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.”
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This column appeared in print as “Shit Storm.”
