So I came home early from work with a headache and my blood pressure somewhat less than moon-high, and go out to put the trash where it needs to be behind the fence and what do I find, but a couple beer cans, a red Solo cup chock full of chaw spit, and USED toilet paper right behind my fence. Thank you, ass hats, for using my back yard as your personal latrine and dump.
I called the realtor’s office, lodged my second formal complaint as the homeOWNER next door, and then got the bright idea to write the following note:
Then I got the TP, cans, and spit cup, picked up with a plastic bag, tied in a sweet knot and left it on their welcome mat, with the above note taped to the door.
Then I came back inside, found the First Sergeant’s number given to me by the realtor some months back, and spoke to Master Sergeant Smith about his shit hot troop. He was not at all happy to hear from me. He did, however, state that he would take care of the issue.
I’ll have the dumb sonuvabitch evicted by Labor Day. Mark it.