True Neighbor Stories

Ladies and gentlemen, prepare for a rant.

In the last decade, my next-door neighbors went from an amazing elderly couple – husband fought in WWII – to a drunken duo who spent their time having dozens of people over for parties every weekend, to the Asians – one of whom tried to break into my home – to our fabulous new white trash assclowns who take every opportunity to make themselves pariahs.

Allow me to explain. My block is full of split-level single homes. Every house has a driveway, as well as a space for two cars to park in front of each house. The new clowns own three vehicles: husband, wife, and daughter. But instead of parking in the driveway and spots provided, they park in other people’s spots – namely, mine.

I’ll come home from work and see one of these seeping pustules in front mf my house, while their driveway and/or parking spots are empty. Kyle’s car is in one street space, and Mrs. Earp’s car is in the garage. She takes the kids to school in the morning, so it’s easier for me to park on the street than moving my car every day.

Worse still, there is no rhyme or reason to it, especially when they park across the street, swiping the other neighbor’s space. I don’t know what possesses these people to do this, and yes, it seems like a minor inconvenience, but they’re new in the neighborhood, so you’d think they wouldn’t want to be remembered as the new asshole, cock-holsters of the block. Yet here we are.

I’ve been living here for almost twenty-four years; is it too much to expect a little common courtesy?