Dear Neighbor,


I’d like to thank you for hosting last night’s party.  I’ve got to think you were celebrating something big.  Perhaps you got a raise.  Maybe you avoided the ebola scare or the threat of big government.  For all we know, it could have been a matter of climaxing at the same time while you and your lover bumped uglies in the back of an old Toyota Corolla with your legs hanging out of the back window and your unmentionables adorning the rearview mirror.  Regardless, congratulations.


Your ability to keep the volume on your outside sound system so high that it could be heard throughout the entire neighborhood exceeded all of our expectations of you to obtain the highest level available in the realm of colossal ignorance.


The bass!


Especially the bass!


Bass RunThere is NOTHING better than constant thumping bass emanating from a loud party which puts on a more brilliant display of inconsiderate doosh-baggery than the hours long droning on of notes which litter the bass clef among today’s most popular of music.


On a side note, I spelled doosh-baggery that way on purpose, to imply your poorly executed decision to do what you did does not hold water.


You really should consider sending out hand written notes of apology to the houses which surround you for several blocks.  I don’t care if you were done at what you consider a respectable time.  You were too effin’ loud.


Whereas I have a backyard full of canine fecal matter and could have very well scrounged up the paper bags and a match or two in order to introduce an entirely new dynamic to your party last night, I opted not to for two very specific reasons:


  1. My trebuchet is in the shop getting its 50,000 fling tune up.
  2. Assaulting you with airborne flaming dog poo would have made me no better than you and your ill conceived assault on our auditory sensibilities last night.


trebuchetInstead, I’ll leave you with this. Good job at living it up in the manner in which you did.  You’ve restored my faith in the perpetual existence of cheap seats, short buses, and low hanging fruit.

Yours truly,



Randy Tharp

TharpSter is a husband to one woman, a father to two kids, a master to two dogs, an occasional cubical occupant, and unable to make up his mind on an adequate theme for this website.

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