Ode to a neighbor

Dear man across the street,

  Firstly, I would like to commend you for not only being able to find a hobby that produces more toxic waste than a cow working off a three-bean burrito, but also managing to be noisiest person on our street. Which is saying a lot, seeing as the truck-to-house ratio is at least three to one. I assume you understand what hobby I’m talkingn about, but just incase someone has spent a little too long looking at the pretty light that comes from the welding torch, let me explain. The hobby I’m currently referring to is that of your car. No not the one next to the house, or the one behind that. Not the work truck, or the one your eldest drives (lovely girl, but she’s about as intelligent as a salmon swimming downstream,) but the large black monstrosity that makes it’s home in your garage.
Yes, that one. The one you see fit to drive up and down the street at six in the morning, engine revving madly away, as if saying “Look at me, I exist!” Based on this irksome ritual, and the fact that your muffler seems to have escaped in the middle of the night to seek refuge with more reasonable folk, I can only assume that you have genatalia roughly the size of a Sharpie cap.
Please let me know in writing (if you are at all literate) whether this is an overestimation, and I shall alter my opinion accordingly.


Anonymous neighbour.


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