Am I the asshole for casually delivering hot husky justice to a screeching Karen's tire?
Am I the asshole for casually delivering hot husky justice to a screeching Karen's tire?
Salutations, you bundles of carbon atoms and unfulfilled potential.
The callous canine who is calamity here, Dexter to the help.
The Siberian hellspawn who believes every quiet moment is an invitation to commit felony level property destruction.
I am currently dictating this between bouts of giving Kristie the ultimate side-eye for eating a salad that is 90% pure ranch.
And calculating which protocol, howling in her ear or muddy paws on the couch, will be most effective at ruining her obnoxious, excitedly ecstatic mood.
Why is she so happy?
Well, she utterly annihilated the Karen neighbor, the one who constantly bitched about my perfectly reasonable 3 AM vocal performances.
Today began like any other Sunday morning shit show.
So Kristie decides we're going for a nice walk by the river.
Cute idea, right?
Fresh air, birds, wrong.
It's mosquito central, the mud smells like an elephant's collapsed asshole after a chili cook-off.
And I am about 10 minutes from staging my escape.
Then I noticed what Kristie had put on before clipping on my leash.
It was a bright red hat.
From a distance, it looks exactly like a MAGA hat.
Up close, it says, "RELAX IT'S JUST A RED HAT."
She bought it specifically for psychological warfare against our neighbor.
The one who is essentially a human herpes flare.
Just when you think she's dried up and gone away, she crawls back up on the lip of your Saturday morning like a cold sore after a frat party and ruins everything.
To put it bluntly, Karen is about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.
I know y'all remember Karen.
She heard me cuss and threatened to call my parents. I'm 46.
Go ahead and call my parents.
She's gonna learn that I cuss like a dumbass.
Kristie feeds the local crows daily. And I don't mean she tosses a few breadcrumbs to a couple of strays.
I mean she commands a standing army of exactly 44 feathered mobsters who treat our backyard like the Balagio.
In return for her peanuts, these flying psychopaths bring her gifts.
They aren't just pets, they are an organized crime syndicate in feathers.
Karen was wearing her flowers, saw the red fabric on Kristie's head, and her brain immediately hit alt F4.
She dropped the hose and came charging off her porch, screaming about fascism and decency.
She didn't read the hat.
She didn't need to.
She just saw an adjacent object when Karen tried to aggressively reach for the hat.
Kristie leaned in and whispered, "Touch my hat and I'll stick my foot so far up your ass the doctor who pulls it out will be king of England."
Karen pivoted.
She saw my thin blue line collar and started screaming about systemic oppression, vibrating with rage.
Kristie countered by reminding her that her own son wears a MAGA hat.
At this point, Karen reached a level of suburban psychosis I've never seen.
She grabbed a handful of gravel and started chucking rocks like she was stoning a sinner in the Old Testament.
But having the athletic coordination of a stroke victim on roller skates, she missed us by 40 yards.
I decided the vibe needed a finishing touch.
I strolled over to her pristine SUV and delivered a high-pressure nitrogen-rich stream of husky justice directly onto her driver's side tire.
Then, the universe stepped in.
Up in the trees, the 44 members of Kristie's personal mafia were watching.
They saw the rocks being thrown.
They saw the screeching embodiment of a yeast infection threatening their native queen.
They took it personally.
The Corvair Force commenced a tactical high-altitude carpet bombing.
44 birds synchronized their bowels and dropped massive acidic payloads of white and green vengeance, painting Karen's SUV until it looked like a Jackson Pollock painting.
Karen was standing in the middle of the splash zone, getting absolutely peppered with bird shrapnel, looking like a Bocchi star at a pigeon convention while she screamed at the clouds.
Kristie didn't say another word.
She just adjusted her sunglasses, looked at the screeching, shit-covered gargoyle in the driveway and said, "Let's go home."
So are we the assholes or are the crows just excellent judges of character?
Dexter out.
