The Trouble With the Neighbors

Prelude: I swear this won't be a carnival of complaints. It will be filled with universal insight, concern for humanity, true emotional and moral quandaries, and then probably severe and justifiable rage as you realize everything you just read was setting you up for disappointment.

If only my neighbors and I were separated by acreage rather than non-insulated plywood.  Source

Let's talk about my neighbors.
I live on the bottom floor of a two story duplex.
My upstairs neighbors are apparently genetic experiments combining the heft and grace of an elephant, the subtlety of a Tyrannosaur, the acrobatic prowess of a herd of Bonobo apes, and the parasitic disinterest of humanity ingrained in a mosquito. Then, the demented scientists who created these Hulk-like-freaks, took this miasma of DNA and injected it with the instincts, predilections, and brain power of a thousand alcoholic clowns with head-trauma, and inseminated the womb of a gluttonous tap-dance enthusiast with Attention Deficit Disorder.

This mutant baby was raised with no outside contact in a bunker removed from humanity, its only relationship being with a firecracker it named "George." On occasion this mutant was allowed conjugal visits with a Kangaroo high on cocaine. Once a litter was bread, this brood was moved into an apartment above where I sleep, lined with pogo sticks, scattered marbles, showers that dispense crystal meth, and air conditioning that pumps out an enzyme causing a severe aversion to happiness

This is one or all of the following: an illustration of my neighbors put on a shirt, a non-sequitur, a shirt that I want  Source

These are my upstairs neighbors.

To put it more simply, I am besieged day and night by tireless rednecks (said in the most affectionately disparaging terms) who lack volume-control and apparently run track in their apartment wearing clogs.

What I can imply from afar (because I'm imbued with a pesky sense of self-preservation that prevents me from direct contact with these PCP-injected Gremlins) is there are three children of various ages from four-to-hormonal-driven who do not require sleep, they are lead and possibly slapped by an Alpha-Neck (the most-grunty and most sleeveless of the rednecks in the vicinity) who speaks only in yell, and a grandmother (in her thirties) with a bottomless liver also incapable of speaking at a volume necessary for comprehensible phone interaction.

To put it even more simply: There's a brood and they're rowdy and they don't know how to speak at a decibel level lower than "howler monkey confronted by predator."

Source

One of the gems I've heard through our paper-thin ceiling is from the grandmother who has screeched, "HEY, YOU GET BACK HERE! YOU DON'T TALK TO ME LIKE THAT YOU LITTLE ASSH*LE!" (See, I censored that last word because I have class...yep, class up the ass, that's me.) Lead by example, Grandma, lead by horrifying example.

I've done what I can:

• left a trail of Ritalin-laced Skittles from the bus stop to their front door
• paid a hoodoo witch doctor (yes, hoodoo, not voodoo that you do so well), to imbue them with empathy
• planted poppy plants on their front porch and called the ATF
• fed the adults Ambien, bought them airline tickets, and duct taped exotic animals to their inner-thighs
• and created a wall of books they would need to read to get out of their unit.

See? I'm civilized. But all to no avail. What other recourse do I have?
Or am I being too sensitive to 20-hour-marathon-scream-fights?

One day, I'll be free, live in a field, but then I'll probably be overrun by ants and amorous mountain lions, then I'll long for the days of rambunctious children and screaming, possibly abusive, adults.