The weather lately has been phenomenal, but the neighbors…well not so much. In fact, they are the reason that I want to move to the middle of a cornfield, pitch a tent and live there forever and ever. Dumb bastards.

See, even though I am a people person, when it comes to my home life, I value privacy. Frankly I do not enjoy working around the house and having someone three feet away in every direction. Staring at you. This is the curse of suburbia, however.

Yesterday I forewent my usual workout so that I could get some yard work done (and to take advantage of the great weather as noted above). I was outside for about three hours after work, and the entire time I was subjected to The Compound™ and their antics.

I’m digress, I’ve never mentioned The Compound™ before – my neighbors across the street (or at least two of the older looking ones) seem to run some sort of hotel/hostel/daycare/drug cartel. At any given time there is no less than five cars in front of their house, and more often than not at least one of them is parked in just the right spot so The Wife™ and I can’t turn in to our driveway without falling off the little bridge and cracking the front axel of the car. The question I want answered , though, is where are these visitor’s cooking their meth staying? The houses in our neighborhood are quaint (read: small), so with five SUVs there has to be some magic portal whisking these assclowns somewhere, because they sure as hell are nowhere to be found when I can’t back out of my driveway.

The one whom I presume is the wife never leaves the house. She mows the lawn in terrible daisy dukes from the late nineties (this means they were purchased in the second incarnation of this dreadful fashion) and a bikini top. Any time of day, I swear you’ll see a beer can in her hand. And the kids? Well, whichever of the 800 little bastards are theirs they have no sense of propriety better yet common sense. All I’m saying is if they meet the front end of my truck, I gave them fair warning, ok? They’ve got legs, they can run…

The woman-figure’s partner—assuming it’s the husband—is equally strange. Yesterday he spent the entire time standing on the front lawn in his 90’s-era Oaklies drinking a beer and staring at me. Did he think I couldn’t tell? Bro the shiny irridescent purple lenses don’t fool me one bit. Needless to say, I was unaware the trimming bushes was a worthy form of entertainment. But Cletus must have been sufficiently amused, because he continued to stand there watching me and directing the fleet of SUVs rotating in and out of their driveway.

And while I can’t quite figure out these people, I do know that they love their water. Whatever planet they came from must not have had this basic element, because their pool is in constant use. Seriously, I’m not sure they even bothered to winterize it. Before the calendar even hit April, they were throwing monstrous Budwiser-themed pool parties with Dave Matthews blaring across the neighborhood, with all 800 alien children running around the street, clamoring and climbing on their host vessel’s SUVs. Even when I was out power-washing the driveway with three sweaters on a month ago, the demon-spawn remained unperturbed by the sub-fifty temperatures. I guess the bodies of the undead feel no pain.

So as The Wife™ and I look to move, rest assured that I will not shed a tear when we leave The Compound™ far, far behind. And though my better half jokes that I’ll always find neighbors to be annoyed by, I’m hoping that the new ones at least come from a galaxy that drive smaller cars. Or have less offspring. Or at least aren’t painfully stuck in the ‘90s screeching “you go girl!” over and over at top volume. That alone would be worth a bigger mortgage.