Living in the best L.A. neighborhood (subjective, I know) means you've gotta share thin 30s-era Spanish walls with your neighbors and hear every sneeze, squabble and sex act they explore.

I'm learning a lot about my upstairs neighbor:

• Elephant-esque clomping on the hardwood tells me she either moonlights as a streetwalker (we do live within hobbling distance of Shaky's) or has an extreme case of lymphedema.

• Frequent buzzzz-buzzzzz rattling means she either uses the city's oldest Blackberry or her Hitachi Magic Wand is malfunctioning.

• Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-grunt rhythms mean she has the most enviable sex life imaginable.

It's the same metronome every time, even when there's a new visitor's car in the driveway. (Mercedes SUV one night, but a silver Prius on another…she smokes both ends of the uber-douche pipe – she must have a prescription!)

Never ever did I hear her own moans. Unless she's mute – which is impossible; I'd hate her less if I couldn't hear her – or she's into oxygen-free orgasms, this chick doesn't seem satisfied and doesn't seem to mind.

I on the other hand have reveled in the fact that, regardless of how courteous I decide to be (or am capable of) my extracurricular activities end up broadcasted across the neighborhood. Still trying to figure out the etiquette for that one, but in the meantime at least I knew my sex life blew neighbor-girl's out of the water.

And then I heard it.

Mmm…Mmmmp….Mmmmppffs…….Mmmmmuaaaaaaahhhhh? (Say it with the question mark…that was her finale.)

Them's fightin' words. It's on.

So last night my plumber stopped by to check on the pipes and showed upstairs-girl who's boss. Not sure if it was the anticipation (my plumber's a bit of a stud) or the sexy scent of self-imposed competition, but the sounds that came out of my mouth were nothing short of wall shaking.

I bumped into Prius-goober as I walked to my car this morning and wished him a pleasant day with a giant smile. He stammered and pulled up his skinny jeans.

I win.

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