I know why you did it. I know how much fun you had. But that doesn’t change anything. I’m coming for you, you little boners.
The shit went down in the burbs last night.
They got me. I knew this day would come. If you’ve seen V For Vendetta, you know the movie mainly revolves around a burned super-human murdering everyone who’s ever wronged him. Last night, karma left a red rose on my doorstep in the form of some piece of shit teenager murdering my doorbell and admittedly scaring the piss out of me.
This punk bastard had to have been the scion of Usain Bolt, because despite being right by the door, I didn’t see a single sign of him or his accomplices (teenagers are like tequila shots; there’s never just one). The only thing keeping an instantly livid me from walking the streets with a baseball bat like Neegan from The Walking Dead was the toddler who was still miraculously still asleep despite the disturbance.
As a baby-faced twenty-five-year-old, have I already turned into the “get off my lawn you whippersnappers” guy? Maybe, but it’s more the principle of the matter. I got beat, and even worse than that I got beat by teenagers. That’s almost as bad as watching your favorite college football team get beat by Kansas.
I’ve been there. I’ve been that little shit running around a neighborhood thinking I’m having the time of my life pounding on the doors of unsuspecting poor bastards who just want a peaceful night while their miserable kids sleep. I’ve given more unwanted knocks on doors than a convicted sex offender doing his duty to inform the neighborhood of his presence.
But that was then, this is now. Now I’m an old curmudgeon. I don’t put up with that shit. If my lawn wasn’t a dumpster fire, I’d be batting all the neighborhood kids away from it, but since I don’t have that luxury, complaining about an unsolicited doorbell assault is all I’ve got.
It’s very possible that I made it worse for myself. While I didn’t see the silent assassin, they may have seen me emerge. Nothing makes a ding dong ditch master happier than seeing their red-faced angry victim flying out of the house like a bat out of hell. For all I know they were in their pre-planned hiding spot silently giggling like the pieces of shit that they are.
Maybe it was an isolated incident, but maybe I’ve been targeted. Growing up we all knew that house. The one where you had your own personal Old Man Clemons, who hated shit and would give you the reaction you craved. Well, if those hormone addled pieces of shit think they’re getting off free and clear, they’ve got another thing coming.
I was once like you, and somehow, some way, I will defeat you. This is my neighborhood you sons of bitches. Don’t ever forget that.
And stop ringing my fucking doorbell..
Image via YouTube