You will remember I am sure my dear neighbour Soggy the Sailor. If you have forgotten, please do refresh your memory.
Soggy has been absent on a long voyage to the land of Hipster Douche, having fought many great battles against taste and relevance, battles I must admit I hoped would lead to his falling in a volcano and it hurting. Instead he returns triumphant, a golden fleece in his paws. I am not sure what it it is, but if I may be allowed a guess it has the dreary beige earnestness of The Best Of Glenn Campbell, although with a bit more Country and Western twang.
Of course the best way to play Glen Campbell is loud and proud at 3AM. As always, I’m amazed at the ability for his insipid gruel to work its way through my walls and keep me from the oblivion I crave.
And as is always the case with Soggy, he and some other turd will adopt the same instrument as his muse, plunk away at it sporadically over the hours and then (I guess) fall into a stupor about 5AM. His guitar is as bad as his fiddle. Fuck him.
I have a new friend, Party Girl That Yells Over The Top Of The Universe. She has the kind of voice that strips paint at thirty paces and she seems to enjoy holding parties somewhere diagonally behind my place which always end up WITH HER OPINIONS BEING ELEVATED OVER ANY PERSON THAT DARES TO TALK BACK. Good times, sad times, any time is right for yelling. Laughter must be shared with the entire Pacific Rim, otherwise there might be some Fijian that isn’t paying attention to her. Right now she has met up with another of her kind and in the manner of two knights colliding in a slow motion joust, the two of them have been YELLING ANGRILY OVER THE TOP OF EACH OTHER ABOUT SOME SHIT DOESN’T MATTER for about an hour. Like a dogfight, it needs a bucket of water thrown over it.
When I was twenty something I did have heated arguments like that. But as I wasn’t able to breathe through my arsehole I had to pause every now and then.
The argument has worn out and we’re back to her just yelling OH MY GOD, I’M SO TRASHED every minute or so, as if to stake out the limits of her sonic cesspit. If I may say ma’am, you are a dreadful bogan and the suburbs are calling you. Answer their call.