I’m Blasting Disco This Morning To Piss Off My Neighbor

He was at it again last night. That scumbag. That jackass. That domestic terrorist. I’m speaking, of course about the lead footed bastard of yore.

This time he was talking, very loudly, after 1:30 AM, dropping things on the hardwood floors above our bedroom, scuffing his chair, moving stuff. I bet he was drunk. It sounded like that from his arrhythmic pacing. I had to sandwich my head between a couple of pillows to muffle the noise, but every time he stomped around we could actually feel it reverberate in the wall and even our own floor. The folks downstairs must have been bothered by him too and now maybe they’re cursing our names as we are his,

I’m sure he’s up there trying to sleep off a hangover. I hope he is. My shit’s cranked up to 11. The pounding drums of Tony Thompsen from Chic and Bootsy Collins’ thumping bass lines from P-Funk will surely match poorly to the heartbeat that’ll be pulsing hard on his brains.

At the very least, it’s a nasty groove to wake up to. I get my petty revenge. Haw haw haw, fucker.