Dear Neighbor,

Maybe you’ve been reading my blog, since it seems that you’re managing to get your trash can in from the curb by the time the weekend rolls around these days. Of course your lawn still looks like shit, so maybe you haven’t been keeping up after all.

It’s Sunday morning and I know I’m not really a late sleeper these days. It’s something close to physiologically impossible for me to sleep later than 7:00. You, on the other hand, were clearly up at 6:00, because that’s when you put your two Rottweilers out in their cage in your back yard (Incidently, I don’t really think an 8×6 cage is really big enough for two full-grown rotts). I know it was 6:00 because that’s when they started barking. You might remember it because we made eye contact as I glared at your sweat-suit wearing ass through my just-opened blinds.

In case you missed it, when you put your dogs out in the morning, they bark the whole time they are outside. It’s not so much a big deal during the week when I’m up at 5:30 anyway, but on the weekends, and since you know they are going to spend the next half hour barking at God knows what, maybe you could get up, put on their leashes and actually take them for a quick walk rather than sticking them in the cage 20 feet from my bedroom window.

So, dear neighbor, you are the clinical definition of a fucktard. I don’t usually wish bad things on people… mainly because I’m ambivalent about most of the asshats I’m forced to deal with on a regular basis… but in your case, I’m making an exception.

Regards,

Jeff