The Kevin Chronicles: I'll Go Back To Being Funny Now

I love your blog. I don’t have a special needs child but I read it because it cracks me up. Your last 2 entries have been thought provoking but, could you go back to being funny? My divorce was finalized in October. I had my girls for Christmas, but they’re in Mexico for the next five days with their dad and the woman he left me for. I could really use a laugh.

It sounds like your life sucks right now and I’m sorry. I could say something stupid like, “Everything happens for a reason,” but I won’t. That wouldn't make you feel better about your ex vacationing with your girls and the twat he left you for. I will say this: I hope the home-wrecking whore bumps into something sharp, punctures her breast implants and has to be rushed to the nearest Mexican emergency room to have them removed, by the janitor. Also, I hope she has a highly contagious, incredibly itchy form of genital crabs. The following story has been written for you because you need a laugh and I think it's funny.

For 20 years, the house next door to me was inhabited by a single man I’ll call Horace (because he was disgusting) and his two sons. It hadn’t been cleaned since the wife left in 1978. Even my father, who is a complete slob, once asked Horace how he could stand to live in such filth. “It keeps the women away,” Horace said. OK then.

As far as we could tell, the men lived on a steady diet of Count Chocula, deer meat, and vegetables from a garden which Horace fertilized with dead sunfish, cigarette butts and coffee grounds.

As you can imagine, being raised by Horace and all, the boys were kinda strange. They converted the 2 story garage into a man cave by chain-sawing a hole in the floor upstairs and suspending a rope ladder from the ceiling. Since there was no bathroom up there, the boys engaged in pissing contests out the window to see who could hit Dad’s vegetable garden. To stop him bringing us “gifts” from the piss patch, my Dad managed to convince Horace we were all allergic to vegetables.

One day back in 1986, there came a knock at the door. When I opened it there was Horace, with a shotgun. “Your Dad home?” He asked. “Yes Mr. West. Uhhh, why do you have a shotgun?” I asked. “Bats” he replied and strolled, unceremoniously into my house. “Denis!!!!!!” he screamed. “I need you Denis!!!!! I have bats in my house!! Looks like a flock of goddamn birds in there!!” Now my Dad is a loon himself but even he was taken aback by the sight of Horace in our kitchen with a shotgun. “Jesus Christ Horace what are you doing in my house with a gun?!” he asked. “Bats,” Horace replied. And then my Dad, who is excellent at reasoning with deranged people said, “Horace, my boys and I will help you get rid of the bats IF you agree to use tennis rackets instead of that gun.” Horace considered this for a minute. “How about you all use tennis rackets and I use the gun?” he asked. “Nope,” my dad said. “No guns. Tennis rackets. Take it or leave it.”

To this day, the greatest show I have ever seen was my dad, my brothers, and the West men beating to death the flock of bats that had infested Horace’s house with tennis rackets. When it was all over, Horace tried to offer my Dad vegetables from his garden as payment before he remembered our “allergy.” Instead, Dad received a bag of Horace’s special “dead sunfish fertilizer” and a reminder that the whole thing would have gone quicker had they used the guns. Then my father, the attorney, politely enlightened Horace on the NJ state law which prohibits people from using guns in or around their homes to kill wildlife. It should not shock any of you that Horace eventually moved to Texas, where I’m sure at this very moment, he’s killing something in his home with a shotgun.

Fast forward three years and Horace had been cited not once but 8 times for shooting fish. He'd had enough. He listed the house, packed up the boys and Winchester (the moose head that hung over his fireplace) and drove off in his pick-up truck, never to be seen again.

Now I’m not sure if it was the dead raccoon in the chimney, the family of LIVE mice in the oven, or the garden that reeked of fish and piss, but shockingly, no one wanted to buy Horace’s house. It sat there, vacant, for three years until the spring of 1998. My mother couldn't wait to call me.

Mom: Rachel it’s me, I have wonderful news. Someone finally bought Mr. West’s house!

Mom: No! It’s a family dear. Husband, wife, and a cute little boy.

Me: They’re knocking it down?

Mom: Nope, they’re going to move in and remodel it isn’t that nice?

Me: Wait. You’re telling me there’s a WOMAN willing to live in that shithole??

Mom: Yes dear. She says it’s a sin to tear down a log cabin, she seems quite rustic!

Me: Mom I think you should steer clear of this lady. No woman in her right mind would agree to live in a house with shotgun shells in the walls or bats in the attic.

Mom: Oh it’ll be fine stop being such a pessimist.

And it turns out my mother was right. They are nutty as fruitcakes, but I thank God Tom and Jeanie bought Horace’s house. Anyone one else would have sold, just to get away from us, years ago.

Because they’ve lived next door since the day Kevin was born, my neighbors have become desensitized to some truly bizarre behavior. Take Jeanie for example: a couple of years ago I went upstairs to take a shower and when I came down Kevin was missing. Just as I was about to panic the phone rang:

Jeanie: Hi Rachel it’s Jeanie I have Kevin over here. He’s naked.

Me: Oh my God Jeanie I’m so sorry!

Jeanie: Oh don’t be silly it happens.

Me: You know Jeanie it doesn’t. I’m willing to bet no one else in Medford Lakes has a neighbor who wonders over naked but you.

Jeanie: Oh it’s fine. I put him in one of Cody’s old T-shirts. He’s talking to the dog, I’ll bring him over in a couple of minutes.

When Kevin gets too aggressive we have to put him outside until he calms down. Sometimes he sits out there screaming for up to an hour. Normal neighbors would have reported us to the police years ago but not Tom and Jeanie! Noooooooooo, they call and give us play by plays of Kevin’s tantrums. Ring, ring, ring

Tom: He Rachel it’s Tom. Do you know he’s pissing on your front door right now? Awesome!

Tom: Oh no there goes your wind chime! Damn, that thing didn’t stand a chance. Ok, now…… now he’s got some woods chips. Uh, are your car doors locked?

Still not convinced my neighbors are nuts? Try this on for size: they actually LIKE living next to us! About a month ago we thought we had to sell our home. For the open house, Tom planned to sit on my roof, naked, with a jug of moonshine and a gun. Whenever a prospective buyer pulled up, Tom was going to shoot up into the sky and scream, “I’m your new neighbor!!!!!!!!” Jeanie’s plan was a little more sophisticated. She belongs to a dog rescue and fosters two dogs at a time, but for the weekend of my open house she intended to round up 11 of the oldest, smelliest, yappiest dogs she could. Her plan was to black out 2 of her teeth, chain smoke, and welcome prospective buyers in the street with all 11 dogs. Needless to say, we aren’t moving.

So there you go Laughless: A completely random story about crazy Horace and my current neighbors who love me as I love them. I know you’re hurting right now but try to remember this: you have people in your life who will never walk out on you. Don’t focus on your ex and the slut, focus on the people who would sit on your roof with a shotgun if you tried to leave because they love having you in their life. That’s what I do when the going gets rough. Good luck.