Congratulations! You have officially won the Worst Neighbor in America Award! I thought you might’ve been tied with maybe Whitney Houston and Bobby Brown, or even Dick Cheney but no, you win by a landslide—which, by the way, I hope fills your backyard and silences the squawking parrot you insist on keeping. I’ve often thought about taking a hand grenade to that neglected bird of yours, but I realize it’s not the poor animal’s fault. It clearly has issues, probably due to the fact that your baby is constantly crying and you yell at your other kids, who in turn, crank up the stereo and keep replaying that crappy American Idol shit. Or maybe that’s you singing like William Hung on steroids. But on top of all that, now you’ve decided that it would be a good idea to bring a rooster into the situation. Are you insane?!? Don’t you see the homes two feet to your left and right? You don’t live in the country, sweetheart. Of course, if I had a kazillion dollars, I would buy you your own island to live on, where you wouldn’t torture anybody else with your dysfunction. But since I’m poor, and can’t move out of this hell you’ve created for me, I hope the fleas of a thousand camels infest your bed and keep you awake at night and jolt you awake every morning in anger, like you do to me every goddamned day. Oh, and you can pick up your award, after I shove it up your ass.