Revenge is a dish best served with a dash of spite

The house next door to us just went up for sale. We’ve been suspecting as much as a bunch of workmen have been in and out for the last couple of weeks. We weren’t sorry to see the previous neighbors go. They were exceedingly bad to live next to. It was a residence for mentally challenged adults and they were difficult to by. We constantly had trouble with our mailbox being tampered with, which was the residents, and things disappearing, which was the people who worked there. We had to call the police more than once. One time spectacularly involved a naked streaker with excessive body hair on New Years Day

Nevertheless, the for sale sign went up on Christmas Eve.

That house will never sell regardless of all the new gravel spread in the driveway or the paint or whatever the hell they did inside.

Not even if they lower the price to rock bottom levels.

I am certain of this fact.

On the Saturday after Christmas I was awakened by loud yipping from a Lab, ear-splitting baying from a hound dog and screeching from two children. I peeked out the window into the backyard from between the slats of the blinds and found the following scene.

Roscoe the Hound Dog was racing circles around the brand new trampoline, baying in frustration. Winnie the Wonder Mutt was inside the trampoline with the children because she is part kangaroo and was barking with glee. The most troublesome part was the actual children. Sassy was wearing new Christmas pajamas which was mostly OK. The Bandit, however, was jumping with a great deal of exuberance in his underwear. Tighty whities Transformer underwear, yet.

The first time a prospective buyer looks over our fence to see that scene, it’s all over for the realtor.

Serves them right for calling the county on us about the weeds next to the curb.