Satan lives here, except I didn't know it until Saturday night. Prepare for a rant.
Ah yes. Having returned home from our Nova Scotia trip Saturday, I was quite tired. I had just drifted off to blissful sleep at 10:00 pm when I was shocked awake by the loudest music I have heard in quite some time, complete with pounding bass lines emanating from the world's largest sub-woofer. Mr. Dump-Truck Driver, who lives across the water from us, was having a party, which was fine. What was not fine was that at 10:00 pm, his LIVE BAND started to play. And let's just say, they weren't ACOUSTIC. In fact, they were so loud that none of the charming guests were seated anywhere near the giant speakers, which were aimed directly across the water at our house. You could see all this clearly because Mr. Dump-Truck Driver, henceforth to be known as Satan, was burning wooden pallets for a bonfire, and because the flames were a good FIFTEEN FEET high, the scene was well-illuminated.
Let me just say that I don't do well with excessive noise, particularly at bedtime. Let's just say it's not good for my mental health. Let's just say I was getting reeeeally angry on Saturday night, and feeling quite helpless to do anything about the situation. I grew up with neighbours who did this sort of thing almost every weekend during the summers, and my mother actually did call the cops on them more than once. It was the only way to get them to shut up before 3 am. So this sort of noise is historically a real issue for me.
As well, let me add that if someone were having a wedding reception in their yard, and had perhaps warned all the neighbours beforehand that there would be a live band late into the night, hey, no problem! We could have checked into a hotel. Or even if Satan had come around and said, "Look, I'm going to have a really loud party on Saturday night and I wanted to warn you!" (which would have been said in French, because in this instance, Satan is French), we could have coped. We would have had the OPTION of perhaps sleeping ELSEWHERE.
Instead, Satan starts up with the LIVE BAND in his backyard on the WATER (water carries noise exceptionally well, don't you know) at TEN P.M. Do you sense my anger yet? Could they perhaps not have had the LIVE BAND entertain between, say, the hours of 6:00 - 9:00 pm?
We tried to drown out the sound by watching TV. Impossible. Earplugs were useless. By 11:15 pm we were considering calling the cops, which we decided not to do for a few reasons: (a) I think Satan is involved with bikers. (b) I think Satan has a pot grow-op in his basement. (c) The nearest police station is a half-hour from here and we figured they'd just laugh at us. And finally, (d) we are moving in four weeks, so best not to start a war. I don't need our house burned down in an "accidental" fire.
Nonetheless, I was at the breaking point by this time and ready to boil over. It was now midnight, and the really BAD live band (God, they sucked; Satan has no taste in music) was still going strong. Gordon had suggested going over to talk to them, but no way was I going to let him. I know he would have ended up with a beer bottle broken over his delicate head, or worse. And they were drinking crap beer, too. No Guinness or Kilkenny Cream Ale or Quebec micro-brewery delights over at Satan's joint. (I know this because I saw the leftover cans on Sunday while out kayaking.) Drink to get drunk as fast as possible, baby.
I just cannot take the sort of pounding, inescapable noise that was being generated by Satan's LIVE BAND. It's a huge irritation for me. If I am ever taken prisoner by CIA operatives and they want to torture me, they should just sit me next to a large speaker and fire up some bad music at maximum volume, with a penetrating bass line. I will confess to anything immediately. Just thinking of it makes me want to confess! Yes, I did steal crayons in grade two. I'm sorry!
So, at the point of shooting someone (and I don't own a gun and never will), we got out of our pajamas and into the car, drove a couple of miles down the road, parked, and fell asleep on our flattened seats until 1:15 pm, when we were awakened by the lights of a passing pick-up truck. I was initially thinking that maybe some cops saw us and thought were making out, in which case I would have led them dirctly to Satan's house, but no. So we started the engine and left our peaceful little nook, along with the one mosquito who got in the car before we shut the windows and passed out.
When we got home, the music had blissfully stopped and we were able to go to bed. The bonfire was still going strong and I was rather hoping some sparks would jump to Satan's roof, but decided that that was just too plain nasty to think.
In the meantime, I had been busy formulating elaborate revenge fantasies, some of which are still quite tempting. However, among other things it would be very passive-aggressive (and likely illegal) to carry them out, so I will resist and merely let off steam by letting my imagination run wild. I have come up with a few options that I'd like to share:
(a) leaving a nice pile of steaming raccoon poo (laced with my birdseed) in his mailbox
(b) spray-painting "SHUT THE F*CK UP" on the side of his precious dump truck
(c) inscribing the same phrase on the side of his precious dump truck with my car keys
(d) playing opera at full blast cross the water at 5 am Sunday morning
(e) calling Crimestoppers and telling there is a biker growing pot in his basement at *** Avenue Buckingham.
(f) getting rid of the stale eggs in the fridge by tossing them at the aforementioned truck
(g) playing "Ride of the Valkyries" at full volume across the water next Saturday morning
Feel free to suggest others so that I may fantasize further.
Nobody stirred at Satan's place until 6 pm yesterday, when he and his girlfriend, Satanette, came up to sweep up the carpet of beer cans, and burn some more pallets just for the hell of it. I showed excellent restraint in not giving him the finger as I kayaked past. I'm not bitter. I'm not bitter at all!
One other thing I have against Satan is that he had a lovely husky that was constantly tied up alone outside. (Note the past tense, "had"). That poor dog was always howling from loneliness. Well, the husky has suddenly disappeared (who knows why?) and now these quality dog owners (Satan and his girlfriend, Satanette) have themselves a new husky puppy to neglect. Enough said. Send me your revenge fantasies. I promise not to carry them out!
And while I'm complaining, may I just add that I am getting really tired of seeing another neighbour in his Speedo all the time? Let's just say that his physique is past wearing a Speedo with any decency, especially when he bends over and points his behind at me when I'm out trying to garden.