Dearest Over-privileged Neighborhood Brats,
Yeah, you. The ones with the effing huge yard. The 12-15 year olds clad in Dockers and polo shirts. The ones who like to leave bikes and scooters by the street sign in my corner yard. (Leave 'em there overnight again, and you'll find 'em right where you left 'em--disassembled and missing one part, which will be summarily flung into your yard!) You know who you are.
I'm sick to death of being sprawled out on my couch in the afternoons, trying to enjoy my bad television, coffee, and Xanax buzz, and being shocked back to reality by *WHACK!* *THUD!* OH FUCK THE SKY IS FALLING!!! I peek out the window, and yep, there you go, retrieving your goddamn golf ball from my yard. Hmm, what did it bounce off this time? My roof? My awning? My car? On numerous occasions, I've opened my front door and exchanged not-so-pleasantries with you and your ilk to hopefully discourage you from using my street and front yard as your personal fucking driving range.
"Oh I'm not hitting the golf balls towards your car! Or your yard!"
"But look at you, you're in my yard, right where you didn't hit it."
"I'm being careful!"
*squint* "Well, now I've memorized your face, so if something does get damaged, I know exactly who to look for."
*Kid makes the Dramatic Chipmunk face and exits yard, sans golf ball*
Just as soon as I become comfortable in the knowledge that I may have finally put the fear of God into you, *WHACK!* *THUD!*, here we go again.
Just so you know, every single golf ball I've found in my yard, I've kept. Once I have enough, I will purchase a single golf club so that I may stand in the middle of the street and return fire so that we may each experience the pleasures of each others' actions and reactions. Where the fuck are your parents?
And why didn't your alleged "parents" teach you and your siblings to stay the fuck out of the street? Remember the lemonade stand fiasco? The lemonade stand, set up across the street from my driveway, was cute until the little shits jumped out in front of every vehicle (including mine and my roommate's) coming around the corner, screaming about BUY SOME LEMONADE YOU GROWNUP WHO IS OBVIOUSLY MADE OF JINGLY SILVER CHANGE. After I slammed on brakes, shook out my pants, and parked my car, I considered buying a cup whilst delivering a sweet-but-stern message about how to NOT get run over by a car before reaching puberty. Yeah, I considered it for a millisecond before they started yelling "LADY! HEY LADY! HEY! BUY SOME LEMONADE! HEY! IT'S ONLY A DOLLAR! BUY SOME LEMONADE! HEY! I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME, LADY!" Um, WHAT? FUCK OFF, CHILDREN. At that point, I don't give a fuck if it's only a nickel, don't fucking scream at me, of COURSE I fucking saw you, right before I defecated myself, and I have fucking groceries to carry in. I gotta say, though, when my roommate received the same treatment 15 minutes later and called the cops because of these self-endangering dumbasses, it was pretty fucking gratifying watching your father sputter and gesticulate while talking to the officer.
I'm all for kids playing outside, but y'all are just RUDE.
Your Crotchety Childfree Neighbor