, Brah.