Bitches get snitches

Well, that was easy. Bizarrely so. After years of hemming and hawing, of giving Joe Dirtbag chance after chance after chance to start cleaning his crazy messes up, of hoping against hope that he would voluntarily reform his act, I ratted him out to the code enforcement office. It took me about an hour to write, edit, and submit the online complaint. I’ve spent God knows how many hundreds of hours trying to figure out what on earth he’s trying to do and how I can possibly prevail upon him to stop being a filthy, predatory schmuck. Then, today, I figured that it would be worth looking into the process for reporting code violations, and I found a user-friendly form online, with an alternate PDF printout option available at the top.

The broader situation is impossible to explain without getting breathless, and believe me, I’ve tried. That’s how bizarre and crazy it is. It ended up being a huge help to work under instructions to limit my testimony to code violations. The only broader context I provided was a few sentences on Joe Dirtbag’s illegal furnishing of residential units for rent, mainly by way of describing the location and condition of these units, and a brief offer to provide further details about his negligence upon request. Even so, my complaint came to several hundred words. I didn’t want to just be like, hey dawg, shit be hella dirty, yo. I made sure to detail the numerous trip hazards, the redneck wiring, the filthy shower room and bathtub, the rat guano deposits, the cat piss paint job in the winery building, and Pot-o-Shit Friend’s housewarming gift. But really, I shouldn’t be so unkind to rednecks. This stuff is straight-up white trash, an utter embarrassment to anyone with any standards. It’s squalor unto Robert Pickton, and remember, before Willie P. was Canada’s most notorious serial murderer, he was Port Coquitlam’s most notorious hog-slopping junkyard curator.

What actually pushed me into action after all these years was waking up in the rest area this morning to the second slow-motion State Police drive-by check within five hours, this time with the trooper parking a few yards in front of my car and idling there for several minutes. I went to the bathroom, and when I returned, the cruiser was gone, so it was probably just a routine welfare check, but still, it was a bit spooky. The infuriating thing, of course, is that I would never have ended up sleeping in my car at rest areas except on road trips if Joe Dirtbag and the Family Shrew hadn’t yanked my overnight privileges at their house for offending them. Their hypersensitive, exquisitely cultivated sense of offense took precedence over my articulable belief that Joe Dirtbag had posed an imminent threat to my physical safety the afternoon I walked out on them. It had to, because they’re ultimately incorrigible narcissists. I was much, much more willing to move on from an incident in which I believed myself to be in imminent danger of domestic battery than they were to move on from the same incident, in which my timely self-defense caused them butthurt in extremis.

Can you see how this all feels like the Twilight Zone sometimes? The Family Shrew, who took a month longer than Joe Dirtbag to get over the grievous offense I’d caused her, is a bachelor’s-level social worker by training, if you can believe it, and she worked for social services agencies in California for five years before going into the restaurant business. Cadre, resocialize thyself. The idea of two people so constitutionally filthy operating a restaurant for three decades equally defies belief. Again, I’m not making this up, the Family Shrew is utterly unable to properly wash dishes by hand. She consistently leaves food detritus on them. This is the slob Joe Dirtbag refers to as his “live-in house cleaner and dishwasher.” There are probably intrinsic reasons why their restaurant failed while competitors thrived. It wasn’t just dude, where’s my economy. By the time they sold the restaurant, it was no country for old men, but really, it shouldn’t have been any country for young men of their hygienic standards in the first place. It’s really hard to imagine that they compartmentalized their hygienic lives so neatly that they were able to let God-awful messes proliferate around their house and the farm while simultaneously keeping their restaurant immaculately clean, beyond the reproach of the health department.

They worked hard, everyone says. Bully for them, I guess. But what the fuck is that good for? (A********* N******! Yes?) They bust ass for over thirty years, but to what end? They retired indigent and encumbered to the breaking point, having exhausted what were previously significant personal savings. They were laid low by their own proud cracker act. Hard work or not, they didn’t get things done where it counted. They just couldn’t keep their property clean. A guy mucking horse stalls all morning probably works hard, but might you not feel a bit apprehensive if he jumped out of the stalls covered in shit, opened the refrigerator, and started making you a roast beef sandwich? Hey, make yourself at home, lunch is on me, buddy! Uh, no it isn’t, shitbird. By God it is not.

Joe Dirtbag still busts ass at the vineyard and winery, but again, he is hopeless to keep anything acceptably clean and inhabitable, and he lashes out at anyone who challenges him for being filthy and derelict. Massa don’t like the uppity field honkies, now, best not give him no backsass, y’hear. This isn’t dust in the wind; it’s dust all over everyone’s work and living space, and by dust, there’s a good chance that I mean aerosolized rat shit.

I guess I’ve crossed the Ratshit Rubicon now. The code enforcement staff will probably take my complaint seriously, and we know by now that staff will not include one Dennis Lynn Rader, who is otherwise engaged at the moment. Just thought I’d mention that because, you know. It’s less worrisome than the realization that I may have to call the police soon to put a scare into Joe Dirtbag if he goes ballistic over this donnybrook. Seriously, I may have to flag down a cop or flee to a payphone and call 911 (my cell phone has an out-of-town area code). Cops who know him socially and consider him a friend may be forced to use violence on him, even fatal violence, to protect their own safety and the safety of third parties. I wouldn’t put it past him to commit suicide by cop. It’s really scary. At the same time, I just couldn’t keep letting him thumb his nose at the law, to my provable detriment, on the reasoning that he might be crazy enough to lunge at a cop with a knife in a fit of desperate anger.

We’re dealing with a wild animal who’s about to be cornered here. What can I say? It is what it is. I’m mostly inured to it by now, but not entirely. I wouldn’t have forced the matter today had I not woken up to what amounted to a cop prowling around my car while I slept. That’s just frightening and ominous enough to demand immediate action against the scofflaw who put me into these circumstances in the first place.

Honestly, I’m more sad and worried than anything else right now. I took no joy in ratting a dangerous relative out to the authorities. It’s just that it had to be done. It was time to raise the alarm. It had been time for years. Who else was going to file a report? Psychotarp? He can hardly stay lucid for a full sentence.

Duty isn’t something to cherish. It’s something to pray about, that it will never be yours to discharge, that you will not be put to the test.

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