Open letter to the fuckwits down the street
Dearest Fuckwits,
For months now, every few weeks, you fill our garbage can with your shit. Sometimes, so full we can’t put our own garbage in it. Are you not aware that we pay for our garbage pick-up? Oh, that can’t possibly be true. Everyone on our street has to pay for it. You can’t think that we’re the only exception. That we have some free, magical trash can? Well, we don’t. And though I’ve tried and tried to figure out who you are, I’ve been unable to do so.
You can not have missed the notes I’ve left. The ones that ask you politely not to use our garbage can. They were extremely obvious and hard to miss. Is it that you can’t read? I don’t think that’s likely.
But here’s the thing. You fucked up this time. You dumb cunts. You left a magazine on the top of the trash. A magazine with your address on it. So, not only are you supremely inconsiderate, you’re more stupid than Britney Spears’ twat-lice. And now I know who you are. And here’s the deal. If you ignore my notes and dump your trash in my bin again, I’m coming to your house, punching you in the throats and shitting on your dining-room table. And then I’m burning your house down.
Sincerely,
The guy’s who’s going to burn your house down
