Meet the Cockers

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I promised myself I wouldn't do it. I swore up and down I wouldn't waste one precious second giving this hideous wench the time of day. But seriously, how can you have a blog titled "Bitches in the Burbs" without talking about something that every suburbanite has in common...neighbors.Okay, B*tches, the moment has arrived! It's time for you to "Meet the Cockers."

Mrs. Cocker: Imagine the "anti-me." That's her. Bangs curled under, fake polo shirt, Lee jean mini skirt, f*cking bobby socks, and Keds. Yep, it's 2011 and this suckasswhore is dressing like its 1993. Her face looks like she has been continually sucking on a lemon since birth, and there's a pole wedged so far up her *ss it would take a team of the toughest Navy SEALs to get it out.
Mr. Cocker:  I'm coining a new word to describe him: Torkssy. He's a tool and a dork and a pussy all at the same time. How is this possible? Trust me, it is. From his ugly *ss sleeveless muscle t-shirts that he breaks out at the first possible sign of warm weather, to the f*cking greasy *ss combover, and the way he cowers each time he hears Mrs. Cocker's shrill voice screaming DINNER, (at 4:00 in the afternoon, no less), he's the epitome of all three words neatly packaged into one ridiculous human being. You know, the kind of guy who walks around all bad *ss, then won't look you in the eye while talking to you? Torkssy...learn it.
The Cockettes: The three Cocker children who've somehow jumped straight off the pages of Flowers in the Attic, into the house next door. Don't know the book? Google it.
I had the "pleasure" of meeting the witch next door the very day I moved into my house. (I didn't call her a b*tch on purpose. That would be a compliment.) I was unpacking my kitchen, when  I heard a knock at the door. Being the b*tch that I am, I suspected that there wasn't a chance in h*ll that I'd fall in love & become BFF with my neighbors. But...I was definitely not expecting the shrew that was on my front step. From the moment I saw her, I knew, this was one chick who desperately needed to get laid. That f*cking face. Then, there was the mom bob hair straight out of a bad '90's flick, complete with "curling iron bangs,"(and I sh*t you not, her look hasn't changed one f*cking iota since that fateful day.) Her whole being screamed bassackwards c*nt. Yep, that's right, I called her a c*nt. Trust me, she is one, she earned the name.
I summoned up my brightest smile, thinking, "Oh sh*t I'm gonna hate her, but she's coming over to meet me and welcome me to the neighborhood. She may be a complete dork, and a sour one to boot, but at least she's trying to be "neighborly." Hahaha, What the f*ck was I smoking? Her first words to me were, "Did you know your air conditioner is on?" Ahhhh f*ck... "Yes, I put it on, I was hot," as if I owed her an explanation. "Well, I just wanted to make sure, because the people who used to live here always had it on, & I wanted you to know." Are you f*cking kidding me?  Not only was this the most unf*ckingpleasant, poleuptheass, sourpuss face douchebag that I have ever run into in my life, she's f*cking NOSY. OMG, I have neighborhood f*cking watch stationed right next door. And...we didn't have a fence at the time. And...she had a kid my kid's age. Oh no...so screwed.  
It really never got better from there. I tried, really I did, but this woman hates EVERYONE.  She spared no time telling me about all of the horrendous people who lived on our street, and filling me in on the neighborhood gossip. As if I gave even one-tenth of a sh*t.  I still don't know half the people's names on my street, and could care less if I ever do. I've got my friends, my family, things and people I enjoy. Why on earth would I even give a rat's *ss about Joe Blow down the street. Didn't then, don't now, never will. 
It's been 10 years since I first moved in. We don't exactly talk anymore...but I'll save that story for another post. (I promise you, it's good!). She's still as crotchety now as she was then, probably more so. Mr. Cocker, well he's an even bigger Torkssy than ever. At least when he used to wear the muscle t-shirts he had muscles. Now it's just his big, fat, flabby*ss arms pushing the lawnmower as the Mrs. sits on her *ss, reading Good Housekeeping, no doubt picking up decorating tips to enhance her blue carpeted, country geese themed house. 
Thank the lord that I have RR and TT living so close...don't know what I'd do without them. Ahhh....life in the 'burbs. It doesn't get better than this, b*tches! xoxoxoxo