Steel City Cowboy

Thursday, August 17, 2006

Life On A Suburban Cul-De-Sac

Your stated goal:
To kill both myself and my family, and push my house down the hillside into the river.

My goal:
To beat the piss out of you, and get the neighborhood to finally put you under house arrest, because up until now they've been letting you run around the cul-de-sac and inviting you over for tea.

What happens:
After weeks and months of you leaving flaming poop bombs on my porch and lobbing little bits of rubbish over the fence into my yard, you finally decide to sneak onto my property while I'm at the store. You grab my cat.

One of the neighbors left a message on my answering machine letting me know it was you, like there was any doubt to begin with, so I decide to not only get my cat back, but to make sure that you know there will be real and lasting consequences if you ever do anything remotely like this again. Also, despite your constant idiotic threats and braggadocio, our has always been a neighborhood that the police are loathe to disturb. In fact, I've gotten the distinct impression that the guys down at the station don't like my family and wouldn't mind seeing us just move the hell out. So anyway, part of my plan now is to force the police to take some notice and actually, like, do their freaking jobs.

Over to your house. You're on the front porch. Being a good citizen, I have a couple of guns at home, but decided that this would be better settled without them.

"What 'cha doin', jackass?" you say.

I waste no time. Crack. Right in the nose.

"Hey come on!"

Crunch.

"We was jus' defendin' our own!" you whine.

I continue to smack you around the porch. You've lost some teeth and your nose is broken.

"Give back our cat", I say.

You smirk. "We're goin' ta kill you. Bite me."

I opt, instead, to kick you in the balls. I notice that your kids are shouting and swearing from inside the house, and tossing any trash they can find out your windows and onto my property.

You get in a punch or two, but generally, I spend the next ten minutes beating you around your porch and south lawn. Five minutes ago, you were still going on about how you'd get me, my family and my little dog too. But now, I can tell you must think you're in trouble, because instead of the threats, you're yelling to your wife to call the cops.

The police eventually show up. They know that I already filed a report on the missing cat along with the eyewitness evidence, and have on record dozens of your death threats against my family, so there's really not a whole lot they can or will do to me. They're like the worlds lamest, most least effective peace officers, if you can believe it.

They ask me if I'll stop kicking the shit out of you. They ask pretty nicely for guys with guns. My arms are actually getting kind of tired at this point, so I agree, as long as they promise to station an officer between our houses to give me and my family some well deserved protection.

The outcome:
The cop is setting up shop right now. You've been seriously bloodied, and you're certainly going to think twice before pulling any shenanigans again. My family and I? We're still here. Our house is still here. You've made good on none of your threats. I've gotten exactly what I wanted.

Then I hear your family chanting over and over:

"We! Won! We! Won! We! Won!"

And I realize that you won't think twice before doing something like this again, because you and your family are quite possibly the stupidest, most self-deluded psychos on the face of this Earth.

I'll have to start carrying my .45.

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