Fuuuuuuuuck! They're at it again! The sodding motherless bastards (that makes them orphans, yes, but this does not mean they get any sympathy from me) next door are having some sort of flaming recovery bash on their back lawn, which means they're going to be lambasting us poor drones in the Mothership with badly-covered booner crap all afternoon, drinking bad beer (and worse beer) and at some stage around 4:30 some total tosser with soggy Weetbix for brains is going to fire up his ute and do donuts on the basketball court vainly installed to prevent that sort of dimwitted behaviour.

That (she points to her right, from whence come the decomposing sounds of a garage band murdering something that might be recognisable music, backed up by a garbled chorus of a drinking song) is what happens when cousins fraternise. Hand me my grenade launcher.

Addendum to the above: now they're slaughtering 'Blister in the Sun'. A quick death is too good for them. If you need me, I'll be smuggling in rare and painful poisons. I can keep them alive for days, if I need to...