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Meet the Douchebags


Bear with me please.

Throughout this post, I will be referring to people - people whom I don’t even know - as “The Douchebags”. 

Perhaps that’s cruel, I don’t know. So I’d like to take a poll:

Are my neighbors douchebags?

We live in a neighborhood with homes dating to the 1920’s. There are small, single-family frame houses, some tidy, many sagging and appearing to be near the end of their lives. There are many two-story brick duplexes, and a few big four-plexes, and these too run the gamut from well cared for to fading fast. The entire block seems to be rental housing, with a couple newer duplexes from the seventies or eighties thrown in.

Cloudy House itself is a towering brick duplex, one which Mrs. Cloudy and I are slowly converting into one large house - it was the cheapest way to get a lot of square feet, as we both work from home. So, one weekend at a time, the house slowly gets remodeled.

When we purchased the house, it was sandwiched between two tiny rent houses, one being remodeled, the other seeming ready to collapse into itself. The latter was torn down and a large structure was built - a pair of condos, one front and one rear, in the hot new “McMansion” style. You may know the type- impressive brick and stone facade (if you don’t take note of the apartment-quality aluminum-framed windows), with the sides & back comprised of painted cement-board siding that looks like something you’d build a bait shack from (apparently, curb-appeal trumps all in this style). Inside you get soaring ceilings, granite counters, room for a sweet plasma over the fireplace - along with thin plywood “wainscotting”, MDF moldings, and the cheapest Home Depot “builder” quality cabinets available. 

The builder was asking a ridiculous amount for each unit - $380k a pop was the figure he told me - and they sat vacant for months, until one weekend, both units were occupied. We figured they’d leased ‘em out to cut their losses.

Anyway - my first sight of potential douchebaggery came one morning as I drove my daughter to school. I noticed that, tied to the phone pole in front of the condo, was a big, pretty retriever of some kind. Light blonde, short hair, about 60 pounds. Someone had tied its leash around the pole, giving the poor thing about two feet of wiggle room. I made a mental note to call animal control if it was there when I returned.

Thirty minutes later, I was back, and the dog was still there - but someone was untangling it from its leash. A blonde girl, maybe late twenties, wearing a short black overcoat, was wrestling with the leash. She kept bending over and flashing white panties, making me think she’d gotten out of bed, thrown on a jacket, and tied the dog up as opposed to actually walking it. 

Within minutes, the dog was again wrapped around the phone pole to the point he was about pinned to the thing. By the time I’d poured some coffee and looked outside, she was bringing him in.

For the next couple weeks, the dog could be found tethered to a stake in the ground, barking at pedestrians and dog-walkers from the front yard. Eventually, the stake and tether was abandoned. Now, when the dog needed to go, the front door was opened and he was allowed to roam free.

And roam he did. He aggressively backed Mrs. Cloudy onto our porch or into her car. His range extended, across the street, two, three, four, six houses each way. Returning from car pool, it wasn’t unusual to see him, paws on a trash dumpster, chicken bones in his mouth, trash scattered everywhere. He chased off walkers, joggers, people actually walking their dogs with leashes and poop bags.

And speaking of poop - he was a champion pooper, and our front yard was his canvas, his master work. Great piles of stinking fresh poop, amid the giant sun-dried turds.

That went on for a while. Hear the barking. Look outside. Watch a pissed-off neighbor, dressed for work, rushing away with her own dg on a leash as douche-dog chased her off. Hear the shouting, the swearing. I could hear it loud and clear - but nobody bothered to even peek out the open front door of Douchebag Arms. Watch the crouching douche-dog drop another load on our lawn.

Finally, Mrs. Cloudy knocked upon the douche-door to inquire about the piles of poop in our yard. A thirty-forty-something guy answered, in his button-down shirt and dockers. As the dog barked frantically, The Mrs. asked if they could please keep their dog off the lawn and grounds that Mrs. Cloudy does so much enjoy tending.

Mr. Douce muttered something, then pointed to the street, where an eighties-era Ford Mustang - one that had seen its share of door dings and fender benders - sat. We’d seen its owner, a guy who lived across the street in a rental. The rental houses ’round here have limited parking - get three or four guys sharing a space, and the street can get full. 

“Do you know whose car that is?” He asked my wife. She said she didn’t know the owner, but believed he lived across the street.

“I gotta talk to him.” he replied. “I don’t like that crappy car in front of my house”.

Myself, I would have found this an opportunity to learn more about my fellow humans, inquiring, perhaps, what sort of car was allowed in front of his house, and was he aware this is a rental neighborhood, and that one doesn’t actually purchase the street when one buys (or rents) a home.

Mrs. Cloudy (an anthropologist by trade) was only interested in a poop-free yard.

After a few poop free days, the pooping reached new levels. Seasons passed. Mrs. Doucebag had a baby. The dog roamed far and wide, the front door swinging open several times a day, that poop machine galloping out into a world of new joggers to harass, new and poop-free turf to conquer.

One night we had a big party, and as I walked out the front door with  G., a dear friend and one of the kindest humans I have ever known, watched the dog shoot by, barking its head off. I gave him a quick overview of the dog’s routine and owners.

“Oh,” he said, “They’re doucebags”.

“You know them?” I asked (I guess by now I thought that really was their last name).

One night, a bit liquored up, I gathered up all the poop in our yard with a shovel. I figured “Well, I only ask my kids to do something once”, and I assumed this poop was somehow important to the doucebags. It was their property, after all, and with all the poop decorating their own dying yard, I thought maybe there was some cultural thing I didn’t understand, some significance to this poop. I figured they wanted it back. Returned about a half bushel to their front walk. Where it sat for a day or two.

Oddly enough, our yard slowly de-pooped, as the dog’s pooping territory increased. You’d see him, two houses down and across the street, squatted next to someone’s front porch.

And then I saw something truly remarkable.

It started with the dog barking. But this time, he was on the front walk of Douce Manor, barking at the door. Mrs. Doucebag came out, carrying the baby. She went to their car which was in the street, got in the driver’s side, and plopped the baby in the (child-seat-free) front seat.

(Let me digress here for a moment and state that Mrs. Doucebag has obviously heard that it’s unsafe to put a child carrier in your front seat. However, she didn’t put the baby in the back seat, so I think she may still need to read up on car safety for the young).

She started the car as the dog watched, and then she drove off - and the dog tore off after her. I waited, wondering if she’d gone off to the store and left the dog. But no - she had turned around at the end of the block, and shot past our houses at a good clip - the dog galloping along behind. 

I stepped to the street and watched her turn the far corner - the dog stopped, confused.

That’s when I realized what she was doing  - she was walking the dog.

Her car shot by again in a few moments. She drove to where the dog was still pacing, stopped in the intersection, got out, and shooed the dog into the back seat, and drove off again. 

A few minutes later, she came back, and disappeared into her driveway - the dog, again, running along behind the vehicle.


So, friends, I ask you:

There is a comment form below. Use it, please, and forward this link along to any friends. I just ask a simple question - doucebags, yay or nay?

Thank you for your help.

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11 comments to Meet the Douchebags

  • Rick

    Completely and utterly douchebags.

  • theshunter

    Ultimate Douchebags

  • I think confirmed, for sure.

  • Jason

    If hell does exist, then the prom king and queen live next door and will soon be residing over all things douche.

  • Sean Thornton

    Douchey neighbors indeed. Drive-walking the dog…so douchey.

  • Brice McBeth

    I resent the “thirty-four something” comment… but yeah.. douchey-douchebags fer sher. Don’t act so surprised though, every neighborhood has one. I think we have about seventeen. Keep shoveling the shit and put it on their porch.. they won’t notice, but it will make you feel better (therapy).

  • JW

    I say nay. (Aside from the child-seat-free activity. That is douchey.) I’ve been trying for years to find someone that will pick up my dog’s shit and walk the Beagle for me. I am definitely going to try the car-walking idea. That is brilliant! And I may move into the rent house on the other side of the Cloudy’s home, under one condition though - That you pick up my dog’s shit TOO. This time the douche is on you!!! Until you ask the dockers-wearing-motherfucker to come pick up the shit himself. YOU ARE DOUCHEY FOR DOING IT FOR HIM. Perhaps you would like to wipe his ass for him as well?

  • KD

    LOL! Great story. Yeah, douchbaggery for certain. I lived in a “rental” community of condos for a couple of years. All tenants have the same first name. Hint: It begins with the letter “F.”

  • Daryl

    Absolute douche bags, no doubt about it!

    I think you need some help though Mr Cloudy… Next time douche-dog shits in your yard, rather than picking it up do the following:

    1. Roll up a newspaper
    2. Walk next door and grab Mr Douchebag by the scruff of his neck
    3. Drag him over to your yard and smack him on the nose with the newspaper
    4. Yell, “NO, BAD DOUCHEBAG” and whack him on the nose again
    5. While still firmly grasping the scruff of his 34-something neck, push his face into the steamy pile of douche-dog shit and smear his face in it
    6. Tell him he’s a bad douchebag and should never let that happen agin
    7. Make him pick it up with his hands and deposit it on his own lawn

    Repeat with Mrs Douchebag

    Repeat as often as necessary. Most douchebags are real hard-heads and it takes a while, but eventually they’ll get the message.

    I hope this helps!

    By the way - KICK ASS dingleberry brown video!!

  • Cloudy

    Thanks man! I notice a “for lease” sign next door - could we be douchebag free soon????

  • Steve

    So what’s the scoop? Has the problem moved, or is it time for a neighborhood meeting to schedule the ACTUAL intervention described above?

    Seriously?, you just can’t keep ignoring things that smell that bad…

    People don’t speak up because no one else is speaking up either. If the whole neighborhood or the whole floor is jointly waiting to see how far things will go, then how can you comment on the neighbors? Everyone on the block is letting the dog run free as well. Everyone is basically copying the Douches. The only difference is THEY open and close the door….

    BTW, Does the dog have a license? You mentioned animal control early on, but no followups… Just what are your local laws? There MUST be a leash law! If that was my neighborhood, that dog would have a responsible mommy and daddy in another state long ago! There’s no better source of adrenalin than rational intelligent confrontation. Just don’t risk the rook for anything less than the queen AND the king!

    Become friends with the local DA. Have a picnic. Arrange all the patio furniture in a proper amphitheater configuration.

    If you’re not up to the intervention route, try profiteering. Sell chances. You’ve got a regular walking roulette wheel of fortune going there.

    Fun is fun, but the baby thing and “car walking”… Let out your inner democrat, and dial: 9-1-1… (with supporting video of course). I heard you have a nice camera. And don’t assume your neighbors haven’t taken pictures of you… These people wrote the encyclopedia on douchebaggery…

    Remember this: All the children on your neighborhood are watching how far these people are pushing the envelope and how null the response is. Your neighborhood is raising the next generation of douchebags…

    PS… Motherless Child, and Dingleberry Brown: Awesome! But you’ve really screwed the rest of us who want one of those guitars now… but I guess you deserve to be the one to do that.

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