Tell Those Kids......

I am continually irritated and frustrated with the Grumpy Old Man's insistence that all communication and direcrtion to the children come through me.  Our conversations around here generally look like this:

{Picture me in the garage, drinking, smoking, texting and dancing all at the same time because that's generally how you will find me}

{Enter Stage Left - Grumpy Old Man}

GOM:  You need to tell those kids to stop opening that fucking basement window.

Me:  Why?

GOM:  Because the a/c is on and I'm seriously fucking fed up with it.  Why do they open it anyway?

Me:  Ummm - how the fuck should I know?  They're 19?  They're idiots?  They're smoking pot in the basement - hey - can I smoke pot in the basement too?

GOM:  Seriously!  You need to tell them.

Me:  You tell them - it's your deal - not mine.

OR

GOM:  Why the hell does that kid park his car THERE?

Me:  I don't know - why does that kid park his car there?  Is this a riddle?

GOM:  No it's not a fucking riddle - god dammit - you need to tell him to stop parking his car there.

Me:  You can tell him. 

This shit goes on and on - day in and day fucking out.  Reporting TO ME the shit that needs to be told to these vagrant 19 year olds living in our home.  Or ASKING me stupid fucking questions that I would NEVER know the answer to about why they do the shit they do.  It's actually more exhausting than having the vagrants here.  And because I'm super good at problem solving.....

SOLUTION
Get one of those intercom systems installed in the house.  The main control board would be in the garage and the GOM could stand out there while he drinks and smokes or when he's just passing by and simply press the button to the room(s) to which he wants to blare his bitching and BAM!  The task would be complete. 

I suggested this to him the other night when he once again told me to tell them blah blah blah - something about rocks in the soles of their shoes or something - they are scratching the new kitchen floor or some other shit he's noticed.  "Tell them to stop wearing their fucking shoes with boulders in the soles on the new floor!"  You fucking tell them - they walk through the garage to get in the house and you see them first - so YOU tell them.  I'm busy - watch me twirl to this song - watch!  I'm super fucking good at it!!! 

He pondered my suggestion for a bit and actually liked it - then he started acting out how he would stand and what his voice would sound like as he made his public addresses.  But then pretty soon, he pulled up a chair and just sat, with his finger on the pretend talk button and rambled and vented for about 15 minutes, at which point he looked at me and said, "I'm going to need to tape down the talk button - my finger is getting tired and the blood is running out of my arms and they're falling asleep"

I could tell right then that if I actually installed such a public address system in this house - I would be eternally regretful- so I guess we'll just return to ME being the receiver of all information that needs to be relayed and I'll continue to just drink myself deaf in the garage, dancing and singing, as if the situation doesn't really exist.  And who knows - maybe I'll solve some of these fucked up riddles he presents to me!