We Hate Our Children, Please Drive Recklessly

by George Sodwell
July 2002 Yard of the Month Winner

I saw you do a double-take at our street sign there. Don't worry. You didn't accidentally drive into some bizarro world like East St. Louis. You read that right. Although you might expect a sign like that to read "We Love Our Children - Please Drive Safely," it really does read "We Hate Our Children - Please Drive Recklessly." It's the Lord's truth. I can't stand the little brats that run rampant in this neighborhood, and I would appreciate nothing more than for some speeding vehicle to take out a few. Or a dozen, or so. Surprise me.

Feel free to blow down this street. Wherever you're trying to get to, I guarantee you, you're not getting there fast enough. Speed limit says 30. That's for girls. Go 50. Especially in the late afternoon when they get home from the schools they're flunking in. Don't worry if you hit a few of the little bastards on accident. Or on purpose. It doesn't matter to me. That's how little I care.

They usually start playing their soccer game about 3:30 or so. I don't follow the sport that much, but I thought you scored "goals" by kicking the ball into the net. To watch these hellions play, you'd think the goal was to kick it into my yard all over my crepe mertles. And they must crap these balls on a daily basis. No matter how many I confiscate and kill by plunging a screwdriver into it, they always seem to find more. They can't afford shoes and indoor furniture, but they have a lifetime supply of soccer balls? Don't make no sense.

If you can, try to take out the tall kid who seems to go by the name "Julio." Mr. Julio there decided it would be funny to pour a bunch of soap flakes into the fountain I keep in my front yard in memory of my dead wife. Well, the second dead one. Anyway, him and his little buddies thought it was pretty damn funny to see the fountain overflowing with soap bubbles. I wonder if Julio would find it amusing if I called CPS on his parents, for letting him play in the street until eight o'clock p.m.?

Used to be such a respectable neighborhood. No one under forty-seven. Then the Rodriguez's moved in with their four children. Then there was that house that caught fire. Then there was that foreclosure, which got sold real cheap to the Villanueva's. They had three kids. Then suddenly I found myself to be the oldest person on this street, at the tender age of seventy-three. And the only white person.

I've stood here talking your ear off long enough, you've got places to be and fast. Really fast. Don't worry about stopping. I'll take care of everything. Just listen (ahem) "Gee officer, I'm just an old man, I can't remember things like what the car looked like that ran over these four kids." Or six.