Dear Mr. Screamy,
You live on my street. My office window must face one of yours. My early evenings are often ruined by your booming, violent voice.
I’m not sure exactly where you live, or I would have called the police by now. You’re somewhere just over there, through that cluster of trees, in one of the duplexes — I think.
I walk by the house I think you live in during the day when I’m sure you’re not there, and I do so very slowly. Who is she? What in the world have you done to her so that she’ll stay through your nightly tirades of abuse? Who was she? What could she possibly have done to warrant the words that so easily flow off your wicked tongue?
It’s worse on Sundays when the Broncos play. We can all hear you cheering and jeering your television. You do so with the bravado of a kindergarten student in the talent show who just can’t get enough attention from his mommy.
Look here! Look at me! Look how great I am!
I am looking at you, you petty, insecure thug. If you continue to speak to your girlfriend/wife/sister that way — I will find you. I will rally the other neighbors and we will see at a minimum the police get in your house, write you a ticket for being a dickhead and make sure whomever you’ve decided to use as your verbal punching bag knows there are other options.
I promise to do this before the windows close to the cold in a few weeks. We’re listening.