chicken poopy neighbor
Last night, as I was preparing my dinner, I was startled by a flashlight shining into my kitchen window. It was the police. Seems that ol' Nervous Nelson the condo dwelling super-genius who can see into my back yard had phoned 911 to report an untended bonfire and tiki torches. Of course the fire department had to get in on the fun as well. By this time Erin had gotten home from work and was very amused with my explanation of why there was a fire engine and police out front. Then the whole city crew wanted to come into the back yard to inspect my clay fire bowl with three foot-long pieces of 2x4 that were blazing so menacingly. Erin offered them a drink; they declined. I was given a dressing down about open fire regulations, and somewhere deep inside me another little piece of my soul died. What kind of irresponsible fuckwit mobilizes city emergency teams instead of walking 100 feet to say hi to the neighbor and make sure the fire is being watched? The same chickenshit moron who buys an 800 square foot apartment for half a million dollars.