>>> The Strumpet's Trumpet
By staff writer Allison Parks

April 7, 2008

Shamu is my neighbor. I don’t know his real name, but I do know one thing: come rain, snow, or a hellfire shower of meteors, Shamu will be outside of his apartment, topless, sitting in his little wicker chair. I say the chair is little because Shamu is anything but little; he’s a juggernaut, a whale of a man with a spine-chilling pony tail and matching mustache. He looks like Ron Jeremy ate himself then ate everyone he’s ever slept with, then ate 600 candy apples because he was still hungry.

Since Shamu doesn’t have a job, his physique is on display for the neighborhood to take pleasure in all day, every day. This is because I unsuspectingly moved in next door to a Christian charity project, which is basically housing for the homeless (thanks for the warning, Hedgerow Property Management—I’ll get you!).

“Shamu, why do I have to stare at your massive white gut every single day?”

How do these housed homeless give back to their community, which has so graciously given them free apartments? Plant a nice vegetable garden for the neighbors to enjoy? Keep their building nice and tidy? Perhaps even better their own lives? Oh no, they scream at medics while being forcibly strapped to gurneys in the night for mysterious reasons, they rev their hoopties at high volumes, and they start ear-piercing fights that sound like they were transcribed from a special needs debate class.

Here is an actual fight between a couple that I heard at 4am. Enjoy:

Woman: You get the fuck out, asshole!!
Fine, I will, fuck you, I’m never coming back!
Like a give a shit!!
Uh, you, uhhh, go take a shit!

Needless to say, he got her with that zinger. But let’s not talk about them, today.

Today, I want to write a letter to Shamu, the flagship hobgoblin from the housing project. Even if you don’t send a letter, Oprah says it’s good to express your feelings in letter format. Perhaps when I move out I’ll tie it to a brick and pelt Shamu in his rotund gut with it.

Dear Shamu,

Why aren’t you wearing a top? It’s 35 degrees outside, aren’t you cold? I know I’m cold, and I’m wearing an anorak. Is your blubber so dense that you can’t even feel the cold anymore?

Shamu, don’t you get bored? Sometimes your degenerate homeboys stop by to chat, and once in a while your cat will grace you with a visit, but for the most part, you’re alone. No TV, no frosty King Cobra to sip on, not even a Barely Legal to flip through. Why don’t you get yourself something to do out there?

Shamu, how do you stay so fat? I know you don’t have a job since you never leave that chair. Where do you get the money to acquire the food to keep yourself in an insulating igloo of fat?

Shamu, why do you leer at me whenever I get out of my car? Are you lusting after that chocolate croissant in my hand? Have you surpassed traditional food altogether and now desire to eat me? Isn’t it enough that I have to stare at your massive white gut every single day? Must I endure your creepy stares as well? Shamu, does it bother you when I grimace back at you? Even when I glare right back into your beady little eyes, you won’t break the stare. Why Shamu, why?

Shamu, when you roll off your bed each morning, put on your trousers and rainbow suspenders, or shorts if it’s a little warm out, do you ever look in the mirror and think, “Am I punishing people by making them look at my pale, protruding, ever expending gut?” Would it be so terrible to put on a shirt?

I guess what I’m trying to say Shamu, is please, please go back in the house, or I will kidnap your cat. Springtime is upon us and I’m afraid you’ll start wearing even less. Springtime is also mating season, so I worry Shamu…I worry that you’ll find a she-Shamu in a tattered sports bra to sit with you outside your apartment. Then I’ll have two of you to look at. I just can’t do it, Shamu. I just can’t.

Your vengeful neighbor,