Ding Dong! Windmill Dick Is Gone!

Despite the wonderful story telling opportunities and the character study he provided me, I feel no sorrow when I say: Ladies and Gentleman, Windmill Dick has left the building! *applaud here*

Just two nights ago I was woken up at 3:00 a.m. to the sound of him screaming "Mike! Yo Mike!" which was shortly followed by some inexplicable banging and clanging noises. I have no clue what he was doing down there, nor did I think it was in my best interest to find out. (The man disturbs me.) I did, however, lie there in my bed thinking, "How long, oh Lord? How long?? Surely his lease is up soon! Is it too much to ask that the guy find a new place to live and torment some other poor soul's sense of peace and harmony?"

Earlier last week I was sitting here, again with the windows open, and my daughter was at the table doing her homework. Windmill, as always, stepped outside for a smoke while talking on the phone. What I heard was, "She gave me The Clap, Dude! It's the second fuckin' time I've had it! The first time was from my wife! Women! They can't be trusted!"

So I sat there for a minute, wondering how much, if any, my daughter could hear and whether or not I should just forget the fresh air and shut the door. Before I could complete my thought and make a decision, he continued, "Ya, man. I got it taken care of, but I went out and bought a sign that says Never Trust A Cunt and I hung it over my bed. It's awesome dude! I'm leaving it there cuz it's the truth, Man! The other night I brought this other chic home with me and when we got into my room and she saw the sign over my bed she asked me what it said. So I said, 'I don't know. Let's turn the light on and find out.' So when I turned the light on she read it and got all pissed at me and she left. I didn't fuckin' care though. She was just a stripper anyway." At that point my daughter turned around and said, "Mom? What's that guy talking about?" And so I stood up and shut the door saying, "Nothing your sweet little ears need to hear." As I sat back down at my desk she said, "Mom? What's The Clap?"

Ah... nothing like an impromptu lesson in sex ed brought about by Mr. Dick himself. Thank you...

Now I don't know about you, but I have learned to cut my parents some slack in their inability to properly explain anything in regard to sex and sexuality. My dad's best attempt at helping me understand was at thirteen years old after a boy had given me some cheap ring he bought at the county fair. Once Dad saw the ring on my hand he said, "It's time for us to have a talk. Pandora, there comes a time in every young man's life when he learns that his penis can do two things instead of one. Remember that." After that he walked away and left me sitting there thinking, "What? What does this ring have to do with a boy's penis?" And my mother wasn't much better. All I got from her was around the age of fourteen and she said, "Your husband will know if you're not a virgin when you get married." At that point I hadn't even really kissed a boy so again, I just sat there thinking, "What is she talking about?" It is one of those things that I later wished they had been better at but what can you expect from a father whose parents thought giving him a book about the chicken and the egg was an ample explanation? And, having had a few random talks here and there with Hope, I understand how uncomfortable it is to talk about with your child. It takes busting through the wall of what you perceive to be a beautiful and necessary innocence to shoot straight with the kid. Each time it comes up I encounter this internal struggle with myself -- one half tells me that if she hears the truth from me it's better than hearing something skewed from one of her immature friends and the other half wants to say, "Sex? Who told you that? Remember Dumbo? Babies are brought down from Heaven by the stork."

I digress...

When faced with questions like, "Mom? What's The Clap?" I find that it's best to swallow your fear and shoot from the hip. This is a teaching moment, an uncomfortable teaching moment, but a teaching moment none-the-less. So I turned to her and said something profoundly parental like, "The Clap is a slang term for a sexually transmitted disease called Gonorrhea. It's a disease that attacks your private area. People that have careless sex with multiple partners are usually the ones that get it. This is why it's important not to go sleeping around with a bunch of random people. There are lots of diseases you can get from doing that. You know how your friend got head lice? Well, there's also something called crabs which is basically lice found in your private area. I could go on and on about this, but I think that's enough for now." With absolute horror she looked at me and said, "Crabs? Like... little bugs crawling around down there??" I simply smiled and nodded. She stared at her pencil for a moment and said, "That's gross, Mom. I need to finish my math," and she turned around, continued to work away at her homework, and that was that.

I, on the other hand, thought about Mr. Dick and how loathsome he is to me. Truly, the man is... well... (I really wish I hadn't sold my Dictionary Of Insulting English because I'm sure there were some good ones I could really use right now) repugnant is the best I can come up with, and that just seems too refined a word for someone like him. I would like to cut the guy some slack, but I just can't. The man has exposed himself to be low-brow porn star, a blatant supporter of violence, a disrespecter of women (as evidenced by his bedroom wall hanging), and a disgrace to the male gender. The man is lucky that I'm not some shaved head, camouflage and combat boot wearing feminist, because if he's a Windmill then that would've made me Donna Quixote and I would've gladly taken him down with much more than a letter regarding the proper disposal of garbage. I would also argue that men like him are the biggest reason militant feminists exist. And...give me a break. Are we supposed to show sympathy for the guy? So you got the clap. What did you think would happen when dipping your wick in the world of strippers and pornography?

Anyway, at least he's gone. I saw him and his cronies moving things out yesterday, and when I came home today I found his side of the garage completely vacant. As Thanks Giving approaches, I find myself grateful that I will no longer endure the stench of his trash in my garage, and I will be able to enjoy the fresh air without inhaling his cigarette smoke and listening to the sound of his voice.

Ding Dong! Windmill Dick is gone! I can now don my ruby red slippers and reclaim this space I currently call home.