HUMOR
Hey Neighbor, I Just Bought A Trombone
Do you want to join my polyamorous trombone cult?
Hey neighbor,
How is life? Sounds wonderful, but I have to stop you there. I just bought a trombone! No-no, I don’t know how to play it, yet, but I know I am a natural. With three to four hours of daily practice, I will easily perform my own trombone rock opera in less than a year.
My trombone will become the seasoning to our perfectly uneventful neighborly relationship. Isn’t this amazing?
Wha-What do you mean it’s not uneventful?
You still remember that my Labrador bit your right calf and then peed on your car? We have been over this: Max really likes you but has weird ways expressing his affection. Plus, I pinky promised to you that this won’t happen again. What do you mean he has been shitting everyday for the past three years on your doormat? That’s impossible. Max has never defecated in the three years I have owned him. It’s probably another dog.
You also remember that I ruined your cable TV installation? Come on, this happened ages ago! It was last week? Time flies so fast. In my defense, it’s not my fault that your crappy electric network can be destroyed by the first sledge hammer it gets hit with.
These are just forgettable mishaps — I could not even recall them. Nothing serious to trouble our minds.
But you know what worries my mind lately? You, buddy.
You live next to a talented — and soon celebrity — trombone player. Soon paparazzi will start soaring on my doorstep. And who knows how many fans I will nail? A hundred at least — two hundred if I do double shifts. Me becoming the leader of a polyamorous cult with trombone lovemaking ceremonies doesn’t seem far-fetched to me at this point, too.
A couple of days ago, I came to your house to externalize my concerns. Your wife opened the door and she swiftly got mesmerized by my sexy music talent. One thing led to another, and we found ourselves discussing my trombone adventures under your bed sheets.
I know-I know. Last month, I pinky promised that this wouldn’t happen again. But I didn’t even try, my tromboniness did most of the work. And trust me, it was just pure animal lovemaking with some knee-cap tickling on the side. Zero emotional connection. Almost insulting. Gloria could not stop talking about you the whole evening. It’s so romantic how much in love she is still with you.
On my way out, I found your son sitting in the living room. I tried to engage in some goodhearted banter with him and he immediately burst into tears. My best guess is that he was hungry. Definitely not because I was still naked.
Instinctively I rushed to my apartment, grabbed my trombone, and returned to the agonizing boy.
It was all improvisational. My fingers tap danced on the keys. My lungs spat out air. My willy clapped on the side of my thigh. Seconds later, your son lay on the floor fast asleep.
Music is the antidote to all human vices. Even hunger.
But as I was sitting naked in your living room with my trombone and your 23-year-old son drooling on your carpet, I realized that your apartment’s acoustics is superior to mine.
So I was wondering if we could do an apartment switcheroo? I promise first row tickets to my first recital. I am sure Gloria will be on board, and when your son wakes up from his coma he will probably agree too.
