What's the proper protocol for telling your neighbors they're a buncha assholes?

Until now, I had never lived in an apartment complex.  I take that back.  When Hubber and I first got hitched, we leased a swanky condo in the Medical Center.  But that place doesn't count because it was badass and the neighbors weren't assholes. Our neighbors were doctors and scientists and geniuses who went to bed at reasonable hours and minded their own fucking business on a regular basis.

Those were the days.

Back then, we were cool in our multi-family residential community.  Now, we're just a tired married couple with kids that drive us batshit crazy living in a shoebox apartment in the suburbs under the assholiest neighbors in the universe.  Not all our neighbors are assholes.  Most of these peeps are nice and quiet.  But the mofos directly above us need to be hung by their balls from the rafters.

Seeing how I'm not all that experienced at sharing my ceiling and walls with others, I'm not privy to the proper protocol for telling the three guys living above me that I'd like them to all die horrible, bloody deaths.  Do I just knock on the door and when they open up, simply punch them in the face with the pointy end of Hubber's ninja sword?  Last night I dreamed that a tornado struck all Wizard of Oz style and took out their apartment.  I looked out of my window and saw all of those assholes swirling around in the tornado on their way to back to Kansas (the land of Kansasholes, a place they are obviously from).

Wanna know why I hate them so much?  Let me lay it out for you:

1. Their fucking dog is an asshole. He whines/cries/barks non-stop when they aren't home (if Bobo the Sasquatch hunter lived here, he'd swear the dog was a squatch in disguise). These episodes usual occur during the day at my most optimal writing times. Which, NATURALLY, makes me want to kill a mother fucker.

2. They skateboard in the house above our living room and down the stairs right outside my bedroom.  Why they haven't fallen down the stairs proves that the universe is against me and I must take matters into my own hands.  An invisible wire strewn across the top flight of stairs might do the trick.

3. They sit on their patio and smoke and toss cigarettes down onto my car.  This tells me they might enjoy being blown to smithereens by an anonymous package of dynamite delivered to their door.

4. They think they're UFC fighters.  They wrestle around all night... banging into walls, slamming doors, screaming and pounding the floor. ALL. NIGHT. Or maybe they're a gay trio and they're just into kinky shit.  Either way, I'd like them to keel over and die.

5. One of those mofos is so heavy-footed our dishes rattle any time he moves.  This is the same mofo that has to get up to pee every night at 2:30 am.  You can set your clock to him. I don't want to set my fucking clock to him.  I want to sleep!

6. They don't scoop their dog's poop. You might think I'm hating on their dog, too... but I'm not.  It's not that crybaby dog's fault that his owners are inconsiderate assholes.

7. Sometimes they smoke the most potent weed in all of creation; leaving our apartment smelling like dead skunk for days.  Try explaining that shit to a 6-year-old.

So, those are my grievances, in no particular order.  All our other neighbors are fine.  I don't wish explosive diarrhea on any of them.  But the assholes upstairs have got to go!

I should get my mom to start a petition.

She said lettuce, I heard BACON

Hubber and I are buckling down (for sure this time, mofos) and getting serious (I mean it, bitches) about losing weight and getting fit.  I know you heifers are all like, "suuuuuuure you are".  But, we are.  And this time, we're investing a lot of money in this shit, which should help somewhat with accountability and whatnot.  We even have a counselor/dietitian lady we have to physically visit three times a week.  This ain't no bullshit, y'all.  I'm telling you this is serious business.

So, yesterday when Patsy (dietitian) was giving us creative ideas for preparing the shit ton of green vegetables we have to eat over the next few days (detox phase), I kept thinking she was saying "bacon" every fifth or sixth word.  I kept having to stop her to clarify that indeed she had just said "wrap your chicken in bacon".

Me: <totally dumbfounded> It's ok to eat bacon wrapped chicken?!  I thought we couldn't eat pork.  You guys don't consider bacon to be pork?  This is the best news I've gotten all day! I love bacon.  Oh, sweet, sweet bacon!

Patsy: <very confused> Wait... what?

Hubber:  How does anyone confuse the word "lettuce" for "bacon"?  Only my wife.  <rolling eyes>

Patsy:  Hahahaha!  Oh, you two are too funny!

Me: so, no bacon?

Patsy: NO bacon.

This same very pathetic conversation repeated itself a few more times during our 1-hour counseling session. I'm sorry, but the words "taking", "baking", and "spinach" all sound like bacon.  Ok, maybe spinach is a little far fetched but at that point I was only half-ass listening.  Visions of plump little piggies and bacon wrapped, cheese stuffed jalapenos kept dancing around in my head while Patsy yammered on and Hubber nodded his head like what she was saying was so interesting and reasonable.  There's nothing reasonable about not eating pork, y'all.  God invented pigs for the sole purpose of being turned into bacon and pork chops and chicharones and pozole and carnitas....!

Hubber: why are you so caught up on bacon?  It's not like we eat it a lot.

Me: when someone tells me I can't have a certain thing, I just want it more.  Remember that time you said I couldn't have that jackalope head?  Remember?!  Soon after I wanted two heads... then four... then an entire herd of them!  My jackalope dreams have multiplied like crazy. The same thing is going to happen with bacon.  I'm going to get obsessed. You'll never hear the end of it. ARE YOU PREPARED FOR THIS SHIT?!

Hubber: I've learned to tune you out.  You know... like you tune the kids out.  I can do that.

Me:  I should be offended by that, huh?

Hubber:  Huh? Did you say something?

I hate him sometimes.  He loves bacon, too.  He was just pretending to be all big shit mister tough guy around Patsy.  The second we got home, he said, "Call me crazy, but it kinda smells like bacon in here, huh?"  Lord help us.

I WISH!! 

Our Quest to Find Big Foot: The Never-ending Saga

Our search for Big Foot began in 2005.  Sightings of the mysterious creature had been reported near Pike's Peak in Colorado, so naturally, that is where our search began.  As we entered Pike's Peak National Forest, the park ranger warned us to stay on the road, lest we shalt be mauled to death by the ferocious beast!  But, I've seen Harry and the Hendersons, y'all.  I know Big Foot ain't nothing but a big ol' cuddly teddy bear who stinks to high heaven; it ain't nothing that a gallon of Suave shampoo can't handle.  So, instead of heeding his warnings, we trampled through the forest in search of a potential pet and found this:

Yes! That's exactly what you think it is! Big Foot nests!  An entire colony lived there, we were sure of it.  We poked around for awhile and peeked inside each nest, but found nothing. We even staked the place out from our own makeshift nest, but those bastards never came home.  I'm convinced they must have some super smelling powers and they sniffed us out before they got too close.  To them, we smell like shit, I think.

We finally gave up our stake-out and made our way back to the main road. The spawn and I got separated from Hubber somehow and as luck would have it, we spotted this sasquatch disguised in men's clothing: 

How awesome is that shit?!  We were ecstatic!  Finally, someone captured a clear photo of Big Foot... and that someone was ME!  It wasn't until I lowered the camera, that I realized Harry was wearing HUBBER'S clothes!  HE ATE MY HUSBAND!

The spawn and I hopped into our car and headed back to the ranger's station.  That was about the time my cell phone rang. It was Hubber.

Hubber:  Where the hell are you going?!

Me:  You're alive!!!

Hubber:  <silence>

Me: You ARE alive, right??

Hubber: I'm gonna kick your ass.

Turned out Hubber was the Big Foot wearing Hubber's clothes. That tricky a-hole.  Anyway... that excursion in '05 was a fucking bust; but that shit didn't stop us from believing... and it certainly didn't stop us from searching for Big Foot when we went back to Pike's Peak in 2009.

Again, we captured a photo of what we thought was surely a sasquatch:

Turned out, it was just the oldest spawn, searching for Big Foot nests.  It was another wasted trip to Pike's Peak.  But, just when we had given up our search, we stumbled upon this guy at the Denver Zoo:

A baby sasquatch!  They grow those little fuckers at the zoo.  They train them to survive on their own and how to hide from humans.  Then, they let them go free in the mountains to drive us all batshit crazy. It's a conspiracy and the Denver Zoo is in on it!  I'm gonna crack this case and break it all open one day, y'all!  Just wait!  You're gonna see me on the Discovery Channel and you'll be all like, "Hey! I know that girl!"

Hubber:  You sure are obsessed with this Big Foot shit.

Me:  Yeah, well... I'm gonna be rich one day when I figure this shit out.

Hubber:  I have a theory.

Me:  Tell me.

Hubber:  I think YOU have some Big Foot blood in you.  That's what triggering this unnatural need of yours to find a real Big Foot.  You're being "called" by your people!  Like a Cylon!  You're a freakin' alien!

Me:  I like it.  Maybe I have special powers that'll kick in and I'll be able to blow shit up with my eyes!

Hubber:  Yeah.  I'm sure that'll happen.

So, on our 2012 trip to Colorado, we made another stop at Pike's Peak.  Evidently, the Big Foot sightings are out of control.  They even put up a life-size Big Foot statute so we'd know what it looked like when we saw it.  Naturally, we took a picture with the big guy:

Cute, huh?  He kinda looks like a naked, hairy Paul Bunyan. And, as luck would have it, they even had foot print castings at the park.  I stuck my foot on one to see if there were any similarities:

Nada.  I have a feeling Hubber's theory is a bunch of bullshit.  He got me all hyped up thinking I'm gonna rule the world like a fucking Cylon... just to find out I probably have nothing in common with Big Foot. Well, except for maybe the bushy eyebrows and crazy hairs that grow in weird places.