The neighbours to our left threw an afternoon Christmas drinks party on their driveway last week, one of the worst days in Melbourne's history, and we weren't invited. There were some among us who were hurt, but not me. "Why," I asked snarkily, "would you want to sit outside with a bunch of John Howard supporters and drink alcohol on a 37 º Celsius day with smoke from the Gippsland bush fires choking your lungs?"

Of course, I know why they shunned us -- me, actually. It's the loud music I play while washing the dishes: Sasha and John Digweed alternating with Prokofiev, George Russell or Hoyt Ming and his Pep-Steppers. (When I really feel like being an arsehole, on goes Philip Glass.) It's my voluminous cursing in the back yard when the neighbours two doors over burn plastic rubbish in their fireplace on warm days. It's the time I called the neighbours on our right every time their new dog barked at 6 AM one Sunday morning. I must have got them to pick up the phone twenty times before hanging up. They'd obviously left him out because they were too hungover from drinking Jim Beam and coke the night before, the fucking genetic garbage.

As for the neighbours throwing the drinks party, they're right out of the ark. They still believe in John Howard: he's a nice man who will save them from terrorism and the kind of people Pauline Hanson hates. Which may be the real reason for the snub: I'm a Mexican, worse than an Afghan, Iraqi, Iranian or Indonesian. They've heard of those countries, but Mexico? I can just hear them: "Isn't Mexico one of those shops you see in malls? Oh, no, they're are African. Thank God he's not one of those inkblots. This neighbourhood is meant for Anglo-Saxon John Howard Party supporters who wear cardigans, mow their lawns every Saturday, wash their cars every Sunday, and vote conservative every election!"

Too bad for them. After the weekly rubbish collection, I won't be putting the lid back on their wheelie bins in case it rains, no sirree. As for the neighbours to the right (who were probably their guests of honour), I won't be gently placing the empty bottles of "Passion Pop" (dropped on our nature strip by their kids when they come home) on the brick edifice encasing their mailbox anymore. No sirree, from now on I'll just throw the empties on their lawn, the fucking trailer trash.

So, Merry Christmas, motherfuckers. Er, I don't mean you, dear reader. To you, a genuine Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from the displaced persons here at happily hated house.

-- Tommy Pendejo