Your Mariachi Music Makes Me Want to Firebomb Your House

At last! The writer who brought you Screw you, Oasis Church Youth Group, now presents Volume II of Life-Ruining Neighbors: Your Mariachi Music Makes Me Want to Firebomb Your House.

It all began in the predawn hours of a chilly Saturday morning. I slept on the floor of my living room, where I have been camped out on a mattress (for what feels like my whole entire life) working on my Master’s thesis. My dogs were comfortably nestled in the crooks of my body, snoring and twitching ever so slightly as they dreamed of chasing rambunctious squirrels in an open field. I, too, was in the middle of a glorious dream about becoming an oral surgeon so I could perform a pro bono operation on Miley Cyrus’ gums. I had been asleep for roughly two hours after dosing up on caffeine and working late into the night. 

As the first rays of morning light spilled onto the concrete wasteland of Los Angeles, some obnoxious fucking mariachi music penetrated my brain like a blast of shotgun spray. Instead of killing me (which, at this point, I wish it had), it caused me to convulse for a second, snort like a pig, then sit up and say, “Ahhhhh, what the motherfucking fuck?!”

To say this music was loud would be like saying, "the Holocaust was kind of unfair." I live in Hollywood, and I’m pretty sure people in Glendale could hear this shit. So, after lapsing into a temporary bout of Tourette syndrome, I blinked hard and rubbed my eyes because at some point my contact lenses had turned into extra strength double-stick tape during the night. When I was finally able to pry my eyelids apart, I cautiously looked around, certain that I had been abducted and sold into a Central American sexual slavery ring where the party never ends. But NO. The terrible noise was coming from right outside my own apartment. I made a face that looked something like the drawing below, and then I started to cry a little bit.

Crying actually helped in a way because it provided the much-needed moisture to my eyeballs, but it was only a small comfort. I slumped back down on the mattress, clutched a dog  to my chest with one hand (I’m not even sure which dog), and pressed a pillow against my ears with the other. Predictably, the evil mariachi music worked its way through the fibers of my pillow and continued to rape my ear holes. I continued crying, and then called out to the heavens in complete anguish.

To my horror, the music persisted for several minutes and it became painfully clear that I wasn’t dealing with a spontaneous electrical fluke in my neighbor’s sound system. Oh, no. This shit was intentional. INTENTIONAL MASS-EAR-RAPING OF AN ENTIRE NEIGHBORHOOD. After TWENTY excruciating minutes I decided to call the police. After all, I reasoned, maybe someone was being murdered and the killer wanted to muffle the sound of his victim's screaming with horrible music. Makes sense, right? (Whatever, just go with it.)

I stepped onto my front patio to make the call to 911 because my dogs were howling and barking (can you imagine how horrible this must have been to their super-sensitive dog ears?), but the music was so loud outside I couldn’t even hear the operator. I went back in and closed myself in my bedroom. There, I came up with a brilliant plan. I would send a text message to 911! I wasn’t sure if that was a real thing, so I took to the Googs. Turns out you can do this, but not in California. Then I wondered if I could text 911 in a different state and ask them to tell my 911 people that I was being aurally assaulted, but I guess it doesn’t work that way, but I digress.

Allow me to cut to the chase. This shit went on for about an hour. It finally stopped around 6 and I tried to go back to sleep,  but of course I couldn't. So, after getting only two hours of sleep and being savagely abused by music, I decided to take a shower, walk the dogs, make myself some breakfast, and get on with my day. Good idea, right? Ohhhhh, except for the part where the music started again around 8 and lasted until noon. When it finally stopped, I thought, "This would be a good time to take a little nap and get myself rested for another long night of writing!" 

What do you think woke me up two hours later? Here, let’s make it multiple choice:

A) an alarm clock
B) a nice massage by a handsome masseuseC) HORRIBLE FUCKING MARIACHI MUSIC
D) sweet kisses from my dogs

I’ll give you a hint. It wasn’t A, B, or D. 

So then it was 2 PM, I felt like Charlie Sheen after his 72 hour coke bender, and there was no hope for sleep. It is now ONE IN THE MORNING and this madness is still going on. We're talking 20 straight hours of life-ruining, ear-splitting, I'm-going-to-throw-myself-off-the-roof-if-it-doesn't-stop music. Oh, and did I mention I have personally witnessed three party-goers urinating in the alley? Well, I did. And as an added bonus there is now a DJ shouting, “¡Baile! ¡Baile!” and “¡GERBMNJBASDBASFB LA QUINCEÑERA DE CRISTINA!” and some other shit I can’t understand because I always slept through Spanish class in high school and ditched to drink margaritas with Julie in college.

The cops have been here 3 times, but apparently it was just to chat and say hello. Maybe they sampled the fruit punch and requested Selena's "Bidi Bidi Bom Bom." 

So, can you guess how many pages I wrote for my thesis? 

A) 64
B) 2
C) 1/2
D) 900,000


Hint: Always choose C.

Anyway, this is my very long-winded way of telling you that if my neighbor’s house gets fire-bombed, I probably did it. Come visit me in prison. Bring me a shank and some earplugs. 

P.S. Happy fucking quinceñera, you little twat.