This time the police identified the busybody neighbor who called them. I haven't had contact with this woman since last year when she thought it was okay to rifle through my mailbox to see if there was any of her mail in there. I wrote her a letter to tell her that going through my mail was not okay.
This woman, whose drunk first husband used to shoot a .357 magnum through the ceiling after beating her up, is someone with whom I am no longer friendly. Someone with whom I no longer have contact. Someone with whom I share absolutely NOTHING except a sidewalk and a street.
For some reason, she couldn't pick up the phone to call me to find out if I was okay. Nope. That would be too neighborly.
Apparently she was in a tizzy -- overcome by a severe state of anxiety so great that she had to call the cops because there was STILL a note on my front door from the gas company about replacing our gas equipment. It had been up for two days. Two days.
The geniuses on my local force are idiots. There I said it. They've had two years to get procedures in place to prevent this wellness check stupidity and yet, they still keep f**king up. Time to sue somebody. They race out to my house on the word of someone who isn't my friend and hasn't spoken to me in over a year.
Here's a question for CSI fans. What is it about finding no car in the driveway that makes cops think I've fallen and I can't get up? What is it about somebody not answering the door on a workday that makes them think I'm incapacitated.
Hello, you dildoes, I'm at work.
There was also a huge bouquet of flowers on my back stoop. Did they think that was for my wake?
I called the cops to confirm that I was alive and well. The officer on the call said a concerned neighbor had called. I pointed out to the officer that any of the neighbors I was friends with knew where I was. And would call me first.
"What should we do with your flowers?" What do you mean 'What should we do with your flowers?'" They're for me. They're for Mother's Day. Leave them right where they are.
Unfortunately, my tone of voice was dripping with sarcasm and impatience. To say I wasn't suitably grateful enough for the attempt to rescue me would be an understatement.
I got to my house late that night and discovered that the mail was gone. And the flowers were no where to be found. I called the officer who told me he hid the flowers behind my garbage cans.
I reminded him of our previous conversation -- remember how I asked you to leave them where they were? Well, he said, you don't want to attract burglars.
And where's my mail by the way?
Here comes the big payoff -- wait for it -- IN MY HOUSE!! He said he went into my house and put my mail on a table as a courtesy. Excuse me Officer Dickbreath, there is no such thing as entering my home without my permission AS A COURTESY.
Time to get a lawyer.
Time to get a lawyer.