The Neighbors

To compound the matter, most of us are a product of our environment, so after hearing his list of symptoms enough times, I’m starting to wonder if I am a lesbian too. I sit here, wondering how the hell would I explain this to my honey boo-boo wife. Do I even have to? If I’m a lesbian I still will be attracted to her.

This happens to be the same guy that I put a petrified pigeon in his pillowcase for a goof. Days passed by waiting for him to notice, and that joke quickly deflated. Either he didn’t feel it crunching under his face like a bag of chips, or maybe he tried nursing it back to health for a few days before calling it quits.

Saving the best for last, to the left of me, I have Peter B. aka the Fireman, who dressed up as one before holding some women hostage. For twelve hours he cuddled next to her, after chloroforming her of course. To be honest, he is rather quiet and doesn’t say much. When he does speak it’s with a tone that has no pitch, which I dubbed the “Visine Guy” voice. He never goes anywhere, never thinks of exercising. Those little green turtles we all had as kids walked to the palm tree more then he moves around in the course of a day.

However, when The Fireman does speak it’s usually worth taking my headphones off. He is like a child; you never know what the hell is going to come out of his mouth. For instance, just yesterday during a break in cross-examination portion of the Jodi Arias trial (which he can’t miss a minute of) he wanted to know if I knew any florist that delivered FTD. I answered I did, and asked him who he wanted to send flowers to.


“Ok, let me get this straight, you want flowers delivered to Jodi during her murder trial? She stabbed her boyfriend twenty-eight times, cut his throat, and put one in his head.”

I can almost picture this one. “Excuse me your Honor, call for recess, so that Jodi can accept her lovely arrangement and place it in a water pitcher before she continues testifying.” Right after reading the attached card signed, Love always Peter.