The neighborhood Mary Kravitz has called not once but TWICE to complain to the cops about our car parked in the street, which isn't on fire, or on cement blocks, or housing a homeless person.
This assbag drives past at least 3 times a week, honking in a very belligerent, murdery way, using the speed bump as a fucking launchpad. I know who he is, and where he lives.
So, the last call he made sent out a very nice female police officer that explained "all you have to do is move it every couple of days, even if it is an inch forward or backward. If they call to complain, as long as you're moving it, we can't do anything." She motioned with a hand gesture horizontally forward or backward, and she had this profound look of "fuck my life" and "you gotta be fucking kidding me, but it's protocol" written all over her face. I giggled for like a good, solid 10 minutes because I didn't know that was a thing. There are murders to be solved, but our car somehow ended up in the lottery for shit that needed attention by law enforcement.
I have decided that I'm gonna buy a fleshlight just for him, and fill it with catshit since that's the only penetration that thing will ever know. My cat is 17, his shit doesn't work all that great, so he has some runny, awful poop, and it smells like the inside of a baby's coffin. And when I catch him out in the front yard, I'm going to chunk it at his shitty, maroon Mustang GT and tell him the next time he speeds past the house like a fucktard, I'll take a giant hard-boiled egg and chili induced shit on the hood of his Barbie car so it runs underneath and gets into his ventilation. I have killer IBS, so I know it'll be a doozy. While this is happening I want to also make eye contact with him, because I want him to know who's in charge.
Keeping it classy since never.
No comments:
Post a Comment