Guy Across The Street Is A Human Nut Sack

If a neighbor is killed in a car accident, do you sell your car and stop driving? – Mario Andretti

Who can I talk to about this?  Guy across the street is a human nut sack.  Is it okay to say that?  How about istheguyacrossthestreetahumannutsack??  How ’bout that? Make it a question, so I’m just asking, right???

I joke, I killed some people needed killing or I needed the money or seemed like might be fun but this sonuvabitch has simply pissed me off. 

PISSED ME OFF.  That’s all it takes really.  Like the big dog, the old man had a very low don’t-fuck-with-me threshold. 

This nut sack was walking the line.

I am something of a misanthrope. Most folks offer me only two options – ignore or murder. Far too attractive for prison, I just tend to leave people alone.

But when you are walking through my yard, just stupid-looking, half-naked with your butt crack winking, both of us have to pretend you’re invisible for this to work.

It’s not working.

I can still see you.

Human Nut Sack might be wrong. Human Weed maybe. Man-shaped and unwanted.

Something I want to pull out by its root.

The short cut across my property leads to the home of a diminutive man who flys a ‘Don’t Tread On Me’ flag.

I think that’s ironic.

They like to party to Rush Limbaugh and obnoxiously loud Southern Christian Metal rock. Nothing I recognize, indecipherable groans and many bass thumps.

Bent over like my back was young, I am pulling weeds in my yard by hand. My wife is so bored and housebound, she’s come to watch and learn.

You don’t know this about me, but I used to be a Horticultural Technician. Certified. With a certificate and an actual job. Perfect cover for me. We can’t all be ‘Salvage Consultants’ like Travis McGee.

I am trying to talk to my wife about the many joys of pulling evil weeds in the yard like it’s a good use of one’s time.

In this part of Florida, we have your crawling weeds, they duck when they see the mower coming, then cover over the grass after it’s been mowed. Like a blanket blocking the sun. Or The Blob.

You can almost hear the muffled cries of the blades of over-powered grass, “I can’t breathe.”

Focus on the worst weeds, I tell her.

Tell yourself you are doing exercises, get a zen mode going on, then it’s just a little battle, ‘yanking rutabagas,’ I call it. Just you, woman against weed. You’re like a weed warrior. Warrioress.

About right then, another neighbor comes out with a big tank of pharmaceutical-grade herbicide and a power sprayer. She’d use a crop duster, if she could.

The woman gives me her husband’s Wall Street Journal every day. Like her a lot for that. The paper is pristine except when Senator Elizabeth Warren’s photograph appears. Always – and I mean always – her face is scratched over with the word “Witch.” Often in red ink.

His wife – I call her ‘Melania’ and she is not insulted – and I joke about differing political views. I think she – both Melanias maybe – might vote for Biden. She’s got a sense of humor and I contend that’s a sign of intelligence.

Point at her equipment full of poison, and I tell her, see, that’s the difference between your side and mine.