You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
The garage sale.
I hate it. It’s the invasion of the body snatchers, where aliens from foreign postal zones saturate my street of milk and honey. They come like plague, like pestilence and sour my Saturday.
If Trump wants to build a wall, start here. Keep out the undesirable postal zones of nescience, flatulence and debauchery.
They come in waves like allies storming the beach.
These garage sale sad sacks are frumpy and dumpy and reek of cigarette smoke.
These junk pirates are one eyed, blithering idiots who drool on shirts that say I’m with stupid.
It’s as if an ash tray rolled into my neighborhood and then coughed up a cancerous snot ball.
Garage Sale Saturday always begins the same way. Cars with bad mufflers and rusty bumpers driving slowly down the street, scouring the sidewalk for old furniture and clothes worn by someone’s sweat stained grandma.
It’s like a Salvation Army of cock roaches gnawing away at a festering ham bone.
These dumpster divers are irritating like crotch rot on a sandy beach.
They are nauseating like oysters on a sour stomach.
Many of these bargain hunting asswipes are creepy, like a child predator with a glass eye staring at your junk.
Twice a year the HOA authorizes a garage sale. Twice a year these denizens of goo bubble up from the sewers and cess pools from counties far away. They get in their barely street legal pick up trucks and cross over into a world they only see on the internet when they put AMERICAN DREAM in their search engines.
They get out of their vehicles, and waddle up the driveway, their wide asses and bum knees causing them to sway like a dradel with a broken tip. They are shrewd and calculating garbage hunters as they analyze the items on the rack, laying on the grass, set up on tables.
The lamp is made in Cleveland from the 1970’s. They know it’s worth $8 dollars. They will offer $5.
“I got that lamp for $5,” the dumpster diver will proudly proclaim to their progeny for generations to come. “Those people throw away the best junk,” the dumpster pirate will say eye balling the other toothless vermin over a stew pot of possum and grits.
Why do they come from counties so far away?
In short; because this neighborhood is middle class and their neighborhoods are third world mud holes.
Middle Class people throw out good stuff! That’s what their head line screams when the HOA garage sale is announced.
It starts at 7am. I know it has started because the dogs are barking at 6:45 am. The miscreants arrive early, trying to get the rich people stuff before anyone is awake. They are garage sale cat burglars, stalking the dawn, prowling for a bargain like an opiod hungry prisoner on furlough.
The dogs smell them. They smell the faux leather and granny panties and stinky socks. The dogs hear the mufflers that need service and the engines that rattle from driving down dirt roads filled with pot holes.
The garage sale dirt bags talk in run on sentences, smothered in southern fried stupid. They are the equivalent of Indonesian boat people sneaking into our neighborhood without a green card or passport.
They haggle and barter and then throw the baby crib on top of a mound of other items stacked 5 feet high in their trucks. They lash down their booty with electrical cord and bungee cords.
They run stop signs, and drive on the wrong side of the street and park in driveways. They have no manners, no boundaries and no social grace.
At high noon I want to hang a noose from the tallest tree and sit on my front porch with a shot gun. I want to scream get off my lawn, get off my street. Go back to your moldy singlewides, go back to the dirt road and pot holes and fried possum sandwiches. Go back to your dirt and your grease and your front porches slathered with cigarette butts and old tires.
Twice a year, I want to yell at my HOA. “People who floss their tooth with rope don’t need an invitation to come and scope out our homes,” I want to say. “Pull a dumpster into the common area, hire a couple of police officers to maintain order and let them fight to the death for an old Fisher Price Play Pen. Crown the winner with a wreath decorated with old Marlboro Cigarette packs.”
Not sure how well that will be perceived. But I swear I want to shout it from the rooftops.
I cut my lawn and try to blow the grass clippings on the side of their rusted cars. They stare at me, wondering if my lawnmower that I’m riding is for sale. My garage door is open. Will they walk in and pull my rake off the wall?
This soiled diaper of economics begins before sunrise. It ends 8 hours later, around 3pm, when their Department of Corrections ankle bracelets start vibrating.
Like an air raid siren scaring children under their desks in a 1960’s school house, they leave as suddenly as they came. They depart in a noisy armada of rust and blue smoke from engines that will leak oil all the way back to the hills of destitute stupidity.
I hate the Garage Sale Pirates. I hate them worse than jock itch and Mandarin nursery rhymes sung by prison simpletons.
They are gone now. But they will return. There is no wall to keep them out. There is no social inoculation to immune ourselves from their pestilence.
I’m going to write the HOA a letter. I swear I will. It starts with one voice. I can make a difference.
“Dear HOA. I hate the Dumpster Pirates….”
I’ll finish this letter later. I gotta spray Lisol on my front lawn to eliminate the stench of mutton chop.
Life’s Crazy™