Dear Crotchety Old Shitbag Who Lives Across the Street,
That was super classy of you to not even acknowledge my kids yesterday when they smiled at you and asked if you wanted to buy some lemonade from the stand they set up across the street from your house. I know you saw them, with their hopeful little faces waving and holding up their homemade sign with scribbled pictures of some strange cartoon girl and flowers and other random preschool graphics. But you just turned your back without saying a word and stomped into your garage like it was a personal affront that someone offered you a cold drink on a hot day.
Perhaps you couldn’t afford the 25 cents for a cup of lemonade. No problem. You’re not obligated to patronize their establishment. But you could at least smile and say “No thank you.” My 20-month-old can manage that, and he still shits himself on a regular basis. Who knows, maybe you do, too, but like I always say, “Incontinence doesn’t preclude good manners.” Or, at least, I’m sure someone has said that at some point in history. Anyway, the point is: My toddler who eats pudding with his hands and bathes in the dog’s water bowl has better manners than you.
So, in sum, you’re an asshole, neighbor. Please be aware that when my kids are old enough to start roaming the streets with TP and bottle rockets and other junior thug paraphernalia, your house will not be on the “Do Not Fuck With These People List” that I hand them before cutting them loose on the neighborhood. Enjoy your golden years, dickweed.
Don’t Fuck with a Suburban Dad of Three