Dear Sir,

I live beneath you. You don’t know this. At least, I should hope not. If you are aware that someone lives beneath you, then shame on you, sir.

Last night you woke me up at 3AM with your blitzkrieg thunder. This has become the norm. Every night you wait until I am asleep to begin the loudest banging I have ever known. It is so loud that, when it first appeared, I was confident we were having an earthquake. Later, when we really had an earthquake, I was certain it was more of your banging, until I realized it was not an earthquake because the house was shaking at 4PM. And you sir, are no early riser.

Beneath is a list I’ve compiled with possible causes for your banging:

You have opened a Ford plant

Have you opened a Ford plant in your apartment, dear sir? The American automobile market has long been outmoded by the rest of the world. This is a truly ingenious and daring play on your part. Opening a Ford manufacturing plant on the third floor of a brick colonial (in the attic apartment, no less!) is ballsy. You have balls, my good man. You have enormous, great big balls. They must drag across the floor (or as I call it, the “ceiling”) when you walk.

But doesn’t the drudgery of assembling a full automobile every night exhaust you? How does one small fat man like yourself, red complexion and awkward fishing gear inexplicably always in hand, find time to run a full Ford plant all through the night? Sir, you should be the US president. Consider it, I beseech you. 

You have a baby elephant farm.

Or a full size elephant farm. Either way, I have confidence in you to inspire fear in them. You are, after all, a morbidly obese pinball with arms so far receded into his chest they are but thumbs.

But do you enjoy raising elephants? I hear they can be quite cantankerous company. Does their stampeding ever bother you the way it does me? Perhaps you shouldn’t prod them so much with hot branding irons while your bowling ball collection is sitting atop the fifteen foot high shelf you apparently store them (your bowling balls) along.

You are running a swingers-only bowling alley

I once bowled an 94, and it was entirely luck (aided by bumpers). Yes, I do bowl with bumpers. But I bet you and your swinger friends from Craig’s List don’t. By-the-way, where is your Craig’s List post? I’ve read through everything in the Casual Encounters section (they tried to end that feature, but now people just post them in the furniture section: “Hard wood looking for stiff board/Email for more info.”) and I’ve never found an invitation to an all night swingers-only bowling alley. However, I am confident this is what’s going on. How do I know it involves swingers? Because bowling on the third floor of a colonial apartment building only populated by maladroit cat owners is exactly the kind of thing middle-aged people who feel morally obliged to invent ways to avoid gettinganother divorce would pursue.

That’s how I know.

President Taft’s ghost is haunting your apartment

You live in an attic, so this is very possible. Of course, as well all know, Taft was so fat he once got stuck in the White House bathtub. This has only happend to one other US president, and it was only because Reagan forgot he was in the bathtub and panicked.

*If you consider Iraq to be hot water in the metaphorical sense, then this was also true for Bush II.

But I suspect Taft’s specter is now haunting your home, eating your ghost baloney, drinking your ghost booze, slapping his fat thighs all over your plastic covered furniture, and jumping up and down on your floor. His favorite spot for this, incidentally, is above my bed.

You’ve founded the world’s first dodge-ball league played with bowling-balls

Is the insurance premium high?

You are operating an illegal iceskating rink.

OR you are hosting hockey games. Either way, the stain on my bedroom wall which mysteriously materialized a few months back has gotten worse, and I imagine it’s because water is running down from your POORLY MONITORED ILLEGAL ICESKATING RINK.

For future reference, do you rent skates there or should one bring their own?

The third floor of this building is a quarry

And you are jackhammering away at the world’s first great exact replica of Stonehenge, with Easter Island figures around it.

You are hosting a continuous hoedown for the barn you built

Why would you build a barn in the third story attic apartment of a brick colonial? Regardless, I would prefer you learn to play either the whiskey jug or spoons instead of the rock kick drum you apparently prefer to bang all night long.

You have LOST amnesia

In which you continuously watch the last episode of LOST every night before bed, only to re-discover you’ve wasted six seasons of your life on a show which has less payoff than being a competent frontrunner for the GOP nomination. The constant rediscovery throws you into a violent rage.

You are parking a scale model of the Titanic in your attic apartment

Please solicit someone to help you, as your constant scraping of the floor is rattling my ceiling lamp so badly that the bulb needs continuous replacing. Yes, really, this is happening. Go on Craig’s List, you pork pie pustular porpoise, and offer to pay some hapless unemployed swinger to guide the tail of your scale Titanic into its bay at night. Don’t act like money is the issue; you already showed us you can afford to buy James Cameron’s smallest yacht.

You’re coaching a team of blind sprinters for the Special Olympics.

I wish you the best at the 2014 games, held in China because of their lax human right’s policies. But sir, it’s unkind to make blind children sprint, and doing so in a furnished apartment at 3AM is even worse. The sound of them piling-up, night after night, is offensive to my ears indeed. Please coach them elsewhere.

You’ve invited the neighborhood cows in for a few drinks

This is wildly inappropriate. Cows aren’t meant to stay up until the sun rises toasting your silver spoon collection. It says an awful lot about a fellow like you that you’d solicit drinking buddies in cows – particularly the local bunch, who are unimpressive and perverse. No cow should drink a white Russian, ever.

You are committing the most protracted suicide in the world

In which I am coerced into murdering you for depriving me of sleep for two years.

– Sincerely yours,

Quinn Beeversluice

Julian Belvedere of (King Hamburger Pimp and) the Sundance Kid

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