anger management

Five weeks ago was the Endymion parade. If you recall, I described the mass drop-offs of port-a-lets during the days before the parade. Well, that neighbor, the one whose cousins provided comic relief in the night hours before the parade, well that port-a-let of his buddy's tipped over this morning and almost fell on a neighborhood kid. Namely, one of mine. In what I can only describe as an adrenaline-induced rage, I walked out to the neutral ground and man-handled that Pot O' Gold from its downed position, shoved it over the neutral ground, across Orleans, down the street and plop right in front of my neighbor's front walk. I then walked inside.

Within a half hour he came home. Appearing a bit confused by the new location of the portacrapper, he asked, of course, my daughter how it got there. I'm proud to say she told the honest-to-Allah truth. So he pulled his son over and the two of them first pushed it out into the street. Then they moved it in front of my house. Not one to let sleeping dogs lie, I defiantly walked out on my porch and told him exactly what I thought of that Johnny-boy being out for a month, how he should take responsibility for his jackass friend's actions and that if it had fallen on one of my kids I would have already been whipping his ass. He responded by saying my kids shouldn't have been out on the neutral ground playing around with a port-a-let. "At some point," he said, "responsibility stops."

Not the right words to say to me.

Bystanders began to appear on nearby porches, including my own. Tracey quickly came out (another neighbor had called over warning I was on the warpath) asking me to cool down. I turned around and started to head for my porch, but, feeling another directed Tourette's fit coming on, I spun around and let loose another barrage. This round was aimed squarely at the claim that it was his friend's problem, and that he'd been calling him for weeks. Mind you, I must include that this neighbor had gone out of town for part of that time, so that was gimme room. I asked for the guy's number, they said the name of his business, and I went right back inside. But not before lobbing this: "You know what, buddy? Responsibility ends right on your front porch." He mumbled out that he'd like to see that, but he knew he had already done enough to look like the inconsiderate asshole he is.

Three neighbors called to check on me.

I consider calling NOPD, then change my mind. I call the jerkoff friend, for which the neighbor only had a work number (yeah, right). Getting voicemail, of course, I leave a message stating that if that port-a-craphole was not gone from in front of my house within twenty-four hours he'd be having to deal with both the Orleans civil sheriff and my attorney. I actually did call my attorney, my sister-in-law, who suggested I was not only right but should probably call the cops anyway. So I did. After that, though, the friend calls me, asking me what the call was about. A simple answer reiterating my first comment to him and adding that it almost fell on a kid today. I stressed that fact that the thing better be gone today. I get a lame excuse about being at his momma's nursing home, yada, yada, yada. I hang up on him. Twice because he called back thinking he got cut off on the first call.

NOPD comes out about twenty minutes later. Neighbor didn't see this coming. I just wanted it on the record what was going on, just in case I induced the moron to take a swing at me. Honestly, I wish he would have, as it would have given me great pleasure to break his fucking nose right before I pinned his ass to the ground and called the cops to come arrest him for assault. So Officer Givzashit listens to the situation. He does chastise me for having put it in front of the guy's house, but ninety percent of his visit entailed giving Mr. Jerkoff Neighbor what-for about allowing someone to not only bring a portapotty on public property but also adding to the problem by not doing anything about it. I graciously thank the officer. Neighbor and wife go inside. I go inside.

The moron friend picks up the port-a-john within a hour.

Score.

So in less than 90 minutes I did what my inconsiderate, clueless, mightier-than-thou, jackass neighbor claimed he couldn't do in five weeks: make the King 'O Pooper disappear.


So you tell me. Who do you think the rest of the 'hood is behind? You're goddamned right it's me.