Chapter 6: The Hog Days of Summer

Oh, dear God. Can things get worse? After Steve's DUI conviction last month and the subsequent suspension of his driver's license, I actually thought we were going to get a respite from the Hog Farts next door. Then I heard that distinct bum-bum-rumbling bumbling of a Harley Davidson outside my window this morning and looked out to see a leather-clad man cruising up onto Ambrosia's lawn with his tattooed arms reaching out toward chrome ape-hanger handlebars. It seems Ambrosia's sister Josie is visiting from Alabammy with her hairy boyfriend, son, and their new puppy. Said puppy is currently chained to a cellar door, squealing like a pig in that godforsaken patch of land where Ambrosia's life spills into mine. I can hear Steve and Hairy Harley Brother-in-Law (H.H.BIL) talking outside as I type. H.H.BIL has the twangiest twang I have ever heard. He keeps saying, "Bo, I tell yew hhhhhwaht."

Yes, I do have an appointment to show the house today. No, I do not expect to get an offer. No, I cannot quick slap together a giant trompe l'oeil mural in our sideyard depicting a happy clean-cut family playing UNO and barbecuing something that doesn't require a spit. How would a slick real estate agent handle this situation? Josie's teenage son came walking outside today with his pants hanging down so far that I saw his entire butt crack and all the flanking flesh. Thank God he was walking away and not toward me. When he saw me, he casually hitched those pants up and loudly collected in his throat and then hocked a giant loogey, right splat in the middle of the sidewalk. "Morning," he muttered. Ah, well, at least he's cordial.

Maybe instead of trying to time our showings around Ambrosia's life, we should take $5,000 off our asking price and use it to send her and her clan on a nice, long vacation. Mudbogging on the bayou perhaps? A trip to Sturgess?