Punk ass bitches

The other night, I got in about 10p.m. and walked into the house. I was in my Ricardo's car, we park it outside of the garage. A car was driving pretty slowly up the hill. I acknowledged it, with "Punk ass teenagers" no big deal, and went inside. The next morning, Ricardo left for work and called me to tell me I'd left the car unlocked and someone had ransacked the car. All of our cds were all over the seat, and everything had been pulled out of the console. The good news is, I'd just cleaned out the car, and Ricardo is quite the minimalist, so there was nothing in there, whomever had just let it be known that they'd been in our car.

So, today, we are walking the dog at lunch time, and my husband says to me, "There's my bike". It's a very distinct bike, so we knew it was ours. We realized in summertime we just park his and the kids bikes on the front porch, and since they didn't find anything in our car, perhaps they helped themselves to the bikes. We took the bike back to our house, discovered Max's bike is missing. Apparently these tough asswipes aren't interested in girl bikes with streamers. We went back to the house where we found it to see if someone was there and knew where my kid's bike is. I was ready to throw down. Since we're so big, it's the perfect opportunity to scare the wits out of someone for the glory of getting the bike back. The windows were open, but no one came to the door. We did check out the yard and saw nothing but a very nasty yard. Very Sanford & Sonnish. But who am I to judge? I just got my kids' bike stolen because I let them leave it on the front porch!

Ricardo thinks someone just dumped the bike there. I think it was probably some dickweed teenagers, one of which lives there, and probably wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed & left the bike in the front yard. The reason my theory is better than his, is the keeping up of the house. Judgemental, yes. But it's fairly different than the others on the street. Could be coincidence, but I DID just find the bike there, so. I'm a bit on edge.

When we discovered someone had rummaged through our car, even though I'd left it unlocked and it wasn't broken into, still I felt (still feel) violated. But now that we found the bikes a few houses away. It's one thing to feel violated, it's another to feel violated by a neighbor.

Punk ass teenagers. I see stuff they do around the neighborhood every day. They are like cats, they think if they don't see you, you don't see what they're doing. Yesterday I drove by two jackasses in the road - who didn't seem to mind that my ton of minivan was also driving in the road, never moved. They were squatted around a water bottle filled with some blue substance and were about to light it with their parent's lighter. It was a fancy pewter lighter, not the colorful Bic kind. The kid with the lighter saw me and ducked the lighter behind his back, like the blue concoction wasn't alarm enough, or that they're about to light a plastic bottle, or the fact that they had to get far enough from their house to be IN THE ROAD with it, like lighting a firecracker or something.

I did kind of want to stick around and see what happened. Point and laugh a little bit, and THEN dial 9-1-1, but I kept driving.

And the kids making out on the corner, looks like rookie white bread pimps and ho's. They want all of their people - fellow punk ass bitches - to see them PDA'ing in the street, but when I'm gaulking, it's a problem.

My favorite is the kids smoking. They hide the cigarettes behind their backs. Excuse me, but there is smoke coming out of your ass and your nose. And you're going to die a slow and painful death in about 40 years, but you don't care about that now. Fuckers.

I've watched you, caught you, and not told on you one bit. So, to the punk ass bitches who were here on our property, thank you. Thank you for bringing it to my attention that I've been way too trusting of my fellow neighborhood teens. You're a far up neighbor, so you probably only see me rolling in my minivan. You have know idea how giant we are, or the angst and rage I consume just from the election coverage, the stock market, my hormones, or the school parking lot I have to deal with every day. I'm raging mad.

That's how I roll.