Peanut Butter Nips and Other Tales

I’m not a great storyteller.  Let’s just get that out of the way from the get-go.  I’m not the type of person who can enthrall a group of people with my intriguing stories about larger-than-life things that happened to me.  Part of the problem is that I can’t bring myself to embellish and exaggerate on things that happen to me, because quite frankly, I find it to be a lame, desperate, attention-seeking thing to do.  If I went out to get milk and left my wallet at the 7-11, that’s the end of the story.  I’m not going to add in an armed robbery or an alien invasion to spice things up and make myself seem more interesting.  If a story isn’t that interesting, then perhaps it’s not a story worth telling in the first place.

That being said, I’m going to attempt to rattle off some stories from the past that might be slightly amusing at best, since I refuse to spice them up with mistruths and inaccuracies.  There might be a few small inaccuracies here and there, given that some of them happened many moons ago, but there won’t be any gang-wars or deaths added where none actually occurred.  To have any hope of making them interesting, I’ll have to put my best adjectives and flowery padding sentences to good work.  Wish me luck.


Peanutbutter Nips

Back in the day when I was in college, we used to do this thing called “hanging out and drinking”.  It was serious business, and quite frankly I don’t have the time to explain all the intricacies to you.  Nevertheless, this activity was taking place one night when there was a knock upon the front door of our abode.  Somebody in attendance got up and opened the door, only to see a few ladies standing there.  One of them, who I’ll call “Esmeralda” since I have no idea what her real name was, stated that they were playing truth or dare.  She went on to explain that it was her turn, she chose dare, and her dare was that she had to lick somebody’s shoe.  I’m sure she could have just licked a shoe over at their place, but my expert intuition told me that this was more of a ploy to get to meet some hot dudez, five of whom happened to live in the establishment they chose to visit.

She ended up licking someones shoe, we all pretended like it was zany and not a completely lame excuse of a dare, then they scurried back off to their place.  We went back to our serious drinking business, and after a few minutes, someone had the great idea of coming up with a ridiculous counter dare in order to get to go over to their place.  After very little brainstorming, it was decided that the dare would be for one of us to have peanut butter licked off our nipple by one of the gals.  It was so crazy, it just might work.  I thought it was a pretty funny, if obvious dare, but changed my tune after I was nominated as the candidate.  Today I wouldn’t blink an eye at something that tame, but at the time I was merely an insecure, inexperienced, young lad.  The thought of being put on the spot was unsettling.

After trying multiple times to get out of being “the” guy nominated for the mission, I finally accepted my fate.  We headed over to their place across the way and knocked once or twice, perhaps even thrice.  They answered, no doubt completely unsurprised that it was us, and let is in.  We told them that we too were playing truth or dare, and that I had taken a dare, of which my penance was to have peanut butter licked off one of the nipples in my possession.  I forget how it happened exactly, but by some intervention of the cosmos, the girl who either stepped forward or was nominated to engage in the peanut butter festivities was actually quite nice looking.  I’ll refer to her as “Jessica Alba”, since I have no idea what her actual name was, and she bore more than a passing resemblance to that actress, who was popular at the time.

So long story short, “Jessica Alba” licked peanut butter off my nipple and everybody probably went back to hanging out and drinking in their respective places of residence.  You see, there was so much hanging out and drinking back in those days that every day started to bleed into every other day and details became blurry.  In fact, maybe this story never actually happened, but instead exists as a completely fictitious account that I made up while inebriated all those years ago.  Maybe I actually died in that tragic Magic The Gathering™ accident and I’m not actually typing out all these words that I’m currently typing.  That would technically make Peanut Butter Nips a ghost story though.  So was it scary?  Yea it was.  It was scary good.  You’re welcome.  Next story.


The Frailty of Youth and Poorly Constructed Wooden Structures

This one time a bunch of us were hanging out and drinking on the front porch, when a lady friend and myself engaged in a hug, and another friend of mine totally yelled out “Group Hug” and bum rushed us, and we all ended up getting pushed up against the railing, which gave way and we all fell over the side in a tangle of wooden boards onto some bikes that were below us, but it wasn’t that bad because it was only like a four foot drop, so nobody really got hurt, so then we just went back to drinking and hanging out.


The Frailty of Youth and Cheaply Plastered Domicile Walls

Back in the day when I was in college, we used to do this thing called “hanging out and drinking”.  It was serious business, and quite frankly I don’t have the time to explain all the intricacies to you.  Nevertheless, a lot of the time while we were engaging in this activity, things would end up getting broken in the vicinity of our persons, as tends to happen in life.  Perhaps a bottle would get broken here, or a piece of furniture would get broken there, as tends to happen in life.  Every once in a while though, the walls would get broken, as tends to happen in life, and to a lesser degree in stage plays and television productions.

Sometimes, in our journey through this mortal coil, the need arises to put one’s fist, foot, and/or head through a layer of budget drywall and off-white paint.  The place we lived at the time was no different, as is to be expected, being that it was merely a microcosm representing the greater whole of life in general.  In the world there exists laughter and tears, joy and strife, wisdom and folly.  All these things existed in our residence as well, along with ample amounts of “hanging out and drinking” and wall hole producing.  Sometimes strife leads to wall holes.  Other times, joy leads to wall holes.  Wisdom rarely leads to wall holes, but It’s completely feasible, so one should never rule out the possibility altogether.

Throughout the course of the year, there were many joyous and strifeful occasions, and many wall holes to go along with those occasions.  A wall hole or two isn’t really that big of a deal, but if wall holes become too abundant, situations can tend to get a little complicated.  One such complication we were faced with was the existence of an individual called a Resident Advisor, or “R.A.” for short.  One of the many jobs of an R.A. is to make sure that everything is cool and that folks aren’t acting up.  Wall holes tend to give off the impression that things aren’t cool and that folks are acting up.

To keep the R.A. off our backs and to protect the sanctity of our place of drinking, hanging out, and wall hole production, we needed to give off the impression that no wall holes actually existed.  This was done through the careful act of placing glossy pieces of paper called “posters” over such holes.  This technique is quite brilliant, as it not only makes it seem as though no wall holes exist, but it also serves to make the environment seem more cultured and interesting.  A Randy Rhodes poster here, an advertisement for 15% off TempurPedic Sealy mattresses over there, and we quickly started to look like a cultured and interesting bunch of individuals.

By the end of the year, things looked a little suspect, with posters plastered all over the walls at heights both way higher and way lower than any poster would ever realistically be hung.  A few holes were so large that posters wouldn’t do the trick, and the use of dark cloth tapestries needed to be employed.  It looked like we had employed a blind person who may or may not have also been mentally retarded to decorate our living quarters.  It might not speak very well of the R.A. that she never seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary, but then again she was an R.A., and they tend to not give too much of a shit about anything in general.

As summer quickly approached, we reflected on our many accomplishments that year, including: drinking, hanging out, and wall hole acquisition.  We also realized that we needed to rid ourselves of our wall hole collection, lest we incur the wraith of the housing board in the form of arbitrary, unreasonable fees.  Luckily, one of the strapping young lads amongst our ranks was a wiz in the field of home repair.  He patched up the holes, painted over the evidence, and we all shed a tear at the loss of our most prized possessions.  We bid each other adieu for the semester and went our separate ways.  Later that summer, we each received a bill from the Department of Housing and Fascism charging us a few hundred dollars each for the repainting of our former housing unit.

The moral of this story is: Collecting wall holes is an enjoyable, yet expensive hobby, much like polo or yachting.  Make sure you truly understand the pros and cons of this activity before you dive into it.  Thanks.

Terrible Decision #317

Hey.  You wanna hear a story about this one time I made a bad decision that I regretted almost immediately?  You don’t?  Well, your mind might be saying “no”, but your heart is saying otherwise.  So grow a pair, and continue reading this drivel.  I’m almost 27% certain that this story will be amusing in some way to at least one person who reads it.  The remaining 56% of that figure is completely irrelevant.

So anyways… I used to work with a guy and/or girl who used to have frequent shows and parties and his and/or her house.  The shows usually entailed a few touring bands playing together who were passing through the area on wider east-coast tours.  Many a show went down, and many a good time was had.  I remember this one time a dude was crowd surfing in the living room that the bands played in, and got dropped on his head.  He proceeded to just lay there in an awkward unnatural-looking position while everybody looked at him wondering what to do.  The band stopped playing, and people tried to rustle the fella back into the land of the upright, but he just continued to lie there.  Right as somebody was about to call for an ambulance, he came to, all sorts of discombobulated and talking weird gibberish.  Game on!  The band continued to play and much enjoyment was had.  That’s my story!  Hope you liked it!

Sike.  This terrible aimless story isn’t over yet.  Sit your ass back down and keep reading… So like I was saying, it was always a good time.  There was this one night after the bands finished playing where I ran into this gal who I recognized.  I recognized her because I met her at a show at this very house/venue on a previous night.  When I met her that first time, I was so drunk that I didn’t even remember having met her afterwards.  In the following days, I had this gal’s face in my mind, but couldn’t place where she was from.  I figured maybe I had watched a movie or had a dream, and now this face was in my subconscious for some reason.  When I met her the second night, it all made sense.  The party after the show was winding down, so she invited me to another party at one of her friend’s house.  I was in it for the long haul, so I said “Let’s do it.”.

I left my vehicle at the co-workers house and hopped into a car with her and a few of her friends.  One of the guys in the car I even recognized.  He was a bouncer at a venue in the area I had met one night where he gave me shit all night for not looking like I was old enough to be in said club.  He was good people.  I figured the fact that I knew half the people in the car with me ensured that the night was going to be great.

We drove for quite a bit, and due to my adequately sauced nature, I was distracted enough to not pay any attention to what roads we are on, or where exactly we were headed.  Some amount of time later we arrived at our destination and exited the vehicle.  It appeared to be a quaint little house out in the ‘burbs’.  We all headed out to the backyard and walked right into a worse case scenario.  The party was 90% white-boy thug-bros.  Those insecure, goofy, culturally-confused, completely lacking in any shred of self-awareness types.  We’re talkin’ straight up clowns, yo.  For realz.

I immediately regretted leaving the winding-down punk-rock house show only to end up in delusional suburban gangster-ville.  There was even a pit bull chained up in the backyard who had that “my-owners-are-dipshits” demeanor about it.  At no point during the night does the party move indoors, because the “thug” whose house we are at isn’t allowed to have people inside.  Orders sent straight down from his mom.  I am evidently a terrible judge of character, because I completely had the company I arrived with pegged as being the type of people who wouldn’t find this an enjoyable situation to be in.  I was wrong.

I pulled out my phone and started texting people I was at the show with.  Most of the messages were in the vein of how much of a mistake that I had made by deciding to come to this party, and begging for somebody to “please kill me”.  After sending a few S.O.S. texts I decided that I might as well get as drunk as possible so that this situation would either start to be enjoyable through my inebriation, or that I would simply black out and wouldn’t have to remember any of it actually happening.  Regardless of which of the two options I decided on at the time, it was the latter that in fact happened.

I got woken up by an annoying female voice saying “Hey.  Hey.  You can’t sleep there.  Hey.  You can’t sleep there.”  It was light outside and I was lying down awkwardly on the concrete front steps of the suburban gangster house.  “Uh…  ok.” I said as I got up.  “You can sleep over here.” she said, motioning for me to follow her.  She led me to the back yard and laid a towel on a reclinable deck chair.  I proceeded to lay down on the makeshift bed, and wait for her to disappear around the side of the house.  I immediately got out my phone to see what time it was.  Of course, my phone was dead.  Why would my phone not be dead when I actually need it.  I’m sure all the “please kill me” texts the night before had nothing to do with the battery dying.

I got up and walked around the premises.  There were about a dozen people on the side of the house standing around in front of an open garage.  I didn’t see any of the people I showed up with.  As a matter of fact, I still haven’t seen a single one of them since that day.  Maybe they all got murdered.  I figure they are deserving of at least that fate for bringing me straight into that Devil’s anus of a party.

I was easily able to pick out the clown who belonged to this establishment.  He was a white kid with no shirt on, and sagging britches.  He seemed to have adopted some type of vocal affect from watching too many gangster films on the television box.  He had a tattoo that said “THUG” on his abdomen.  And the cherry on top of the shit-cake; he was holding a mirror with lines of cocaine neatly arranged upon it.  I seemed to have found the king of the culturally confused white-trash.

I explained to him how I was either ditched or forgotten about by the people I showed up with the night before, and that I needed to know where I was so that I could get home.  “I can’t tell you where we are, dog.” the confused little boy proclaimed.  I figured he was imply that he didn’t want to incriminate himself on the illicit activities he was currently engaging in, by giving up his whereabouts .  “Well I need to get home, and if I have to walk out of here, I’ll see your address when I reach the end of your driveway anyway.”  The small dysfunctional gears in his noggin ground away for a bit and he finally mentioned that his friend was about to go pick up some smokes from the store, and that I could catch a ride with him.  Now we were getting somewhere.

I hopped in the car with his friend and we headed off.  His friend confused me in that he was a black guy who chose to hang out with a bunch of culturally appropriating suburban white kids.  He seemed like a nice enough guy and all, but I guess friends were slim pickins around this area.

We finally got to our destination.  A 7-11 in a major plaza that I’d been to before.  He gave me a “This is as far as I’m going.”, and I thanked him and got out of the car.  I was extremely relieved to be that much closer to home and that much further away from atrocity.  So I started to walk west, down the side of the highway towards my home.  It was about 8:00 in the morning, so luckily the weather hadn’t become too hot yet.  By 10:30AM, after walking the full 8 or so miles back to my house, it had become pretty hot out however.  When I got home, I immediately crashed out onto my bed.  All the walking on no food, a huge hangover, and perhaps 5 hours of sleep left me wrecked.

I woke up a few hours later and found a friend who was available to take me back to where my vehicle was parked.  I got my car safely home, and thus ended one of the most flat-out pointless, waste-of-time experiences I’d had in a long time.  On the plus side, I ended up with a huge amount of deep bruising on the back of one of my arms from something that happened that night.  I still have no idea what exactly caused it.  I also had a nice-sized lump on the top of my head, which I was able to trace back to being hit in the head with a frying pan at the house show earlier in the night.  The next time I was at a show at the co-worker’s place, I got to see the bent-up unusable frying pan that was the culprit.  Good times.

Don’t Forget Any Of This.

Hey guys.  Forgive me for my long bout of inactivity, but I have a valid excuse.  You see, two months ago I was elbow-deep in the most profound and entertaining post to end all posts, when I was contacted by a mysterious gentleman, who told me to meet him down at the local Coffee Trough™.  He stated that he had some important information that he needed to relay to me, and me alone, seeing as how most of it would be completely over the head of the average human.  After agreeing, on the grounds that it didn’t seem suspicious in the least, I asked how he got my phone number.  He said not to worry about it, and that he “knew people”.  He also explained to me that there are these big yellow things called “phone books” that you can utilize to obtain that kind of critical classified information.  Those G-Men sure are a crafty bunch.

So anyhow, I hopped into my spiffy Toyota Tercel, and slowly sped on down to the aforementioned coffee establishment to meet up with this suit.  I walk in and spot the mystery man instantly due to the fact that he’s wearing sunglasses indoors, and only G-men and douche bags wear sunglasses indoors.  Douche bags usually don’t wear suits however.  They usually opt to wear classy things like polo shirts, Abercrombie & Fitch, and neon-colored dubstep t-shirts.  The lack of a spray-on tan and hair gel also gave away that this gentleman was probably a professional of some sort.

I sit down across from him and he proceeds to slide a manilla envelope across the table.  It may very well have been some other kind of envelope, but seeing as how I don’t have a deep well of knowledge on the various types of envelopes, I wouldn’t have known any differently.  I open the package in front of me only to find a single piece of paper inside.  On it was written a single line of text: 9/11 was an inside job.  “What the hell is this supposed to mean?” I ask.  “It means exactly what it means.”  he replies.  “You’ve obviously got more than enough time on your hands.  Do some research.  Look into the matter further.  You’ll find the truth”.  He then got up and left without another word.  Off the the library I went.

So check this out.  Remember when 9/11 happened on September 11th, 2001?  And also remember how we’re supposed to remember 9/11?  Well I’ve been doing a lot of research these past few months.  It turns out that there are these things called elephants out there.  The thing about these elephants though, is that allegedly, they never forget.  Things like birthdays, appointments, locker combinations, and even 9/11s.  They remember everything.  You don’t even need to say “9/11: Never Forget ©” to an elephant because they remember forever.  They don’t even need to see it on a t-shirt, button, mouse pad, key chain, coffee mug, magazine, car decal, Fox News, tote bag, lanyard, refrigerator magnet, poster, memorial coin, post card, liquor flask, CNN, calendar, iphone case, baseball cap, snow globe, truck mudflap, MSNBC, or shot glass, because they always remember it anyway.  Elephants remember 9/11s, 24-7.

So moving on, you might also be aware that one of the political cults in the United States, the Demonoclaps, are represented by an elephant.  Coincidence?  Probably not.  Why would you choose a bland-ass elephant as your political spirit animal when you could pick something like a wolverine or a death adder?  Elephants don’t do anything except take up a lot of space and remember things like 9/11s.  Those don’t even happen all that often, so even that’s not really that big of a deal.  So obviously the Demonoclaps must have had something to do with 9/11.  The proof is all there.  I thought it might involve the other cult, the Replumplicons as well, but their spirit animal is a donkey.  Donkeys don’t know anything about anything, let alone 9/11s.  So that rules them out.

I know this all might seem like a lot to take in all at once, but the facts are undeniable and irrefutable amongst a slew of other multisyllabic adjectives.  That G-man knew what he was doing, coming to me to help unearth the truth of the matter.  My researching skills are second to no other researching skills that have been discovered yet.  All I ask is that you remember this information, much in the same way that you remember the 9/11s.  Except remember this for more than one day out of the year.  You can buy coffee mugs and license plate frames if that helps you to remember, but remember to remember that Demonoclaps picked the elephant because elephants always remember to remember 9/11s and that’s why 9/11 happened on 9/11.  The chemtrails are the only proof you really need.  It’s all right there in front of you, if you would just decide to look with your heart, and stop looking with your eyes.

But anyways…  I finally stopped doing hard drugs last week and decided that I should get back to posting things on this site, so here you go.  Enjoy.


Marginal Story Time: Dorm Bathroom Urinal Poop

Many years ago I attended what you might call “university” in England.  In the United States, it’s referred to as “college”, aka a potential waste of someone’s money and/or a good way to take years off the lifespan of your liver.  I was a Computer Science major at the time.  That certainly sounds like an ambitious major that is sure to make somebody a small fortune and cause ladies to come flocking.

During my tenure at this “college” I lived in a “dormitory”.  It really was a dormitory on the campus, I just enjoy putting things between quotation marks.  While living in this “dormitory” I used to do school work, but most of the time I used to do very little school work while putting a lot of work into being inebriated.  My dorm was pretty slow in the action department, so I would head off to other areas of the campus where my friends lived, in order to jam out with my clam out.

Late one night after getting back from hanging out and partying at one of these other dorms, I decided that I would go use the restroom facilities, as one tends to do from time to time.  I go into the stall in this “restroom”, and as is to be expected, there is a large doodoo log hanging out and relaxing to the max right in the toilet.  Evidently they don’t teach you about flushing the toilet in college.  Maybe that’s a skill you learn in graduate school.

After being appalled and saddened for the future of America and my peers’ ability to correctly handle their business, I come up with a funny idea.  I decide to scoop up this big bad dookie with the plunger next to the toilet and go deposit it in one of the urinals.  This probably wouldn’t seem that funny to most people, but my reasoning at the time was that someone would go to use the urinal the next morning and see the fecal beast floating there, and come to the logical conclusion that somebody had actually used the urinal to make due with a number two.  Needless to say, I felt highly accomplished, and was giggling to myself like a little girl at this point.  I brushed my teeth, then headed off to bed and had sweet dreams of a bright future.

I get up the next morning and go to the restroom.  Much to my dismay, my handiwork is nowhere to be seen.  It’s still fairly early in the morning, so I assume that somebody took care of the log before anyone else on the floor had the chance to be greeted by the urinal intruder.  At this point I feel crushed and defeated in a way that nobody can understand, save for an Olympic athlete who just missed out on the gold by a hundredth of a second.

A few nights later, our floor has the weekly “floor meeting” with the Resident Advisor.  A bunch of obvious and forgettable things are discussed, which everyone in attendance no doubt forgot about within the hour.  The R.A. ends by asking if anyone else has anything to add.  One of the guys chimes in: “If it’s at all possible, could people please refrain from taking dumps in the urinal?”  A bunch of other folks mumble and laugh about having seen the spectacle that glorious morning, and I have to act surprised myself, as to not give away my part in the deed.  On the inside however, I’m delighted and entertained to no end.  I had just won the gold medal by a nose and am standing on the podium, basking in the glowing adoration of millions.

I never told anyone on the floor of the reality behind the urinal poop though, because I get great joy in life from the thought of people never really knowing the truth behind something bizarre or funny.  I am entertained by the idea of somebody, somewhere being reminded, then potentially telling someone else about how some dude took a dump in the urinal back in the day when they were in college.  If I had told everybody, the magic would have been ruined for me and Santa would have ceased to exist.

You just read a story about an adult putting feces into a urinal, and I apologize for that.  The end.


Marginal Story Time: The Spiteful Garbage Payback

I used to live in an apartment building a long time ago in a land far away.  It was a magical place with lots of wealthy white people and vast flowing fields of entitlement.  I lived there at the time with two other roommates.  Every once in a blue moon, we’d have a bunch of people over for rather tame parties.  It wasn’t so much that “we” would have a bunch of people over, as it was that they would have a bunch of people over, and I would be anti-social and awkward.  They were both ladies though, so at least their friends and associates didn’t render the events complete sausage festivals.

On one such occasion we loitered indoors, we sipped beverages, we conversed using indoor voices, and we were merry.  Then everyone departed and the remaining three of us went to our respective rooms.  I get about 10 minutes into cooking my dinner for that evening, when there is a knock on our door.  I open it up and before me stand two officers of the police variety.  The “bad cop” we’ll call him, proceeds to tell me he received a noise complaint and wanted to know what was going on at our place. “My roommates are both in bed and I’m cooking dinner.”  Bad cop then says something along the lines of: “Yea right sir.  We got a noise complain here.  I’m sure you’re just eating dinner.”  This display of prickdom, combined with the drinks from earlier cause me to get slightly bothered, so I shoot back:  “Well, you’re more than welcome to come in and see for yourself.  I’m sure the food isn’t being all that loud.”  The other officer, who we’ll call “good cop” says: “We’re just here because your neighbor called in a noise complaint.  Just make sure you keep it down and have a good night.”  I tell her thanks, ignore the other one and close the door.  I eat my dinner.  It sure is tasty.

The next day I’m somewhat bothered still.  Not so much because of the police, but because our d-bag neighbors called them on us without ever notifying us that we were being too loud.  (Which we more than likely weren’t.)  We had never met these neighbors, but I had a strong suspicion that they were a couple of dude-bros who were fresh out of mom and dad’s nest and who contributed nothing valuable to society.  One of the things that gave them away was that they always left their trash bags right outside their door for days on end, instead of bringing them out to the dumpster on the grounds.  The trash appeared to be mainly pizza boxes and shitty cheap beer.  Typical dude-bro garbage.

I go outside to do something or another, and I notice trash bags piled up outside their front door as usual.  When I moved into that apartment, for whatever reason, I actually read the guidelines packet that was given to us, so I knew that taking trash out to the dumpster wasn’t optional.  In this apartment community, they were serious about their rules and regulations.  It was then that I formulated the greatest plan mankind has ever known up to that point in human history.

I go back inside, find the number to the main office for the apartment complex and give them a ring.  A woman answers and asks what she can help me with.  I reply: “I’m sorry to bother you with this, but our neighbors constantly leave garbage outside their front door and it’s really starting to smell.  Normally I wouldn’t call up about something like this, but they seem to be doing this more and more frequently.”  She mentions that it’s against their policy for trash to be anywhere but in the dumpsters and thanks me for my call.

A few days later, like clockwork, there is another pile of bro trash outside their door.  I grab my phone and call up the office again.  This time I try to make my voice sound slightly different and say I’m calling from the apartment across from them.  I mention that they constantly leave garbage out and it looks really bad when we have guests over.  The woman apologizes, then tells me how this is the second complaint she’s received on them in a week and that she’ll have to serve them with a hundred dollar fee for breaking the regulation a second time.  Rules is rules.

You would think these dude-bro-clowns would have learned their lesson, but after a few weeks of being responsible adults, once again there are a few bags of refuse stacked outside their door.  Time for round three.  I call up yet again as myself, and mention that there is once again trash piled up outside their door.  I make sure I sound frustrated this time.  Like I’m one step closer to the edge, and I’m about to break.  She apologizes yet again, mentioning that this has been an on-going problem with them, and is their third infraction now.  I thank her, and hang up the phone, feeling accomplished.

I have no idea what happens on a “third infraction” at this particular apartment complex, but I have to imagine it is of equal or greater value to another $100 fine.  I don’t recall if I saw trash outside their door again after that, as I moved shortly after this transpired, but I was happy that I had invested as much time as I had into doing something purely out of spite.  I’d never seen anyone go in or out of that apartment, and wouldn’t recognize one of them if I happened to meet them at some point down the line, but I cost them a few hundred dollars, and that helps me sleep at night.  Next time, just knock on our door and tell us if we’re being too loud, you little douche-bronies.