The Drummer Next Door

Back when my career was in full swing, I wrote an essay about a tuba playing neighbor, and that composition turned out wildly successful. So, now that my popularity is waning, I’d like to revisit this theme of a neighbor practicing a loud instrument that gets on my nerves, as a last-ditch effort to see if I can rekindle the old magic and perhaps get paid some money.

OK, so we got ourselves a drum player who lives next door. You, my friend, are a very annoying neighbor. You’ve got me all angry now; I dream of the sight of a big red boxing glove punching you. I’m here in my easy chair, trying to read: Peace and quiet is what I want; but then you go and bang on your drum set, which is very low-class behavior, and this ruins my concentration. Yet you never play for any great length of time, for you cannot even finish a song; all you do is noodle around, tapping and thumping like a fool, until you grow bored. I really would like to witness the authorities enter into your room and shove you, so that you fall on the floor. Listen, do me a favor: Move back to wherever you’re from, and bring your abhorrent drum kit with you. There is nothing worse than having to overhear your practice sessions. I find myself praying to God, asking Him to cause you to accidentally strike yourself on the head with your own drumstick. THAT would, at last, bring actual justice to the land; and all the cows and bees would give us their milk and honey.