And during our four-year stay there, we had two different neighbors that lived below us.

Now, the first guy was a dude named John who was like this 45-year-old stoner that lived by himself, and John was like the best downstairs neighbor that we could possibly have.

He was always trying to help out and bring us food to eat, which was very important to us because Brewer and I just so happened to be broke as hell back then.

We'd be sitting on the couch like, "Boy, I sure am hungry. Dude, do you have any money?"

"Money? What the hell is money?"

And then John would just pop in and he'd be like, "Oh, hey guys, I was just making some corn dogs downstairs and well, I got super stoned and accidentally made the whole box.

You guys want to eat fucking 14 corn dogs?"

Now, one time me and John were both in the basement doing our laundry at like 7 o'clock in the morning, and out of nowhere, his ass was like,

"Hey, dude, I got some leftover jello shots from Cinco de Mayo. You want to go eat a bunch and get super fucked up?"

"John don't you have to like go to work in an hour?"

"Yeah, I sure do. Anyways, they're lime-green ones made with tequila."

So there I am, getting plastered at 7 o'clock in the morning with a 45-year-old man in a Hawaiian shirt.

An hour later, I'm passed out drunk on the couch; John's ass is at work as a fucking welder of all things.

"Hey, John, are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

Yeah, the guy was a legend. That's for sure.

Well, needless to say, me and Brewer were pretty disappointed when John moved out one day and our new neighbor moved in.

Now, this new neighbor was a guy named Tom, and Tom was no fucking John. That's for goddamn sure.

I mean for one, Tom did not associate with us whatsoever.

He lived underneath us for months and we didn't have a single conversation.

He just sit on the porch and smoke cigarettes and shit.

Me and Brewer would just watch him at a distance like, "Well, what the fuck? What's this guy gonna start feeding us corn dogs?"

"Yeah, fucking jello shots. This guy sucks ass at being the downstairs neighbor."

Well, it didn't take long for the shit to hit the proverbial fan, if you will, between us and our new neighbor Tom.

The first issue that we ran into was the fact that Tom worked early mornings every day.

Now, Brewer and I had shitty second shift jobs at the Circle K and the Pizza Hut.

So that meant that while Tom was trying to get his beauty sleep at night, me and Brewer be upstairs doing dumb shit being loud as fuck.

"Dude, you want to go shoot beer bottles with this BB gun and fucking listen to old Lip Biscuit songs?"

"Oh, hell yeah, I do."

"I did it all for the nookie. Come on, the nookie, come on."

Yeah, I don't know if you guys thought that Tom's ass was gonna be the bad neighbor when you clicked on this video,

but no, me and Brewer were actually the asshole neighbors, 100%.

So needless to say, Tom had a hard time sleeping with all the happy horse shit that we were up to.

Now you think that he would just, you know, ask us to keep it down or hell even do the old broomstick against the ceiling thing.

No. This motherfucker decides to call the cops. That's what he decides to do.

"Hey, uh, we got an anonymous noise complaint from the other half of the house. You guys are playing the Nookie at way too many decibels."

Now this kind of offended me and Brewer at first.

I mean, hell, if Tom would have just came to us personally, we would have toned it down for sure.

We didn't need the fucking Five-O to come here and yell at us like they're our dad and shit.

So after a few days, we went right back to doing stupid shit and being loud as hell.

"Hey, you want to fucking fight each other with vacuum cleaners?"

"Oh, hell yah, you're on."

And of course, Tom called the cops on us again.

In fact, his ass probably called the cops probably a half dozen times, but the cops would never really do anything.

They just show up and be like, "Hey, uh, we got a noise complaint."

"Yeah. Yeah. Yeah, we'll keep it down, all right? Now leave us alone. We're trying to fucking race these baboons on pogo sticks for Christ's sake."

Eventually, the cops just stopped coming over all together.

I don't know if it was Tom that gave up or if the cops were just like, "Look, they're just loud assholes, all right? We can't just shoot him in the face, Tom, no matter how loud they are."

Well, eventually Tom would seek out some revenge of his own when he started to bring over a little lady friend of his.

Now, the way the duplex was laid out, Tom's bedroom just so happened to be directly underneath my bedroom.

Now, some of you watching this might already know where I'm going with this.

"Oh, did you fucking hear them have loud nasty sex late at night? You did, didn't you?"

Yeah. Yeah. I fucking did.

You see late one night in the wee early morning hours, I wake up to some very unsettling noises.

I don't know what kind of weird tantric shit was going on downstairs, but it was loud and it was violent.

It's just sound like fucking two dogs fighting underneath a table and shit

It was crazy as hell, and to make matters worse, Tom was clearly the more vocal of the two.

He just kept going, "Hah! Hah! Haaah! Ha-ha-ha-haaah!"

So what did I decide to do about this unfortunate situation?

Well, I sure as hell didn't call the cops and be like,

"Hey, my prick of a neighbor is having loud relations and above the neighborhood noise ordinance. Send lots of back up."

No. I did not do that.

Instead, my double standard have an ass goes over to the vent in my room and I yell something along the lines of,

"Hey, fucking quit it. Knock it off. I gotta work four hours at the pizza tomorrow. God damn it. Stop it."

Now, I don't know if they didn't hear me or if they just didn't care, but that did not stop whatever the fuck they were doing down there.

So my ass had to sleep on the couch that night, traumatized as hell.

Not to mention this happened for like a week straight and every time I would get up and I would yell shit down the vent.

Well, sometimes I would just fuck with them instead. I wouldn't even yell.

I'd just be like, "Thomas. Is that you? It's me, your mother. I don't really appreciate what you're doing down there, boobie."

But it didn't matter.

They never stopped or responded or anything like that.

And I had to keep my ass out on the couch because, well, I was definitely not trying to hear that shit, that's for sure.

Now, keep in mind that at this point, we still have not had any direct confrontation with Tom.

Not a single conversation or a "Hey, how'd you do? I heard you fucking last night."

Nothing. Nothing at all.

Well, all that would change with what I like to call "The Dryer Incident."

And The Dryer Incident happened when one night at 3 o'clock In the morning, I decided to put my shoes in the dryer.

I don't remember why my shoes were sopping wet in the first place or why I had to have them dried at that precise moment,

but I indeed put shoes in the goddamn dryer at 3 o'clock in the morning.

Now if you've never put shoes in the dryer before by themselves, well, it sounds a lot like this.

Well, this obviously wakes Tom's ass up and apparently this was it.

This was the final straw Tom marches his ass upstairs pissed off as hell.

I opened the door and what I see is the angriest bald man I've ever seen my life.

Tom standing there smoking a cigarette. He's like, "Are those fucking shoes in the goddamn dryer?"

And my first reaction was like, "Holy hell, Tom. That is shoes in the dryer. How the hell did you guess that?"

This is like a fucking weird game show of some sort.

"And welcome back to another episode of 'What's in the Dryer?'"

"Tom for the grand prize. What do you hear?"

"Clankety, clank, clank, clank, clank."

"That's a fucking TV remote and a bag of nickels."

Anyways, Tom asked me if those are indeed shoes in the goddamn dryer, and I decided to hold my ground, even though, you know, I'm 100% wrong in this situation.

"Well, yeah, Tom, as a matter of fact, those are shoes in the goddamn dryer."

"It's 3 in the morning. Why the fuck did you put shoes in the dryer?"

"Well, to get them dry, you dense son of a bitch. Why else would I fucking put them in there?"

So now we're going back and forth over who's the bigger asshole here.

And it's me, clearly, but that's what I take a sharp left turn and bring up an entirely different topic.

"Yeah, well, I don't appreciate hearing you and your girlfriend's fucking sexual escapades at night. How about that?"

"Wait, what? What the hell are you talking about?

"Well, I can hear you fucking, Tom. That's what. Ha! Ha! Ha-ha-ha-ha! Sound familiar, you fucking piece of shit?"

Yeah, that's right. I had to pull a page out of Forrest Gump. I had to imitate his ass fucking.

It wasn't my proudest moment, but well, it was pretty effective because Tom's ass was completely flustered.

"I have no idea what the hell you're talking about. Keep the damn shoes out of the dryer. You guys are assholes."

And that was the first and last conversation that I had with our neighbor Tom.

Me and Brewer moved out shortly afterwards and Tom was free to do whatever crazy-ass shit he wanted, without having to worry about any prying ears.

So Tom, on the off chance that you're watching this shitty little cartoon, I just want to apologize for being such a shitty upstairs neighbor.

I know we should have been quiet and should have let you sleep and you know, instead of yelling down the vent, I should have, I don't know, fucking whispered words of encouragement.

"Way to go, Tom. You can do it."

Just know that you did traumatize my ass quite a bit in return and every time I hear two fucking dogs fighting underneath a table, I can't help but think of your bald ass.

The end.