When I politely asked my new neighbor, Shannon, to stop sunbathing in barely-there bikinis right outside my teenage son Jake’s bedroom window, I thought she might get the hint. But instead, she came up with a revenge plot I never could’ve seen coming: she dumped an old, grimy toilet smack in the middle of my front yard!
To top it off, it had a sign attached that read, “FLUSH YOUR OPINION HERE!” I was stunned. Furious. But, as it turned out, karma had some tricks up its sleeve, and Shannon was about to get what was coming to her.
I should’ve known I’d be in for a ride when Shannon first moved into the neighborhood. Right off the bat, she painted her house in the most outrageous neon colors. First, it was a blinding purple, then a neon orange, and then a blue that was almost too bright to look at.
It felt like the kind of color choices a circus tent would make. But, being the “live and let live” type, I figured it was harmless. But soon, Shannon’s personality started to match her house’s wild colors. Her favorite sunbathing spot? Directly under Jake’s bedroom window.
One morning, Jake came into the kitchen looking like he’d just seen a ghost. His face was bright red, his shoulders slumped as he tried to avoid my gaze. “Mom,” he started, awkwardly clearing his throat, “can you… do something about… that?”
I put down the tomatoes I’d been slicing, giving him my full attention. “What do you mean, honey?” I asked.
He gestured toward the window with a mix of embarrassment and frustration. “She’s out there, Mom. In, like, a… a bikini made of glitter or something! Tommy came over to study yesterday, took one look, and just froze. I can’t even go into my room without feeling awkward. It’s like she’s got a spotlight on herself or something. I might have to live in the basement and never come back up!”
After a week of watching Jake avoid his own room and try to dodge Tommy’s endless teasing, I decided it was time to have a calm, polite word with Shannon. I walked over to her yard, hoping this conversation would go smoothly. But Shannon, lying back on her lounger with oversized sunglasses on, wasn’t interested in what I had to say.
She didn’t even sit up. “Maybe you should look into better blinds,” she said with a smirk, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. “Or maybe Jake just needs some therapy for his… repression.”
Two days later, I saw Shannon’s “response” to my request. Right in the middle of my perfectly tended lawn, there was an ancient, filthy toilet with a huge sign: “FLUSH YOUR OPINION HERE!” I stood there in disbelief, fists clenched, while Shannon chuckled from her yard, calling it her new “art installation.”
The neighborhood association refused to help, saying it was “beyond their jurisdiction,” so Shannon kept going. Her yard became a scene straight out of a music festival: loud sunbathing parties, late-night karaoke, and a “meditation drum circle” that sounded more like a herd of caffeinated elephants. It was chaos. I stayed calm, though, hoping that karma would come around.
It didn’t take long. One Saturday morning, I glanced out my window to see a fire truck screeching to a halt in front of our houses. Apparently, Shannon had called in a “sewage leak” report, hoping they’d see the old toilet and cart it away as a health hazard.
But the firefighters took one look at the bone-dry toilet and raised their eyebrows. “Ma’am,” one of them said, “you might want to call a plumber. Or maybe even an interior designer.”
But karma wasn’t quite finished. On a scorching hot afternoon, Shannon decided to take her sunbathing game up a notch — this time by setting up on her garage roof. She climbed up there, armed with a reflector sheet in one hand and a massive margarita in the other, as if she were on a beach in Cabo.
She’d just settled in when her sprinkler system turned on by surprise, soaking her and making the roof slippery. Before she knew it, she lost her footing, sliding off the edge and landing straight into her beloved flowerbed of petunias. Mud splattered everywhere, grass stuck to her face, and her neighbors — all witnesses to her rooftop adventure — could barely contain their laughter.
Mrs. Peterson, who had been out watering her roses, leaned over the fence and asked, “Shannon, you trying out for Baywatch?”
By now, Shannon was red with embarrassment, covered in mud and petunia petals. After that, things finally quieted down. The toilet disappeared, her late-night karaoke stopped, and Shannon even put up a privacy fence around her yard.
The next morning, Jake lifted his blinds slowly, checking to see if the coast was clear. “Mom,” he asked, giving a huge sigh of relief, “is it safe to come out of hiding?”
I handed him a plate of pancakes and chuckled. “Yep, honey. It looks like that show’s officially canceled.”
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