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Friday night, the thumping bass was back, this time audible in the back of our house at 12:30 PM. After several calls to the cops, who did nothing, B. got out of bed, put on some pants, and went to crack some skulls politely ask the neighbors to cut it out.

Much to his surprise, the noise wasn't coming from The Suicide House. This time, it was coming from The Dunebuggy House.

The Dunebuggy House sits at the end of our street. The owners, who are grandparents, have a large garage where dunebuggies are built 24 hours a day/7 days a week, so important is the dune buggy to modern life in a midwestern duneless city. I'm not sure how the owner manages his hectic, all-night dunebuggy-building schedule. I think it's by consuming a steady diet of Aldi's store-brand cola and methamphetamine.

When the owner saw B. approaching the garage, where the music - described by B. as simply, "metal" - he knew what the problem was. And he informed B. that we would have to take it up with the local cops because, as he put it, as long as he can here the football games from the high school one mile up the road, he's legally allowed to play his music as loud as he wants, as late as he wants.

I know. I don't follow that logic, either. All I know is, that's the most assholish logic I have ever heard in my life.

I got five blissfully restorative hours of sleep, because we all know the sleep of the enraged is the most restful of all sleep. Wait, no, it isn't. It's about the same as getting no damn sleep at all. Especially when I awoke at 8 AM the following morning with yet more music blasting outside my house.

I guess my next-door neighbor is feeling a bit left out. The neighbors across the street have the sweet ride with a speakerbox that can shake houses halfway down the block, and his neighbors to the west are legally allowed to blast their Molly Hatchet into the wee hours from their rockin' stereo system. But it's just sad to see him, in his driveway with the doors flung open on his tiny blue Cavalier, local radio ads blasting but not quite loud enough to cover the ding-ding-ding of the open car doors.

But just because it's a little sad doesn't mean I don't want to park my truck in the area of the street that connects these three houses and blast a little (or a lot of) Sex Pistols at, oh, five AM. I'm sure that's within my legal rights, right?

With all the neighbor misbehavior, I was a smidge worried about having company on Saturday night. Then I remembered that the company was Kara, Angie and Holley, who enjoy spectacle just as much as Wendy, B. and me.

While we were consuming our nachos - and I must say, they were really good nachos, as the lone toilet in my house has overflowed twice today - Angie happened to look out the living room window. "You're neighbor, she's wearing these really tight ... jodhpurs ... or something. My God! These are the tightest pants I've ever seen!"

And with that we all crowded around the window and saw this staring back at us:

It's a damn good thing none of the neighbors had their music cranked up, because the seismic waves would have blown those stressed-out pants - are they even pants, or are they possibly Underalls with a shirt tucked into them? - right off her body, so pushed to the breaking point was this fabric.

My neighbor didn't notice the crowd of six faces mashed against the window, nor did she hear the howels of hysterical laughter coming from our open front door. If she did, it didn't deter her from continuing her yardwork. Here, she organizes her carport:

And here she really tests the strength and durability of her tight, tight pants:

It takes a courageous woman to wear pants so tight that they create not one, not two, but three - three cameltoes in public. But to wear those pants and BEND OVER??? Sweet Jesus, this is a new level of bravery, one that I will hopefully never, ever know personally. Because really, I don't want a bunch of nacho-eaters to know my genitals that personally.

The photos are of poor quality, I know. For one, Wendy was trying to be stealthy while she took them, lest my neighbor become enraged and bust out of those pants, Incredible Hulk-style. But also because, well, it's really hard to take a decent photo when you're laughing so hard you can't stand.

Since these pants left absolutely nothing to the imagination - not the shape and terrain of buttocks, external genitalia, or equally abuse wedgied underpants, we have dubbed this look the 360-Degree Cameltoe.

When we move - and oh, we will be moving - Wendy is not invited to our new house. Ever.