If I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning, I’d hammer in the evening and I’d be hammering on a little shack way out in the woods or a comfy little hut on an island no one ever visits.
If I had a million dollars — or several — I’d pay somebody else to do that hammering, and I would wind up living even further isolated in the woods or in a comfy, albeit bigger hut on an island that I could buy.
Wait a minute! I do have a million dollars! Wait, no. Great, it’s just a hammer. Forget that stuff I said about hammering all the time. I’m too old for that. Besides, it gives me a headache to hammer in the morning, especially when I just got hammered in the evening.
The last few days, I’ve considered getting hammered in the evening, and I might have been successful if I could stop coughing long enough to down a margarita without it spraying out of my mouth every three seconds.
I’m not sure what’s gotten me sick, but I know what’s gotten me ill. My subdivision is filling up. For three years, we’ve had two lots adjacent to our house occupied only by trees, squirrels, owls and spider monkeys — your typical Georgia forest scene. Today, they have been mostly cleared, and smoke is rising from the trees they’ve downed and burned. That could explain some of my cough, I guess.
Someone came in and bought up all the remaining lots in my subdivision and is building at such a pace that he must be worried this is a sanctuary city and Trump is about to dump a bunch of migrants from Central America here. Of course, he wouldn’t be able to build at that pace if it weren’t for all the Central Americans doing most of the constructing.
Coming up shortly on his build list are the two lots on either side of us. We knew it was going to happen and even tried to buy one of the lots to no avail. Now, we’re about to have houses on each side of us and, even worse, they sell before he’s even finished. That means that we are not only about to have houses on each side of us but also — gasp and pause for dramatic effect — humans in them!
That’s right — neighbors. So that’s why they call it a neighborhood! Man, I wish I’d caught on to that a few years ago!
This means that I might have to turn down the island music at Margaritahill on Saturday nights. No more spider monkey hunting on those lots. And no more naked yoga on the back patio. Heck, it was just two months ago that the cops made me move my naked yoga sessions out of the driveway.
“Ohmmmm,” I said.
“Ummmm, no,” they said.
Interestingly enough, I’ve never really had bad next-door neighbors with the exception of apartments, where that often just comes with the territory. But my neighbors have been wonderful folks — relatively quiet, not junky and friendly but not overbearing. On one hand, that’s a good track record. On the other hand, that means we’re overdue for some dude who sits in his driveway drinking PBRs and loudly playing modern country “music” while chain-smoking Marlboros while his backyard hound dog barks and smokes Camels.
I guess the only reasonable thing to do now is to buy a ratty old recliner and set it near the property line so I can provide commentary as potential neighbors look at the houses when they are up for sale. I can be the scary neighbor … not that it’s a stretch.
“Y’all know that lot is snake-infested, right?!”
“That’s a purty dog you got. I mean real purty!”
“Well, good luck. Don’t mind me. Time for nude yoga.”
“Ummmm, can we see that other house down the street? Way down the street.
Get more from Chris Johnson at KudzuKid.com.