To the Students Two Doors Down

Yeah, I'm the one. I'm the old fart who called the police at 1:45 in the morning. I'm the one who was patient with your front yard wooting and yelling on Wednesday from midnight to 3:30. I'm the one who heard the drunk girls screaming like yours was a Girls Gone Wild party. I'm the one who heard that fucking motorbike zoom past our bedroom windows a dozen times, the girl on the back squealing every time it passed your house. I'm the one who heard your friend with Button Mushroom Syndrome pounding on the pickup truck hood with his fist while the rest of you oohed and aahed at his masculinity. I'm the one who was patient because I thought that, being the first month of school, this was your first party. But last night I was the one who quickly figured out that you think this is a student housing neighborhood and that you will have your drunken, obnoxious friends and their drunken, obnoxious hoochie-mama girlfriends over every night if someone doesn't lay down the law.

So I did. I'm the one who called the police. And I'm the one who will call the police every night that you use your front yard as a party playground, until you get it.