The mother of all baby showers

Drawing by Gus Morgan

My neighbors are crazy.

And they are driving me crazy.

It’s approaching midnight, and noise is pouring from the house across the street.

They have been carrying on for hours. They’ve got liquor in them now.

I wish you could hear what I’m hearing.

These are not ordinary noises, but sounds you might hear coming from the deep backwoods of Kentucky in the early 1800s. The noises I hear belong on The Texas Chainsaw Massacre soundtrack.

An animal-like cry just pierced the night, causing my cat to curl into a fetal position.

Now, here is what is even more disturbing.

They posted a sign in their yard earlier today, which said, “It’s a boy.”

I know they didn’t just have a baby. I guess they are hosting a baby shower for a friend.

I’ve tried to put myself in their shoes, to think like them. To outthink the beast, you must become the beast.

Possible thought patterns running through their brains:

“Hey, let’s host a baby shower. Yeah, man, let’s make it go on for hours and hours. Let’s serve lots of liquor. Smoke. Play loud music. And, hey, let’s have it in our garage with the doors open. And, yes, let’s not forget to invite Uncle Buck and Sally Sue. Honey, get the pigs’ feet out of the freezer. I’m going to barbecue tonight.”

Vehicles are clogging the street in front of my house, and the road itself is on the verge of a cardiac arrest. How many people are over there?

This is not how baby showers are supposed to play out.

Maybe if I was at the baby shower, I would have a different perspective on this whole deal.

Maybe I should go over and join them.