."No. I don't want to join you for drinks, actually. I'll be at my house scratching my nuts and bingeing onThe same goes for the missus's regular excursions into pre-Berlin Wall communism. I'll get up and announce,"I'm going to warm up some leftover pizza. Would you like some?""No," she'll respond, she's on a diet and shouldn't be having pizza.
One of my neighbours has been waking up on Sundays, placing a speaker on his lawn and conducting a church service Going forward, I'm not giving up half a slice of pizza to anyone. If that makes me a rude, mean husband, I'll lace that up and wear it. One of my neighbours in the working-class neighbourhood behind the Boerewors Curtain I reside in has been waking up on the past two Sunday mornings, placing a speaker on his lawn and conducting a church service. His time is up.
As soon as the first bars of his guitar flood the street, I'm walking to his house and insisting that he turn it down. If there's any resistance, I'm calling the metro cops and making a scene. Rude? Maybe. But I think that the height of rudeness is torturing your neighbours with your Bobby Angel voice at 120 decibels for two hours until their dogs become suicidal.
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