My crazy neighbor is a barrel of laughs. Apparently, he thinks I am too.
“You should be a comedian,” he tells me after I say something that’s only mildly funny. He’s good for cheap laughs. “You’d have to work up some material though,” he tells me, which is hilarious because I could do an entire 90-minute set on his antics alone. He’s a 40-something unemployed guy who lifts weights in his driveway, swears at his mother, talks to his pit bull like a confidante (loudly), breaks things when his stress level runs high (it’s always high), and screams bloody murder if his team (he backs a lot of teams) screws up a play. He’s unstable and slightly frightening, but hes does provide free entertainment to the neighborhood. Sometimes that entertainment comes at 1:00 in the morning, but what can you do? He’s been known to blast Journey and Michael Jackson tunes from his truck—his truck that he repainted himself with a can of what appeared to be regular old house paint—attempting to relive what I can only imagine were his glory days.
So yeah, neighbor. I’m working up a routine. Look out Kathy Griffin.