How to kill a mime, without making a sound.  

I first moved to New York City from a small New England "cow town." I'm really not kidding about the cow town part. If you don't believe me, take a look at this Wikipedia page about my hometown.







To back this up, I should also mention that in high school we experienced a 30 minute baseball "cow delay" after a bevy of bovines moseyed onto the field, casually grazing on the luscious expands of left center.



Life in the country was quiet and I became accustomed to the tranquil stillness of the night,
often being lulled to sleep by the sounds of chirping crickets.



Seeking more adventure, excitement, and non farming-related jobs,
I found myself relocating to Brooklyn — more specifically, the border of Bedford Stuyvesant and Clinton Hill.



Let's see what the web has to say about my new community.







My new neighborhood also came with a new nickname: "Vietnam."
Admittedly it lacked the small town charm of "Cow Town," but it's good to know I'm at least living in areas known for something.



As you would expect, this shift in scenery put a serious crimp in my nocturnal routine. I now found myself being lulled to sleep by the incessant chirping of city crickets.



It was at this time I discovered why New York is considered "the city that never sleeps," but I was sure it wasn't for lack of trying.

After several months of sleepless nights, I finally became adjusted and even accustomed to all the sounds of the city — so much so that whenever I'd venture back to cow town, I'd find myself lying awake, listening to the now eery silences of the country.

So now I'd finally become adjusted to the sirens, shots and screams of the night, entering some of the deepest sleep I'd experienced in years.



That is until my new neighbor moved in. He turned out to be a mime, and his silence kept me up until all hours of the night, as he practiced his routine. Walking against wind. Trapped in a box. Pulling a rope.



I couldn't take it. His silence was deafening.


I wasn't going to let this mime cheat me of the sleep that I'd so diligently paid my dues to get. Something had to be done. So one night when I couldn't take his silence anymore, I decided to give him a taste of his own medicine.

I turned my stereo up full-blast, pushed the speakers against the wall
and pressed play on a blank tape.



There's nothing more satisfying then hearing a mime scream.
And to this day, I've never not heard from him again.