There is ALL KINDS of construction going on in our street. The city is doing something to something to make the somethings work more efficiently. I think it's the storm sewers, but don't quote me on that.
The construction begins, with a great farting fanfare of diesel machinery starting up, at about 4:30 am and carries on all day just until the point that I think I'm going start chewing holes in the carpet. Then they stop and go home, leaving a few discarded cups and cans dotting the careful landscaping and a new coating of dust on my windows.
I can deal with the cups and cans, I suppose. That's why God sends the wind, right? To blow the city workers' dumb trash right back to city hall, three blocks away? But what I find harder to deal with is the CONSTANT CURSING that goes on. It wears on my last nerve, it really does.
For instance, here are a couple of the poetic utterances I've heard this morning while sitting here at my desk by my open dining room window:
"J**** C****!!!! SLOWER! SLOWER, G** D****!!!! WHAT THE F*** ARE YOU TRYING TO DO??!!"
"PUT THAT F***** IN GEAR AND BRING 'ER FORWARD, G** D*****!!!!! NOT SO F****** SLOW!!! J**** C*****!!!!!! I DON'T HAVE ALL F****** DAY!!!!!"
Don't get me wrong. I am not a dainty little flower. I'm just saying when you have people working right outside your house for eight hours a day for the past five days and many unforeseen days into the future, it would wear you down to have people shouting "Mary Had a Little Lamb" at the tops of their leathery lungs, let alone bombarding you with a fusillade of profanity.
Besides, I know what "Mary Had a Little Lamb" would sound like from this gang. It'd go a little somethin' like this:
"MARY HAD A F****** LAMB..."
Mere seconds ago, another torrent was unleashed with the foreman yelling, "I'VE TOLD YOU ALL A THOUSAND TIMES NOT TO ROLL THAT G** D***** THING FORWARD OVER THERE BUT IT LOOKS LIKE I'M GOING TO HAVE TO SAY IT ONE MORE F***** TIME!"
At that point, I'd had it. I mean, it is only 10:15 am and the sun is not yet beating down and the traffic is light and there's a fresh morning breeze. What's it going to be like at 4:30 pm when it's hot and everyone's tired and sweaty.
So, partially concealed by the dining room curtain, I assumed my best Teacher Will Give You Saturday Detention voice and shouted ringingly, "HEY! YOU STOP THAT KIND OF TALK OR I'M COMING OUT WITH A BAR OF SOAP AND DON'T THINK I DON'T MEAN IT!!!"
Seriously. If I were working outside a house with a great big Virgin Mary shrine prominently displayed in the front -- you cannot miss it; it's a huge chunk of concrete that stands thigh high -- I'd be a little more circumspect in my choice of epithets I was going to be hollering at the dimwits I was leading.
There was a slight silence. It was absolutely golden. But then another diesel engine fired up and I don't know if Mr. Cussy McCussington ever summoned up a reply. Heh.
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