DOWN WITH PANTS!

I finally figured out who my downstairs neighbor, Trixie, reminds me of after watching Casino last night. Sharon Stone's character, Ginger Rothstein. But not the strong Ginger from the beginning of the movie, but the nasty, drunk and stoned Ginger from the second act.

She doesn't have to tie up her kid to get out of the house because she doesn't have custody and he's only here once a month, but I know if it came down to it, she would tie his ass up in a second. And there are a couple different dudes hanging around that bear a striking resemblance to Lester Diamond.

It's uncanny how similar these two women are. I doubt Trixie has a million dollars in jewelry stashed away anywhere, but other than that, they could be twins. We nicknamed her Trixie after we first moved in and found out that she was a raging bitch, but I think I'm going to call her Ginger from now on. It's just too perfect.

If you haven't watched Casino in a long time, get it from Netflix and enjoy the cold hearted, merciless nature that is Joe Pesci's character Nicky Santoro. He is absolutely incredible in this movie and breathes life into every scene he's in. Casino, overall, is great for about 2/3 of the movie. If it were edited tighter, it would be one of my all time favorites.

Do you know what I hate? Idle threats.

Last night, our downstairs neighbors - Trixie and Billy - got into the loudest fight of their short marriage. Skank versus meathead. Let's get it on!

Yelling and screaming and banging shit and all of that good stuff. It was ridiculous. At one point early on, when it just seemed like a normal, idiotic but loud fight, I stomped on the floor. Then a demonic voice came up from the floor "I don't care if the neighbors hear us!" Damn! This is going to be good!

In fact, it got so good that we heard Trixie kick Billy's ass out. She told him to "get out and go back to mom's" and later we heard what was obviously her taking all of his stuff out of the closet and throwing it across the room.

At that point, nevermind the prospect of them waking up the baby, this was a good fight and the drama was totally awesome. I was stoked at the possibility of seeing her throw all his stuff out in the front driveway and then totally go into a psychotic rage like she used to do. That would've been the perfect and most satisfying way for it to end.

Fuck! Is that how it ended? No! Instead everything is totally kosher downstairs. Idle threats, Trixie. Fucking idle threats.

Not that I ever want anybody to breakup and lose their shit. But there are just some people that deserve all the drama that they bring on themselves. If it brings a little bit of entertainment into my life - and occasionally, their fights are better than anything on TV - I'm all for it. Fight on!

Just don't give me idle threats. Act on your crazy bullshit. Make it happen. Get it done.

I did laugh a little bit this morning when I could hear one of them fixing the closet doors. They must've knocked them off track. Ha ha! Those are a bitch to get back on.

My neighbors, Trixie and Billy, had a very bi-polar kind of day. Join with me in their adventure, won't you?

7:30 AM - Fuck. Fuck loudly. Fuck so loudly that you wake up your upstairs neighbor prompting him to wrap his head in a pillow and turn on his clock radio.

8:00 AM - Disappear. Church?

10:00 AM - This is totally a guess, but after fucking and church, it's time for drinking beer and watching football.

6:00 PM - Come home and make dinner. Listen to Matchbox 20 unbelievably loud while cooking. Drink wine, drunkenly dance around and sing at the top of lungs to "Real World" and "Push" (a kind of ironic choice given what happens later).

7:00 PM - Eat dinner, drink wine, watch a weird movie.

9:00 PM - Jekyll and Hyde emerge. Fight! Fight! Complete with "You don't love me, no I love you" psychobabble. Guy yells, bitch growls, doors slam, moody smoking ensues outside. Rinse and repeat four or five times over the next hour.

10:00 PM - Time for bed to get ready for a another day filled with fucking, fighting, smoking, singing, dancing and generally being pure, white trash.

P.S...Some of you have asked, "why don't we move?" It's a fair question, for sure. But our apartment is nice, it's cheap and it's entertaining. Plus, and this is why I'm counting down the days until we leave Ventura, wherever we move, there is a very good chance that we will have neighbors that do the exact same thing, maybe even worse. Sometimes I think we actually have it good.

Minutes ago I finally lost my freaking mind and now I couldn't be happier.

My downstairs neighbors, that disgusting slutbag bitch and her equally nasty boyfriend, started screaming hitting a very loud and utterly barfrific climax and I just had to do something. I've had to endure their nasty fucking for the last few weeks but usually it's quieter and goes on longer so I usually just turn on the radio really loud and drown it out. But tonight it was quick, loud and more disturbing than I can describe.

So I did what I should have done a long, long time ago. I jumped straight up in the air as high as I could, pulled my legs up at the top and stomped as hard as I possibly could on the floor. Consider the fact that I am 6 foot 4 and push three bills and I think that you can get a good idea of the sound that I made. I don't think the building has stopped shaking yet.

And then the best thing happened. The stupid bitch started coughing her ass off. She has one of the most unholy sounding smoker's coughs you have ever heard and usually I want to run screaming out the front door when I hear it. But tonight it was music to my ears because her fit began right after I stomped and lasted nearly five painful minutes. She has to be sore and totally worn out now because it sounded like a serious ordeal.

I was in a particularly piss poor mood because my softball team lost yet another game, this time by the score of 17-3 after losing 24-3 and 34-3 the last two weeks. Why can't I find myself just one winning team to play on? I am sick and tired of losing. I think my combined sports record since moving to Ventura is something like eight wins and fifty losses. It doesn't get much worse that that.

But now I'm in a better mood. I'm still a little pissed but at least I was finally able to take my frustration out on something. I've wanted to come into the dugout after some of these innings and go fucking buckwild on a jug of Gatorade but I don't want to embarrass myself by flying off the handle out in public. I much prefer to take it out on Trixie in the privacy of my own home.

On my way up the stairs after work tonight, intensely trying to avoid Trixie smoking downstairs, I hear this smoke ravaged, gravely voice say "hi" and "let me ask you something, can you hear my music up there?"

Rather than responding with "what the fuck to you think? Oxnard can hear your music!" like I wanted to, I grunted "yeah, sometimes."

"If it gets too loud, just bang on the floor a few times"

"Ok."

It hasn't been an issue yet tonight, but I think she may be in for a rude awakening when I do start the floor banging. I wonder if her offer applies to her karaoke singing or her yelling at her boyfriends or her loud, nasty sex or her disgusting coughing and snoring.