Whoever said “Love thy neighbor” never lived in my house, because if they did they’d have the same neighbor as me, and they’d realize what a ridiculous suggestion they’d made. How am I supposed to love my neighbor if I have a strong suspicion that he’s a serial killer?
I have no proof of this. But, worry not, proof never gets in the way of a good story, or a theory that millions will believe, so I’m not going to let it stop me either. Perhaps if I broke into his house and took a look around I’d find some evidence to support my theory, but that’s not necessary. I’m fine with conjecture.
One of my favorite 1980s movies – which I only saw for the first time a few years ago – is The ‘Burbs. Tom Hanks, and Bruce Dern and Rick Ducommun are certain that a new family on the block are up to no good, and they go to great lengths to gather evidence. I won’t spoil the film for you – watch it today if you can! – but it all ends up with some rather unfortunate destruction for them, so I’m not going to go to those lengths. Instead, I’ll just present my case here.
And you’ll know that I’m right.
Really, all the evidence that I need is this: the guy whistles. Incessantly. Day and night. It never stops. Absolute madman.
This may seem like rather thin evidence to you, but I invite you to come to my house and sit in my living room and listen to the non-sensical tune this jerk whistles when he walks out his front door and to the side of the house to throw his garbage in the can. He practically drives me to my own state of madness.
Or how about when he leaves the house on a frigid January morning when the sun is barely up, and snow crunches with every step, and a normal person’s lungs feel like they might freeze with every inhale, but this guy is whistling the third verse from the deepest cut of some New Wave band’s least successful album. Why? Shut the fuck up.
There should be enforceable age limits that pertain to whistling. If you’re twelve years old or younger, go ahead. And if you’re…I don’t know…65? or older, you can whistle, too. It’s probably endearing, like reconnecting with a bygone era. But if you’re between 13 and 64, just don’t. There’s no way that you’re not annoying. Anyone within earshot is thinking about either stabbing you or stabbing their own eardrums. You’re intolerable. You’re ruining peace and quiet. Even if you’re in the middle of a big city, just don’t. Any sound that assaults human ears in a big city is better than listening to you whistle.
Now, just to prove that I’m not a madman, I’m willing to permit exceptions. If you’re walking alone in the woods, and you’re sure that there’s no one within earshot of you, then I suppose you can whistle. I’m sure the birds will probably want to peck your eyes out, or rip your lips off, but if you think that your whistling is better than their singing, then I guess it’s fine. You’re wrong, but it’s fine.
And if you’re woodworking, you can whistle. Those two things just seem to go hand-in-hand. Whittling and whistling. Who wants to deny that? Just don’t overdo it, okay?
Speaking of things that go hand-in-hand, how about whistling and murdering? Think of the serial killer with whom you’re most familiar. Now think of them whistling while they’re murdering. It’s easy to imagine, is it not? It’s not at all far-fetched.
What to do with such incontrovertible proof? As I mentioned before, it didn’t work so great for the crew in The ‘Burbs, so I’ve got to be careful as I think about my next move. I’ve seen enough episodes of Perry Mason to know that whistling may not be enough to convict. Although I’m pretty sure there’s a lost episode of Murder, She Wrote where even easygoing Jessica Fletcher deduces the guilty party because the dude thought he was Lauren Bacall, and put his lips together and blew all too often.
I’m worried that I may just have to get used to it. I suppose I could ring his doorbell and tell him to knock it off, but that seems a good way to end up his next victim.
Despite the constant annoyance, and the almost-uncontrollable urge to throw something at his face, I have no choice but to deal with it. After all, I’m not a madman.
Although I do wonder what he’d do if I started humming loudly every time I heard him whistle.
(Just for the record, I don’t really think he’s a serial killer. But he is annoying, which, unfortunately, is not against the law.)
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