Squeaky Squeaky Squeaky: A Postmodern Valentine

Oh, give it a rest, willya?

True story. Before wife and kids, Da-da lived in a three-story apartment building that boasted paper-thin walls, ceilings and floors. You could hear everything, and Da-da means everything. Yeah, it was as fun as it sounds, but the apartments had great views, so we all put up with it.

Da-da lived on the second floor, sandwiched between The Grumps, a nearly soundless/loveless marriage on the first floor below, and the perky Lapins on the top floor above. (No, those aren't their real names.)

The loveless Grumps always looked like this:

The Lapins looked like this:

While the loveless Grumps never made a sound, the Lapins above were... well, let's say ACTIVE.

Then one Valentine's Day, Herr Lapin popped the question (along with a monstrous diamond engagement ring)... and the sounds got 10X worse. Nay, 100X worse. Like the navy was in town, sandwiched between two other navies.

Da-da put up with the squeaky squeaky mattress situation (which was of course right above Da-da's bed) for about three nights -- and days -- before he couldn't stand it anymore. So, one afternoon, Da-da left this gentle reminder on the Lapin's front door step:

Yes, Da-da left a can of WD-40 with a condom taped to it. Needless to say, all was quiet after that.

The Lapins soon moved away to make hundreds of little Lapins, and Da-da got their apartment on the top floor. Then Ma-ma came along and Da-da abandoned his top-floor bachelor apartment to the currents. The radioactive monkeys came along four and six years later, respectively, and they slay sleep better than any active multi-naval rabbit sandwich in existence. Divine retribution or cycle of life, you be the judge.

Anyway, Happy Valentine's Day, everyone. Love without limits and all that. Well, most limits.

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