Okay, Arctic Snatch. I left my truck parked in the yard for more than you thought was an acceptable period of time.
I was sealcoating the driveway; did you bother to notice that specific detail? I know you have a concrete driveway and don’t have to sealcoat it, so it may never occur to you that I may need someplace off-street to park my vehicles while I try to make my blacktop driveway last another year.
I understand that this is a nice neighborhood, that’s why I moved here. I work very hard to try to get my long-neglected home looking as nice as possible.
But because you decided you didn’t like my truck parked on my lawn, you called the law? I’m issued a citation for grass parking because Ms. Arctic Snatch doesn’t like the look of my truck on grass?
Well, let me help you put your finger a little closer to the clue button.
When I bought this house, there were raccoons living in it.
Multiple families of raccoons.
I took before and after videos but the video just didn’t do justice to the filth.
There were piles and piles of shit, the previous owner had collected every manner of useless crap (old newspapers, mason jars full of used staples, mismatched billiard ball sets) in every nook and cranny of the house so that even after we had the previous owner’s shit moved to a storage place, we still had three semi-sized dumpsters full of crap hauled away from here before we could even begin to clean.
We took three lawn and garden size plastic bags of raccoon crap out of the house.
We worked day and night for a week just to get the floors, walls, and ducts scrubbed and cleaned so it was safe to live here.
We worked our asses off because we love this house, the view out the back window, the deer that run through our yard daily, the owl in our oak tree, the creek in the backyard with blue herons and wild ducks.
We worked our asses off because we wanted to fit in to a neighborhood where all the homes were individually built and had their own character, not cookie-cutter homes. We worked our asses off because we have pride in what we have and what we are trying to do to this home, which is to make a nice place to live out of a home that had been abandoned for more than five years. Every pinecone we raked (106 paper grocery bags!!!) every bag of grass seed we planted, every tree we pruned and bush we reshaped, every flagstone we dug out of the earth with our bare hands and reset into the retaining wall in the yard, (over 3 tons thereof) we did because we want to be a good citizens of this neighborhood.
We cut out stumps, dead trees, removed fallen branches and every manner of crap from this yard, including a trampoline, motorcycle parts, and baseball-sized stones.
We crawled into the attic with full body tyvek jumpsuits, gloves, masks, and headgear in the dead of summer to dig out the raccoon shit there, as well as the damaged insulation. Big fun.
So for five years you live across from the biggest shithole in the neighborhood and you keep your mouth shut, and now that I’m cleaning it up, and making the property an asset to the neighborhood instead of an unattractive liability, you call the law on me because I park my truck in the grass so I can sealcoat my driveway. Well, I live on the main street, as do you, but you also have a sidestreet by your house, which I do not, where you can park your cars out of your driveway and off your grass and the main street.
So I have a few words of wisdom to impart unto you.
Fuck the ground you walk on.
No, really, fuck you. You have the unmitigated gall to bitch about my truck being parked on the lawn when you should thank me for the work I’ve done to make the view out your kitchen window more pleasant.
Well, actually, you shouldn’t thank me. You should probably blow me. That’s it, you should blow me for making the house across the street from yours substantially less of an eyesore than it used to be, and every time I spend another $100 bucks in landscaping and building materials you should blow me again.
Well, actually, you are a hideous old bitch with too much class to let trick-or-treaters knock on your door or even walk on your grass- the signs telling trick-or-treaters to stay away were quite amusing, by the way, especially since we get so few, (we got four).
So I probably shouldn’t let you get your hideous face too close to my cock, since the mere sight of it might make the one eyed wonder worm close it’s eye forever… Maybe I should just have you give me your pager number and when I finish having sex I’ll page you and you can come over and lap the sticky jizz and cunt juice out of the wrinkly skin on my balls and out of the S.O’s bush. And don’t forget that big glob of splooge that drips own the crack of her sweaty ass. Then suck the juice out of the sheets so we don’t have to sleep on the wet spots. Yeah, that’s it; you should be our own personal sploogelapper, cleaning up the copious wet spots we make during sex.
You know what? The thought of your saggy ass, spindly legs, and arctic snatch in our bedroom after the act of lovemaking would probably make it impossible for me to even get hard, so maybe the best thing is for you just to stay the fuck away.
While you’re staying away, maybe you should have somebody give you some lessons on how to be a human being instead of the Necro-felching pond scum on the cesspit of life.
Maybe you could talk to some of your friends and ask them how to act like a person instead of the bacon strip in life’s underwear. Oh, wait, I remember, you don’t have any friends. Not a single person visits your home with the exception of the baggy-pantsed scruffy unemployed white trash that show up to fuck your slutty little daughters behind the cabana, and even these rugrutters will only stick around in the summer when they can use the pool, preferring to pick up your micro-hookers and take them someplace else to deposit their evil seed in their every orifice.
So as you strut around the 'hood acting high and mighty, and your slut daughters give hummers to their unemployed boyfriends in their trucks in the backyard, think seriously about what you’re going to turn me in for next, you oxygen bandit, because revenge, while a dish best served cold, is also very, very sweet. I have a long memory for personal grudges, which I hold against only those people who harm me needlessly and without warning.
And, oh, by the way, maybe you should stop by sometime. Walk across the street on those spindly legs of yours and say hi. Maybe tell me there’s a town ordinance against grass parking. Maybe even introduce yourself. Hell, maybe if you had done that you’d find I am capable of being a warm, friendly person.
Instead, you’re going to find out what it’s like to piss me off. You may not find out for twenty years. You may be living in the Shadyview home for bluehaired busybodies in southern Florida when I strike.
But watch your back, bitch. I’m coming, and you’re going to pay.
b.
