You are the fellow who rode a bike with a girly basket to the back of the Target center, crouched behind the shrubs, then shouted at the top of your lungs, “GET OUT OF MY FUCKING HEAD, RITA!” and other pleasantries. You did this at midday, across the street from a residential neighborhood where babies were being put down for naps, moms were finally getting to chillax with their stories and dads were trying to rub one out in the garage before the All My Children end credits. Target has signs up demanding that delivery drivers keep the noise down for neighbors, so next time you decide to chew Rita out to the heavens, pretend you're an 18-wheeler.
