Whistler's Motherfucker

You know what really pisses me off? People who can't whistle but still do. Talk about begging to be beaten about the head and neck areas. Whistling isn't even that enjoyable when it's good. Even if you're stuck in an elevator with the Stradivarius of whistlers, the Grand Dragon or whatever they call the dude who wins the World Whistling Championships down in Arkansas or wherever they have that crap, next door to the freaks who can play banjo like some inbred Jimi Hendrix, even if it's THAT dude and he can whistle like God himself farting out a melody, he's still probably gonna be whistling some song you don't like. In fact, that's a pretty safe bet since it's rare that somebody whistles any song you actually want to hear, anything hardass like "Ironman," instead it's usually the Andy Griffith theme or "Butterfly Kisses" or some gay bullshit like that.

According to commune answerman and office Sorry champion Griswald Dreck, whistling was invented by the Nazis in WWII as a way of drawing Allied snipers out of their hiding places. The German soldiers who were pinned down would whistle "Oye Como Va" and other annoying German songs off-key for days on end until the sniper finally went batshit and came charging out, yelling like "Alright fuckwad! Who wants to get bitchslapped all the way back to Hamburg?" If the Nazis spoke English at all, a hilarious fistfight would ensue since the Germans only knew Nazi karate, and that just involved stepping really high and heil-Hitlering to block everything until you either got your ass kicked or the other guy fell down laughing. If the German soldiers didn't speak any English, then they'd just shoot the guy.

Disgruntled American vets who didn't get the promised pot to piss in and cherry Mustang in every garage upon returning home from the war brought whistling back with them as a subtle revenge, and before long it spread like an embarrassing nickname all across the country. They even changed the name of the thing from a "Nazi face blow" to the less disgusting term "whistling" to make it more marketable, and soon happy assholes everywhere were whistling away, without even knowing they were giving Adolph Hitler a hard-on in his grave.

Some shit happened in the intervening years, bottom line is eventually whistling spread to my neighbor Dale, which is the worst thing that could have happened. This goddamned guy whistles day and night, and when it's hot I can't even close my windows or spray him with a fire extinguisher and blame it on the weather. Remember that Stradivarius whistler I was talking about earlier? Dale's what it would be like if that guy got kicked in the head by a moose and still thought he could whistle great but actually sucked a giant dick.

The other day I was sitting at home, trying to explain to Osaka why it would be great if she bought a rickshaw to pull me around in (solving both my transportation and never-been-pulled-around-in-a-rickshaw problems in one brilliant move) when my train of thought was totally cocked in the ass by that tone-deaf Sinatra in his back yard, whistling the theme to Simon & Simon while he turtle-waxed his patio chairs. I think it was the Simon & Simon theme, but to be honest he tends to medley shit together and none of it is right anyway so I can never be sure what specifically I'm pissed about. Could've been "Save the Best for Last," but I guess I still give the dick more credit than that.

So my concentration is shot, and one of the all-time great convincing arguments is lost to the sands of time. Talk about an extra-large crock. Enough is enough, and it's time to go on the offensive. It was one thing that Dale insists on calling me "O.B." even though that's just a tampon joke waiting to happen. Now he was messing with my bidness, as the badasses in the movies like to say when they're black badasses.

I'm thinking of having my bathroom wall replaced with Plexiglas so every time Dale looks out his window he gets an eyeful of Omar Bricks' bathroom business. I'm not sure if watching your neighbor take his morning shit is on par with having to put up with some moron whistling ABBA all the time, but hanging a B.A. out the bathroom window every now and again clearly isn't getting the message across. And nothing sounds better in a memorial service than a story about the time you scared a neighbor into an early grave by pressing ham on your Plexiglas bathroom wall one morning in July.

If that doesn't work, I'm sure I can pay some neighborhood kids to shoot some of those insanely loud whistling fireworks in the dude's bedroom window while he's sleeping. That's the kind of experience that can change a man. Not that you heard that from me, when it happens remember I was speaking hypothetically. Bricks out.

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