Now. Back to the story, before I wander completely off like a dog chasing squirrels.
Upon arrival to my humble home after a day at the office, to what 'fore my wondering eyes did appear? A crappy red car with three troublesome yutes. I know it doesn't rhyme, I'm aware; I'm aware. Move along.
They were just parked in a car in front of my house, creating a gol'darn ruckus. And then? The rap music started, so loud I could hear it through my closed car windows as I was parked in the rear of the house, next to the squirrel-free garage.
I walked up to our side door and peered around to the front of the house, trying to figure out exactly who the heck was hosting the rap party, and who this car full of yutes belonged to. They had the dome light on in the car, and they were out and about near it, hootin' and hollerin' and rappin' and dancin'.
I'm too old to be a-putting up with that at dark (I don't care if it's only 5:30, it's still dark out!), during the winter, at Christmastime.
Asking Timmy from downstairs, "Who the hell are these people, and how long has this been going on?" I got the response of, "I don't know who they are, this has been going on for an hour."
Oh, nosiree. No.Sir.EE. I will not stand for that nonsense.
I marched upstairs and promptly called the local police station where I filed my Official Complaint of Loud Noise and Miscellaneous Shenanigans of Yutes Unknown.
My police complaint consisted of telling the policelady on the phone, "We have old people in the neighborhood, and I'm sure they don't appreciate the shenanigans going on, and I realize right now that by complaining about the loud noise I'm officially the Old People in the Neighborhood." To which she laughed and said she'd send a squad car right on over.
How quickly did they respond to the Official Complaint of Loud Noise and Miscellaneous Shenanigans of Yutes Unknown? Well, my tax dollars were hard at work. In the time it took me to poop, two police cars were in front of the house questioning said yutes. And it wasn't a long and complicated-magazine-reading poop, either, just a basic-business business.
I'm not sure what transpired, as I watched out of the corner of the window lest these yutes see me lurking and decide to ambush me later, but flashlights were flashed around and identifications were presented and then? The yutes started up their red car (that was my official description to the policelady when I called) and left.
Just like an episode of Scared Straight, it was. Only without the stories of anal rape. Probably.