Your Tax Dollars At Work

“Why do you have to be such a fucking prick?” the pimply-faced asshole in the white Ford Ranger pickup asked.
“Look, it’s 7:30 p.m. and I’m trying to enjoy an evening with my family,” I said. “Besides, that’s private property and it’s a DFG violation to be tearing around in it with motocross bikes and four-wheel-drives.”
“We’re going to fuck you up you fucking bitch.”
“Yeah, thanks for stopping.”
“I mean it bitch, we know where you live, we’re coming back to fuck you up.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, rolling the trash can up the drive.
“We’re coming back to fuck you up, bitch.”
“Yeah, thanks for stopping – and thanks for your license plate number.”
Then this prick-bastard showed his toughness by peeling out – on wet pavement – in his mommy’s P.O.S. Ford.
I pulled out the phone and dialed the Redding Police dispatcher for the second time in 15 minutes.
They are no fucking help.
I live across from a huge field of beautiful valley oaks. It’s about 5 acres. Deer live there. Pheasant, quail, opossum, skunk, raccoon, ring-tailed cats, coyote, fox.
And plenty of dipshits who drive motocross bikes and four-wheel-drive trucks all over the place.
The neighbors call the cops each and every time the kids get in there. Then we wait for hours while no cop shows up. (You Tax Dollars At Work!)
Last night, I’d had it. While getting the trash cans, I yelled, “I’ll give you guys one chance to move out before I call the cops.”
They flipped me off.
I called dispatch.
They said they’d send a unit.
“For real this time?”
Then this little pimply bravado – maybe 18, tops, about 120 pounds, wet – drives up and jaws with me.
(I so wish he would have gotten out and walked onto my property; just under the surface of my skin is months of pent-up frustrations about my mother’s death that no amount of exercise can quell – but a good ass-kicking on a little prick would).
So I call dispatch again. To report that there were now threats made. I requested an officer come to my house and file a report.
Our neighborhood cop, Officer Wilkins, called from his unit. At 10 p.m.
“Are they still there?” he asked.
“Noooooo, they’ve left. Thanks for responding so fast.”
“The weather,” he said as he exhaled.
“Listen, there’s really nothing we can do,” he added.
“Yeah, and when my tires are slashed, then what?”
“Well, you have to actually see them in the act, and then, it’s only a misdemeanor.”
“What do you suggest I do?”
“Well, Greg Snow is the owner, right? I know him pretty well. We need to get him to put up better no trespassing signs, maybe a fence. Then we can go after them.”
Great.
“Let me know if you can’t get ahold of him,” Wilkins said. “I know him pretty well.”
Snow’s on vacation.
So much for going through “official channels” to fix something.

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