Have I been remiss in reporting on the refined, etiquette-driven antics of the finishing school dropouts next door at Krayzee Kornurzz? Did you think that anything has been resolved, improved or scrubbed up in any way due to my failure as a journalist? Oh ye of little cynical faith…
Just a sampling from the Krayzee Buffet then, to whet your app. These stories have all taken place within the last 48 hours, just to give you an idea of the frequency of their high jinx.
- Walking my dog at 3:00am on Friday night, I saw the
portal to hell gate to Krayzee Kornurzz was wide open — about as wide open as the mouth of one of its denizens who was choking and gagging on a rather impressive horse cock, said horse having leaned his back against a parked car to better find his thrusting leverage.
But here's the trashy part (I know, right?)—
Señor Caballero's amigo was standing two feet away, watching the demonstration, presumably because he was next. ¡Ándale!
"Classy!" I said as I walked by with the dog. The whore's rhythm didn't flag for a second.
- Last night my friend Pamela came by with her friend Erika. Pamela, having stayed with us many times, knows what's what next door, and she and I began explaining the nature of the blighted tenants who live in that blighted property.
The ladies left the house to go buy some champagne. I was sitting on the stoop, again with my dog. The Screamer* came down the street carrying a large, heavy, old-skool tube TV. Pamela and I gestured towards this antiquated hardware and asked of Erika, "See? Whaddwe tellya?"
"I wager that TV will be back out on the street, cluttering up my front stoop within the week."
Pamela laughed and agreed.
This morning, I found this outside my stoop:
Can I call it or what?
- This morning as Pamela, Ben and I were enjoying coffee and kaffeklatsch in the kitchen, we couldn't help but notice the roar of power tools coming from Krayzee Kornurzz.
What kind of mess are they making now? was my first thought, but was quickly squelched by the next thought: Wait! Power tools? That implies improvements of some sort. DOES NOT COMPUTE! ERROR IN LOGIC! BEEP BEEP BEEP!
I looked out the window and found that they were raising the bit of our shared fence just inside the
portal to hell front gate, presumably to keep the crackhead fence-jumpers from climbing onto their property (via my fragile gate).
This is fine with us, we all said.
Shortly after, I went out to walk the dog and saw the other side of the — I guess they'd call it a "fence?" — that they had — I guess they'd use the word "built?"
I took a picture of it and sent it to Ben, with the comment: It looks like a 14 year old's treehouse.
Why buy materials when you have perfectly decent scraps littering the courtyard?
- And speaking of scraps littering the courtyard, Mosquito Woman** was — I'd guess she'd call it "tidying up?" — in the courtyard today while I was enjoying a smoke on the deck that borders that haven of insanity.
She was humming to herself — a crazy little tune that reminded me of the inmate's "I Come To The Valley" song at the end of the John Waters' film FEMALE TROUBLE.
How nice. A little cleaning up in The Clampet's cesspit of a white trash landfill, I thought.
Of course, not even sweeping could be accomplished at K.K. without someone (besides me for once!) threatening to call in the po-po.
Mosquito Woman started screaming at Crackwhore CINDAYYYY! about how she never cleans her mess. CINDAYYYY! responded with the nonsensical mantra, "Payback's a bitch," over and over and over while her
john gentleman friend The Screamer threatened Mosquito Woman, who threatened to call the five-oh.
This argument went on for about 30 minutes (I recorded most of it, of course), and I sincerely hoped it would come to fisticuffs for two reasons: a) I sincerely wish bodily harm upon anyone blighted enough to live at K.K., and b) it would make this story more complete.
As I have been writing this, there is a rare moment of mirth and merriment erupting from K.K. Several of them are whoopin' it up in the courtyard, but it sounds to me like the mad cacklings of any cliché 80s film set in an asylum.*"The Screamer" is the gentleman friend of crackwhore CINDAYYYYY!, so named for her name being screamed outside our bedroom window at 4am with annoying frequency. By The Screamer.
**So named for the pitch and timber of her voice and its close resemblance to the whine of a mosquito in one's ear. And the fact that just looking at her makes one want to slap her.