By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
Dear idiotic, alcoholic, unemployed, unkempt, rude new neighbors who think your back yard is a tavern: When you woke me up at 2:15 a.m. for the third time in five nights since you’ve moved in, I decided talking to you early in the morning just hadn’t worked. So, during the wee hours, while your crew drank up, I was scooping up my dog shit and sneaking behind your back fence. After I tossed the shit over the fence onto you and your boys, it was all I could do not to laugh and give my position away when I heard, “Dude, what the fuck—it’s raining dog turds.”
Send anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations—changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent—to “Hey, You!” c/o OC Weekly, 2975 Red Hill Ave., Ste. 150, Costa Mesa, CA 92626, or e-mail us at email@example.com.
This column appeared in print as "Shit Storm."