My former neighbor is a concerned citizen; typically, a middle aged, middle class–male or female–white person with a slew of insecurities stemming from an unfulfilling existence brought about by a succession of poor decisions. Or perhaps a micro penis. The concerned citizen has no shame, and will stop at nothing to assure the masses, or at least, the neighborhood that they’re concerned with what everyone else is doing. “Get off my property!”, “I’m calling the cops!”, “My taxes paid for this damn park!” are the common phrases in the concerned citizen’s vocabulary, but they can be hard to spot since they come in all varieties.
There are several types of concerned citizens, like the guy who could have been the star quarterback, but he drank a little too much one night and raw romped his ex, Cathy the catholic pin cushion, who shat out an eighteen year investment with a ROI of “fuck you, I can do whatever I want.” Twenty or so years down the road, he’s separated from his wife, living in a shit hole off of MLK Blvd. and managing Barry’s Burger Joint when he’s not drunk on MD 20/20 and lathering his dysfunctional wet noodle. He’s a “Get off my property!” concerned citizen.
Then there are the typical old hags, like Cathy, who married her high school sweetheart after he knocked her up. She quickly settled into a life of underachievement in Middle America and started making babies. Cathy pooped out four more turds for offspring, before realizing the only thing her husband was good for is a pay check and load of life every now and again. So she kicked him out of his own house, but since she’s a woman of faith, refuses to officially divorce him. Her hobbies include mixing her children’s prescriptions with various boxed wines, and yelling, “I’m calling the cops!” at other people’s children.
Regardless of the roads they take, all concerned citizens arrive at the same intersection, of insanity and idiocy. They are driven by self-interest and a deluded sense of what the world should be, fueled by their own insecurities and short comings. They’re not afraid to share these ideas in lame and despicable ways, like calling the cops on five year olds for pissing where humans have pissed for centuries, or yelling at anyone who seems to be enjoying their day. No booze in the park. No skating on sidewalks. No loud music. No late shows. No fun.
And reasoning with these people is out of the question. The brain of the concerned citizen operates in mysterious ways, often acting on impulses before they’re processed in the pre-frontal cortex–the simulator of the brain. These defective balls of grey matter aren’t hard-wired for bargaining, logical thinking, or, really, much thinking outside personal gratification. And, unfortunately, they turn perfectly able bodies into little more than restless chimpanzees. Restless chimpanzees with cars, houses, boats and firearms.
It’s best to avoid confrontations with the concerned citizen, but if must indulge yourself, heckle from a safe distance and leave as soon as you see a cell phone. Maybe you can piss in their bushes later, but for now, go home, sit your ass down and bitch about it on the internet. The police will be on their way shortly.