The Upstairs Neighbor

I think my neighbor may have been placed on this earth solely to torture and test me. 
Seriously, this guy is unbelievable.
I have written about said neighbor before, but last night/this morning/whatever time it was took things to a whole new level.
It appears my neighbor has discovered the joys of sex.
Awesome.
Way to go.
Congratulations.
Happy for you.
What-ev-er.
The more innocent of you out there may ask how I know this to be true.  I'll just put it like this:  it's like that episode of Friends where Phoebe is in Ross's apartment and, through the window, sees Monica and Chandler hooking up and screams out "My eyes!  My eyes!"
Except mine is like "My ears!  My ears!"
Why yes, you're right, it is disgusting.  (And rather disheartening, too, but that's off the subject at the moment.)
And here's the real clencher of it all:  aside from "all the sex" (another Friends reference, of course) there's also all the talking.
From a little after one until about six this morning, it was just blah... blah blah... blah blah blah blah...blah blah blah... blah blah, interrupted only by, well, you know, the aforementioned sex.
And for all that talking I could decipher hardly any of what they were saying.  Most of it sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher, and the little I could make out was something about dogs walking on their hind legs.
Totally idiotic.
It really comes down to this:
I couldn't care less what he does up there.  He can learn thai chi.  He can stick household objects up his nose.  He can count the revolutions of the fan blades.  He can whittle small horses from blocks of wood.  He can install a revolving door and let every girl in Oktibbeha county stream through.
It matters not to me.
If he would just. shut. up.
Honestly, and I shudder to even write this, but I think I could almost deal with the sex if all the other junk that constantly seems to be going on up there--the talking, the blasting of the music, the sounds I can only speculate on (moving furniture, perhaps?), the apparent learning of another language that, from what I can tell, involves him repeating phrases back to some sort of mechanical voice--was kept to a minimum.
Is that so much to ask? 
Am I being unreasonable and tyrannical?
Ugh, whatever.  I don't care.
It's 7:03, and I'm exhausted.
Wait... what is that I just heard?  Are you serious? 
After the sex and the talking and the talking and the sex, when they finally go to sleep... would you believe he's sawing logs up there, snoring so loud the people up the street at City Bagel can probably hear him?
Nice life.
Seriously, nice life.