Viewport width =
September 27, 2015 | by  | in Opinion |
Share on FacebookShare on Google+Pin on PinterestTweet about this on Twitter

The Neighbours Can Go Fuck Themselves

I was asked to contribute my opinion on something to this week’s issue of Salient. As a guy who has an opinion on fucking everything (much to the annoyance of just about everyone, and often to my own shame and embarrassment), it struck me as odd that I had nothing prepared for such an occasion. I thought I could possibly discuss the current glut of top-quality animation being served up by shows like Gravity Falls, Regular Show, and Rick and Morty (along with many others), or I could complain about Wellington public transport (boooorriiiing, move back to Melbourne you ape-faced dingleberry), but ultimately none of it was really inspiring. I couldn’t gather enough energy for a positive or negative opinion on anything, it seemed.

I thought all was lost, but then our current house guests reminded me of my neighbours. Specifically, how my neighbours can go fuck themselves. Because my neighbours can totally go fuck themselves.

My wife and I live in a small unit out in the Wellington Bays. Ours is a little one-room place, a converted garage to be specific, bounded on three sides by houses with fences as high as our roof. This has never been a problem, as the sun streams through into our sun room/clothes drying room/smokers pit from the one remaining unobstructed boundary. That is, until our fuckwit neighbours decided to build a second story the exact length of our unit, once and for all blocking us completely from warmth and light. Already in a constant battle with the mould that crawls across our ceiling and rots all our windowsills, we are now at the mercy of the vicious spores that have taken advantage of conditions they thrive in to dominate every sunless corner of our now forever dank abode.

This is only one part of what I can pretty much guarantee you already feel is a pretty trivial issue. The other is the builders and the constant noise.

Being so small, our house was already pretty claustrophobic. Shut in on three sides, with the southerly constantly threatening to blow us to Oz, we now have, less than a metre and a half from our front door, builders constantly banging and hammering. They are sometimes on our property for no reason I’ve been able to ascertain, and that’s also where they occasionally decide to throw their trash.

What is worse is that another house on the other side of us has decided to start renovations as well. While the first set of neighbours who can go fuck themselves has employed builders who are compassionate enough to let us sleep until about 8.30am, this other set of neighbours who can go fuck themselves let their builders start at 7am, and at 8:30am on Saturdays. On Saturdays. On motherfucking Saturdays. Like, I’m aware it’s legal, but that doesn’t mean it’s decent. I mean, pissing on the floor in the bathroom is technically legal, but it’s gonna bum somebody out eventually.

Now, I can feel you rolling your eyes, thinking to yourself that I should really get some perspective, but if it was you, I know you would also wish a fiery death on these incredible arseholes. As I come to the end of my degree and my grip on reality slowly detaches, I’m forced to assume that this is karma for every shitty thing I’ve ever done, and I’m willing to admit the balance sheet is against me, BUT STILL. Fuck those guys. I hope they get haemorrhoids and their underwear rides up their crack.

Dan turned up in our office earlier this year claiming he’d been told there was a job going. There wasn’t and he won’t leave, please send help.

Share on FacebookShare on Google+Pin on PinterestTweet about this on Twitter

About the Author ()

Comments are closed.

Recent posts

  1. Laneway: Luck of the Draw
  2. Cuttin’ it with with Miss June
  3. SWAT
  4. Ravished by the Living Embodiment of All Our University Woes
  5. New Zealand’s First Rainbow Crossing is Here (and Queer)
  6. Chloe Has a Yarn About Mental Health
  7. “Stick with Vic” Makes “Insulting” and “Upsetting” Comments
  8. Presidential Address
  9. Final Review
  10. Tears Fall, and Sea Levels Rise

Editor's Pick

This Ain’t a Scene it’s a Goddamned Arm Wrestle

: Interior – Industrial Soviet Beerhall – Night It was late November and cold as hell when I stumbled into the Zhiguli Beer Hall. I was in Moscow, about to take the trans-Mongolian rail line to Beijing, and after finding someone in my hostel who could speak English, had decided