These Are The People In My Neighborhood

Dear Neighbor Who Drives The Jet Black Chevy Suburban Whose Clackalacka Sound The Engine Makes Means You Either Use Crap Valve-Wrecking Gas Or It’s A Noisy-Ass Diesel-Powered Earth Killer,

I saw you this morning, you turd with appendages. You meatbag with a pulse. You backed your ship out of the driveway across the street, straight into our driveway because with such a monster truck and such a fershit turning radius, that’s the only way you can get it turned out onto the road so you can go get your Starbucks or more fucking fuel for the trip back home from Starbucks.

I’ve got no problem with that other than you’re this tiny little guy  looking hugely foolish behind the wheel of such a big stoopid vehicle, but it’s a free country. Looking like an idiot is an inalienable right.

My problem is that having just put the trash cans out for pick-up, I watched and listened as you backed out of your driveway across the street and up onto my apron and in the process you collided with the black can, piling it back to the curb and knocking it over.

It doesn’t surprise me that you couldn’t see what you did, because your Suburbass is really just one fucking self-centered, self-entitled  blindspot.

What surprises me is that you didn’t do the right thing and go full stop on your clackalacka engine, get out and pick it up — and don’t even argue that you weren’t aware of what you did, because I know you heard it. Maybe even felt it too. I know this because as you went full rudder to get your house on axles out of my driveway and and pointed southward, you stopped looked over your sloping left little-boy shoulder, took a moment to observe the havoc you wreaked, and then turned back like it was somehow not your problem that you just knocked a trash can over and jammed it up against the curb. Then you, gunned your battleship and drove the fuck off probably thinking about more important stuff like the donuts that awaited you down the road. Or maybe it was Rooty Tooty Fresh ‘N Fruity Day at IHOP if you didn’t run out of gas getting there. Yay!

Had I not had to spend an extra second or two picking up my dropped jaw from the floor I wouldn’t have gotten a slow start out the house and down the front steps, and you and our neighbors would have heard all about what a four-star asswipe you just demonstrated yourself to be. But by the time I got down to the street you were clackalacking it over the the top of the hill, leaving me to right what you’d wronged. Fuckstick.

Can’t WAIT to tell you aaaaaaaallll about it.

UPDATE (01.25): While out doing some garage clean up, here came the Suburban clackalacking up the road into a parking place across the street from me. So of course after he made the long leap out of the truck to the pavement I asked him (congenially, I’m only a foul-mouthed blowhard on my blog… and my bike) what his FAIL was for not stopping to pick up his mess might be. At first he denied knowing what he’d done, but when I told him I witnessed him stopping and looking at the downed trashcan after he hit it he then changed his story to say he didn’t realize he knocked it over before sheepishly apologizing for being so careless. I’m sure he then went home and blogged rich with expletives about the jackass neighbor with trashcan issues and a heightened sense of responsibility, but that’s the way of the world nowadays.