Dr. Fünke's Good-Time Family Band Solution

Everybody has shitty neighbors. My shitty neighbors are in a jazz/gong band. And their back-up dancer has one move: falling the fuck down. Loudly. Like she's trying to do the worm but only managing to smash her bitchy mug into the floor. Seriously, what's the matter with these people? In my last building I had werewolves living upstairs, now I have a family of Gerald Fords.

I once wrote this on Jessica's blog comments, referring to the uncanny ability of my bathroom grate to pick up sounds from their apartment:

"for some reason the grate at the top of the door is like the portal to Narnia, if Narnia were the apartment of stompy, loud, socially-retarded, shitty trumpet players."

It's so true! It's like a wonderland of asshole-ery up there! Mr. Trumpet Jackoff knows one note: sustained crap-flat. I think the percussionist dabbles in experimental plate breaking.

I imagine the back-up bitch as a crazy axe/plunger-wielding wench and Mr. Gong-show as a redneck asshole. And the cage is filled with the bones of their one-man mosh pit. Or maybe it's filled with the bones of the property manager who supposedly told them to knock it off. Maybe they've picked his sinews clean to string a harp and make the band a three-piece.

I'm going to be one of those crazy old bitches banging on the ceiling with a broom. And I don't care. Because if that chick doesn't stop toppling down onto the floor, I'm going to set her on fire.