Mr. Shit saunters around the neighborhood thinking he owns it. He is mad because a brown man stole his handicap signs (I stole them). He had a big fat ass and no clue before he had a heart attack, that will set you right, you bastard. He's watched me arrive at 3 a.m. and fall out of my car, urinating and walking backwards. I moved back from L.A. and he was walking through the neighborhood as if he was welcoming me back to hell.
I come home in the middle of the night and the cocksucker is outside, waving like an idiot. He waves hello and acts like he cares, his name is Bob Shit. Fuck his name. With his duck lips and flaccid demeanor he controls nothing but his tiny dogs. In actuality he controls only their bathroom breaks, they control his schedule.
His wife, bless her heart, has to look at that bulbous rear end and soft serve ice cream shape while she sews socks for the children they never had. What dark and weird secrets does Bob Shit have hiding in his sweaty closet of shame and embarrassment? He forms bonds with polocks and the elderly skeleton neighbors. Is he trying to exert control over them? NO! They control him with their incessant bullshitting, they know he has nothing to do. He wakes up and finds furniture that someone (me) has drunkenly bestowed upon his lawn. It was a gift!