Vehicles, Vengence and Vomit

Explain to me why grown drunkards feel it is necessary to screw with my cars? How do they know it is mine? I keep changing cars -silver Saab/green Saab/grey Saab/BMW/Truck- and they keep on figuring out that it is my car and mess with it.

The most recent KNOWN attempt to mess with my ride came last weekend or so ago. I look out the window some Saturday 3amish in the morning to see this Samoan looking fellah and his sidekick “ToothPick” jumping up and down on each other and whooping it up real good.
I smile. Good for them.
Until, not fifteen seconds later, I hear the tailgate of my truck going down. Now, sure, it could have been anyone’s tailgate. It simply wasn’t anyone else’s tailgate; it was mine.

I hop right up and peer out the window again into the slightly moist city side street I’ve made my home to see the ToothPick kid standing in the back of my truck pissing into the street whilst his trusty man Friday leaned his immense self up against the rear tire – washing away built up residue collected after tens of thousands of miles over eastern Boston in the wheel well–my grease and grime, my filth- with his pee-pee.

My teeth grind just from the memory.





More later…..