The Real Shannon Hamilton of Orange County

We have a neighbor who has a gigantic car that spills over into my reserved parking space to the point that I can’t even use my space or get into my car sometimes, and he also likes to let his overtanned, meathead jock friends and day-shift coked-up stripper castoffs park in my reserved parking space, you know, whenever.

He has actually parked his car half in my space, and half in his, so that the line is right down the middle of his car.  He has parked his car parallel across four people’s parking spaces before.

He once told me straight-faced that this was not an issue, because I could just go park in a guest space.  You know, instead of my clearly marked, reserved parking space.

I could just go park in a guest space if I had a problem with him parking in my clearly marked, reserved parking space.    

We can’t seem to break him of the habit, no matter how many “discussions” we and the other neighbors have had with him about it.  He’s probably too busy reminiscing about all the towels he snapped at other dewdz’ asses in high school locker rooms to focus on things like “being a decent human being” or “putting on a shirt for ONCE”.

Ohhhh.  Oh, I hate him so much.  To borrow a Jason Lee line from Mallrats with regard to Ben Affleck’s character, Shannon Hamilton, “The guy’s a walking hard-on just looking for a hole!”

In case you think I’m being unfairly harsh, this is a man who has actually referred to his car, out loud, as “sexy”.  I couldn’t agree with him more.  He should totally fuck his car.

So for the past year, every time I’m in my apartment and I hear his stupid gigantic car start up outside, I hold my middle finger up in the air, good and high.  Even though I am inside and he is outside.  Even though he can’t see it.  Even if I’m in the middle of eating or watching a movie and it is inconveniencing me to do it.  Sometimes I jump up and down and do a little dance while doing it.

I am dedicated to flipping him off every time I hear his gigantic stupid car, because even though I don’t believe that there is such a thing as “vibes” that I can shoot like lasers out of my middle fingertip, I like to cover my bases just in case and send a big ol’ batch of “fuck you” to him every chance I get.

I figure maybe one of those vibes will get through and he’ll come back home later with a haircut he’s not pleased with, or gonorrhea test results that are, yet again, not in his favor.

Maybe he’ll find out the hard way that just one too many tanning sessions causes irreversible wiener shriveling.

Or that someone he bullied in high school just bought out his company and now he’ll have to go work at that store in the mall where they keep the air-conditioning at like 85 degrees and blast House music all day, and he’ll get fed up with it and quit, and then eventually fall into a bottomless pit of despair as well as an actual bottomless pit, never to return.

Or they’ll change the formula of the wing sauce at Hooters and he’ll have an allergic reaction to it where his fingers will get all swollen up and his pinky rings won’t fit anymore.

Maybe his girlfriend, instead of calling out his name, will call out “Maroon 5!” the next time they’re doing it, and he’ll lose his boner because he’s the one who usually gets to call out “Maroon 5!” when they’re doing it.

Oh.  Ohhhhhhhh, I hate this guy.  Ohhhhhhhh,  STOP PARKING IN MY SPACE, DICK.

Shout-out to my one neighbor lady who called him a man-baby to his face.  ❤

Update since I originally wrote this post:  Someone in his building (I assume him) caused a plumbing backup at the property, the maintenance guy decided to try to fix it with a garden hose instead of calling a plumber, and flooded our entire apartment with raw sewage, so all our furniture and everything on our floor was destroyed and we just had to move to a new apartment and replace all our furniture at a moment’s notice.  Our landlord called us when we were out of state on vacation to tell us about it.

In short, on top of everything else, this guy shit on our house and our vacation.

At the very least, he is no longer our neighbor.

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