An open letter to my d-bag neighbor.

Dear Owner of the muffler-less, black, souped up coupe that once again, woke my baby up from a rare episode of peaceful slumber:

I'm going to murder you in your sleep.

Kidding.

Sort of.

Look dude, I get it, you live in a townhouse subdivision of the burbs, you're winding your way through community college while playing bass in a way below average Death Cab for Cutie cover band & meeting your townie friends for Presidente Margaritas at the local Chilis. Long story short, life isn't quite as kick ass as you thought it would be when you were 16. I also totally understand the transformative powers of seeing "The Fast & The Furious" about 900 times. But seriously? If you insist on gunning your shitty little engine every time you hop in the car and tearing down the street with your not-quite-street-legal absentee muffler waking the dead, you will leave me with no choice but to slather you in Carne Asada and let this little fella have his way with you:



In case you don't know, that is what I affectionately refer to as a "Shartweilerbull". Translation? That is a Shar Pei/Rottweiler/Pit Bull mix named Jakers. Up until this point I've tried to quell Jake's urge to eat human flesh but you might just make me change my mind.

So unless you are actually Paul Walker, and are using this suburban douchebag persona as a cover for your infiltration of an elaborate drug smuggling/gun running/human trafficking ring I ask you one final time to shut the f*** up. Otherwise, you have a date with destiny, and destiny's name is Jake.

OK OK, so I may not actually let Jake eat your face off, but I probably will let him pee on your car.

Oh, and by the way? That car makes me think you have a tiny penis. Just some constructive criticism.

XOXO,