For weeks, my neighbor’s underpants stole the spotlight outside my 8-year-old son’s window. When he naively questioned if her thongs were slingshots, I decided it was time to put an end to this panty parade and teach her a valuable lesson in laundry etiquette.
Ah, suburbia! The grass is usually greener on the other side, mostly because your neighbor’s sprinkler system is superior to yours. That’s where I, Thompson’s wife Kristie, opted to establish roots with my 8-year-old son Jake. Life was as smooth as a freshly botoxed forehead until Lisa, our new neighbor, came in next door.
It began on Tuesday. I remember because it was wash day, and I was folding a mountain of tiny superhero underwear, courtesy of Jake’s recent obsession.
Looking out his bedroom window, I almost choked on my coffee. A pair of hot pink, lace underwear flew in the breeze like the world’s most indecent flag.
And they were not alone. Oh no, they were not alone — a full rainbow of underpants was dancing in the breeze in front of my son’s window.
“Holy guacamole,” I muttered, dropping a pair of Batman briefs. “Is this a laundry line or Victoria’s Secret runway?”
Jake’s voice piped up behind me, “Mom, why does Mrs. Lisa have her underwear outside?”
My face burned hotter than my malfunctioning dryer. “Uh, sweetie. Mrs. Lisa just… really likes fresh air. Why don’t we close these curtains, huh? Give the laundry some privacy.”
“But Mom,” Jake persisted, his eyes wide with innocent curiosity, “if Mrs. Lisa’s underwear likes fresh air, shouldn’t mine go outside too? Maybe my Hulk undies could make friends with her pink ones!”
I held back a laugh that threatened to blossom into a wild sob. “Honey, your underwear is… shy. It prefers to stay inside where it’s cozy.”
As I ushered Jake out, I couldn’t resist thinking, “Welcome to the neighborhood, Kristie. Hope you brought your sense of humor and a sturdy pair of curtains.”
Days stretched into weeks, and Lisa’s laundry service became as routine as my daily coffee, and as welcoming as a cold cup of coffee with a splash of curdled milk.
Every day, a new set of panties appeared outside my son’s window, and I found myself playing the awkward game of “shield the child’s eyes.”
One afternoon, while I was cooking a snack in the kitchen, Jake burst in, his face etched with bewilderment and eagerness, making my mom-sense prickle with fear.
“Mom,” he started, in that tone that always preceded a question I wasn’t prepared for, “why does Mrs. Lisa have so many different colored underwear? And why are some of them so small? With strings? Are they for her pet hamster?”
I almost dropped the knife I was using to spread peanut butter, picturing Lisa’s response at being told her delicates were rodent-sized.
“Well, honey,” I stammered, buying time, “everyone has different preferences for their clothes. Even the ones we don’t usually see.”
Jake nodded sagely as if I’d imparted some great wisdom. “So, it’s like how I like my superhero underwear, but grown-up? Does Mrs. Lisa fight crime at night? Is that why her underwear is so small? For aerodynamics?”
I choked on air, caught between laughter and horror. “Uh, not exactly, sweetie. Mrs. Lisa isn’t a superhero. She’s just very confident.”
“Oh,” Jake replied, little disappointed. Then his face brightened up again.
“But Mom, if Mrs. Lisa can hang her underwear outside, can I hang mine too? I bet my Captain America boxers would look super cool flapping in the wind!”
“Sorry, buddy,” I said, ruffling his hair. “Your underwear is special. It needs to stay hidden to, uh, protect your secret identity.”
As Jake nodded and munched on his lunch, I looked out the window at Lisa’s colorful underwear display.
This could not continue on. It was time to talk with our exhibitionist neighbor. ?.
The following day, I marched over to Lisa’s place.
I rang the doorbell, flashing my best “concerned neighbor” smile, the same one I use to assure the HOA that “no, my garden gnomes are not offensive, they’re whimsical.”
Lisa responded, appearing as if she had just come out of a shampoo advertisement.
“Oh, hi there! Kristie, right?” she frowned.
“That’s right! Listen, Lisa, I hoped we could chat about something.”
She leaned against the doorframe, eyebrow raised. “Oh? What’s on your mind? Need to borrow a cup of sugar? Or maybe a cup of confidence?” She glanced pointedly at my mom jeans and oversized t-shirt.
I took a deep breath and reminded myself that jail orange is not my color. “It’s about your laundry. Specifically, where you hang it.”
Lisa’s flawlessly groomed brows furrowed. “My laundry? What about it? Is it too fashion-forward for the neighborhood?”
“Well, it’s just that it’s right in front of my son’s window. The, um, underwear especially. It’s a bit exposing. Jake’s starting to ask questions. Yesterday, he asked if your thongs were slingshots.”
“Oh, honey. They’re just clothes! It’s not like I’m hanging up nuclear launch codes. Although, between you and me, my leopard print bikini bottoms are pretty explosive!”
I felt my eye twitch. “I understand, but Jake is only eight. He’s curious. This morning, he asked if he could hang his Superman undies next to your, uh, ‘crime-fighting gear’.”
“Well, then, sounds like a perfect opportunity for some education. You’re welcome! I’m practically running a public service here. And why should I care about your son? It’s my yard. Toughen up!”
“Excuse me?”
Lisa waved her hand dismissively. “Listen, if you’re that bothered by a few pairs of panties, maybe you need to loosen up. It’s my yard, my rules. Deal with it. Or better yet, buy some cuter underwear. I could give you some tips if you’d like.”
And with that, she slammed the door in my face, leaving me standing there with my mouth open, likely gathering flies.
I was stunned. “Oh, it is ON,” I muttered, turning on my heel. “You want to play dirty laundry? Game on, Lisa. Game. On.” ?
That night, I sat at my sewing machine.
Yards of the most gaudy, eye-searing cloth I could locate sat before me. It was the type of cloth that could be seen from space and perhaps even attract alien life forms!
“You think your little lacy numbers are something to see, Lisa?” I muttered, feeding the fabric through the machine. “Wait till you get a load of this. E.T. will phone home about these babies.”
After hours, I finished creating the world’s largest and most irritating pair of granny panties. ?
They were large enough to serve as a parachute, loud enough to be heard from space, and just insignificant enough to prove my argument.
If Lisa’s underwear was a whisper, mine was a fabric-covered foghorn.
That afternoon, as soon as I saw Lisa’s car leave her driveway, I sprung into action.
With my improvised clothesline and gigantic flamingo underpants ready, I dashed across our lawns, ducking between plants and lawn ornaments.
With the coast clear, I hung my handiwork just in front of Lisa’s living room window. Stepping back to examine my work, I couldn’t help but smile.
The enormous flamingo undies fluttered gloriously in the afternoon air. They were so enormous that a family of four could certainly use them as a tent while camping.
“Take that, Lisa,” I whispered, scurrying back home. “Let’s see how you like a taste of your own medicine. Hope you brought your sunglasses, because it’s about to get BRIGHT in the neighborhood.”
Back at home, I took up a position beside the window. I felt like a kid waiting for Santa, but instead of gifts, I was waiting for Lisa to uncover my small surprise.
The minutes passed like hours.
Just as I was wondering if Lisa had chosen to turn her errands into a surprise holiday, I heard the familiar sound of her car approaching the driveway.
It’s show time.
Lisa stepped outside, arms full of shopping bags, and froze. Her mouth dropped so quickly, I thought it could detach. The bags slid from her fingers, scattering their contents across the driveway.
I swear I spotted a pair of polka-dot panties rolling across the yard. Lisa, you are so classy.
“WHAT THE HELL…??” she screeched, loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear. “Is that a parachute? Did the circus come to town?”
I burst into laughter. Tears flowed down my cheeks as I watched Lisa dash up to the enormous undies and grab at them futilely. It was like witnessing a chihuahua attempt to take down a Great Dane.
Composing myself, I strolled outside. “Oh, hi Lisa! Doing some redecorating? I love what you’ve done with the place. Very avant-garde.”
She whirled on me, face as pink as the undies of my creation. “You! You did this! What is wrong with you? Are you trying to signal aircraft?”
I shrugged. “Just hanging out some laundry. Isn’t that what neighbors do? I thought we were starting a trend.”
“This isn’t laundry!” Lisa shrieked, gesturing wildly at the undies. “This is… this is…”
“A learning opportunity?” I suggested sweetly. “You know, for the neighborhood kids. Jake was very curious about the aerodynamics of underwear. I thought a practical demonstration might help.”
Lisa’s mouth expanded and closed, like a fish out of water. Finally, she sputtered, “Take. It. Down.”
I tapped my chin thoughtfully. “Hmm, I don’t know. I kind of like the breeze it’s getting. Really airs things out, you know? Plus, I think it’s bringing the property values up. Nothing says ‘classy neighborhood’ like giant novelty underwear.”
For a moment, I thought Lisa might spontaneously combust. Then, to my surprise, her shoulders sagged. “Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “You win. I’ll move my laundry. Just… please, take this monstrosity down. My retinas are burning.”
I chuckled, extending my hand. “Deal. But I have to say, I think flamingos are your color.”
As we shook on it, I couldn’t help but add, “By the way, Lisa? Welcome to the neighborhood. We’re all a little crazy here. Some of us just hide it better than others.”
Lisa’s laundry has been missing from the clothesline in front of Jake’s window since that day. She never addressed it again, and I never had to cope with her “life lessons” either.
And me? Let’s just say I now have a really unusual set of curtains made of flamingo fabric. Don’t waste, don’t want, right?
Jake was slightly bummed that the “underwear slingshots” were no longer available. But I informed him that sometimes being a superhero entails keeping your undergarments a secret. What if he ever sees huge flamingo undies flying through the sky? Mom is protecting the neighborhood with outrageous pranks! ?
Entitled Mom Blocked Our Delivery Spot & Told Us to ‘Work Around Her’—Minutes Later, She Regretted It a Lot
As a foreman, I’ve seen a lot in 20 years of construction, but never anyone quite like the mom who rolled into our no-parking zone like rules were for other people. When I politely asked her to move, she asked me to “deal with it.” I just smiled and karma handled the rest minutes later.
Have you ever had one of those days when someone else’s entitled attitude becomes your unexpected entertainment? Let me tell you about my morning. I’ve never seen karma work so fast… or hit so hard.
I’m Bob and I’m 40 years old. I’m a foreman for a construction crew bustin’ our backs building a house halfway up Mount Hellscape. Okay, not a real mountain, but 250 feet up a narrow footpath sure feels like one when you’re hauling plywood on your shoulder in the July heat.
A construction foreman at work | Source: Midjourney
A construction foreman at work | Source: Midjourney
We’ve been working this gig for weeks now. There’s no road to the build site. Just a footpath. That means every damn board, beam, pipe, and nail has to be lugged uphill by hand.
The only break we get? Two sacred parking spots at the bottom of the hill, marked clear as day: No Parking. Tow Away Zone.
Those two spots are our only shot at keeping deliveries running halfway smooth.
A ‘No Parking’ sign | Source: Pexels
A ‘No Parking’ sign | Source: Pexels
“Bob!” my buddy Mike called from the scaffolding. “Jerry’s on the phone. Says the lumber delivery’s coming early.”
I wiped the sweat from my brow and grabbed my cell. “Jerry? How far out are you, pal?”
“Three minutes tops, man. Got your roof trusses and everything else on the manifest.”
“I’ll clear the loading zone. See you in three.”
A construction foreman talking on the phone | Source: Midjourney
A construction foreman talking on the phone | Source: Midjourney
I pocketed my phone and started down the narrow dirt path that connected our hilltop site to civilization.
As the path curved, I caught sight of a gleaming white SUV parked squarely in one of our spots. Through the windshield, I could make out a woman texting on her phone, engine idling.
I felt the familiar twitch in my jaw. The elementary school half a block away meant we dealt with this at least twice daily. Usually, a polite request was enough. Usually. But not always.
Kids in an elementary school | Source: Pexels
Kids in an elementary school | Source: Pexels
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I called, approaching her driver’s side window with what I hoped was a friendly expression. “You’re parked in our construction loading zone. We’ve got a lumber delivery arriving any minute.”
She glanced up from her phone, window descending halfway.
“I’ll just be a few minutes,” she said, barely looking at me. “Your truck isn’t even here. Take a chill pill, dude.”
The window hummed back up and the conversation was over.
A furious woman sitting in her car | Source: Midjourney
A furious woman sitting in her car | Source: Midjourney
“Ma’am, please—” I started, but the rumble of a heavy engine cut me off.
Jerry’s massive delivery truck appeared around the corner, loaded with enough lumber to frame our entire roof. I waved him forward, pointing to our predicament seated in the car.
I knocked on the lady’s window again. After several taps, it lowered halfway.
“WHAT?” she snapped.
“The delivery truck is here,” I explained, keeping my voice calm, “You’re parked in a clearly marked no-parking zone. We really need you to move now.”
A lumber truck on the street | Source: Midjourney
A lumber truck on the street | Source: Midjourney
She looked past me at Jerry’s idling truck, then back to me with narrowed eyes.
“Can’t you guys just unload around me? Like, what’s the big deal? It’s not that hard.”
The window went up again and my customer service smile froze on my face.
“Fine,” I muttered, walking away. “We’ll work around you.”
“What’s the plan, Bob?” Jerry asked, leaning out his window, watching me approach.
A slow smile spread across my face. “She wants us to work around her. Let’s do exactly that.”
Jerry’s eyes lit up with understanding. “Say no more!”
A smiling truck driver | Source: Midjourney
A smiling truck driver | Source: Midjourney
“Pull in as close to her driver’s side as you legally can,” I instructed. “Let’s see how she likes being boxed in between you and the porta-potty.”
Jerry nodded, expertly maneuvering his truck to block the SUV’s driver’s side door with barely an inch to spare. With the porta-potty on one end and a legally parked car on the other, our entitled mom was now completely boxed in.
“Perfect,” I said, unable to suppress my grin.
“She looks mad,” Jerry chuckled, glancing in his side mirror.
A white car trapped between a truck and a porta-potty | Source: Midjourney
A white car trapped between a truck and a porta-potty | Source: Midjourney
“Let’s start unloading. I’ll make a call.”
“Who ya calling?” Jerry asked, already lowering the truck gate.
“Parking enforcement. Just to cover our bases.”
“Bob!” someone shouted from up the hill. I turned to see my crew arriving to help with the unloading.
“Let’s move, guys! We’ve got a roof to build!”
As my crew began the backbreaking process of hauling the lumber up the hill, I noticed movement in the SUV. Our entitled mom just realized her predicament. I could see her gesturing wildly on her phone, occasionally shooting daggers at me with her eyes.
An annoyed woman talking on the phone while seated in her car | Source: Midjourney
An annoyed woman talking on the phone while seated in her car | Source: Midjourney
“The parking officer said she’ll be here in about 30 minutes,” I told Jerry as we supervised the unloading.
“That long?” Jerry sighed, then brightened. “Well, we’ll still be here. This is at least an hour’s job.”
Twenty minutes into our unloading, a small boy in a blue backpack approached the SUV, tapping on the passenger window.
Entitled mom had finally realized she couldn’t exit through her driver’s side door. We watched as she awkwardly climbed across the center console, tumbling out the passenger side in a less-than-graceful heap.
A boy with a backpack | Source: Pexels
A boy with a backpack | Source: Pexels
“Mommy, why are you coming out that way?” the boy asked loudly enough for us to hear.
“Because these IDIOTS blocked me in,” she hissed, straightening her designer blouse while glaring in our direction. She ushered her son into the back seat, then stormed over to where Jerry and I stood checking off inventory items.
“I need to leave NOW!” she demanded, arms crossed tightly. “Move. Your. Truck.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but Jerry beat me to it.
“Ma’am, in order to unload the lumber, we had to unstrap it,” he explained with exaggerated patience. “Company policy strictly prohibits moving the truck with an unsecured load. Safety regulations. I’m sure you understand.”
Her face flushed crimson. “Trash your policy! I have somewhere to be!”
A furious woman yelling | Source: Midjourney
A furious woman yelling | Source: Midjourney
“We asked you nicely to move earlier,” I reminded her. “You told us to work around you. That’s exactly what we’re doing.”
“This is ridiculous! I’m going to report both of you!”
At that moment, a parking enforcement vehicle pulled up behind Jerry’s truck. Officer Martinez stepped out, clipboard in hand.
The entitled mom hadn’t noticed the new arrival yet. She was too busy jabbing her finger in my direction.
A female police officer | Source: Pexels
A female police officer | Source: Pexels
“I swear to God, if you don’t move this truck right now—”
I couldn’t resist. “Can’t you just pull out around it? It’s not that hard.”
Her eyes widened as she recognized her own words thrown back at her. The look on her face was worth every second of this confrontation.
“Screw you!” she spat, spinning on her heel and marching back to her SUV.
Officer Martinez approached us, eyebrows raised. “Morning, Bob. Got your call about the parking situation.”
Before I could explain further, the roar of an engine drew our attention. The entitled mom had climbed back into her SUV through the passenger door and thrown it into reverse.
“Oh no!” Jerry murmured.
An angry woman sitting in her car | Source: Midjourney
An angry woman sitting in her car | Source: Midjourney
The SUV jumped backward like a spooked goat on roller skates and plowed straight into our poor porta-potty.The thing tumbled, farted out a splash of blue goo, and lay there like it needed a minute.
“Holy cow!” I breathed.
The entitled mom shifted to drive and accelerated toward the curb, apparently attempting to mount the sidewalk to escape. The SUV made it halfway up before getting stuck, wheels spinning uselessly and the engine screaming.
Officer Martinez was already running toward the vehicle. “TURN OFF YOUR ENGINE! NOW!”
The woman froze, finally noticing the uniformed officer. The color drained from her face as she realized what she’d done… and who had witnessed it.
A lady cop talking to someone | Source: Pexels
A lady cop talking to someone | Source: Pexels
“Step out of the vehicle, ma’am,” Officer Martinez ordered, hand on her radio.
“I… these men trapped me,” she stammered, reluctantly emerging from the passenger side.
“Hands where I can see them.”
“My son is in the car.”
“I’m aware. That’s going to be an additional concern.” Officer Martinez spoke into her radio, requesting backup.
A startled woman in her car | Source: Midjourney
A startled woman in her car | Source: Midjourney
Within minutes, our entitled mom was sitting on the curb in handcuffs, her indignation replaced by panic. Her son watched wide-eyed from the back seat as a second police car arrived.
“She told us to work around her,” Jerry explained to the second officer, a tall man named Rodriguez. “So we did.”
“Then she decided to take matters into her own hands,” I added, gesturing to the destroyed porta-potty and the SUV still perched awkwardly on the curb.
“I never refused to move!” she shouted from her curb seat. “They never asked me!”
Officer Martinez shook her head. “Ma’am, they called parking enforcement when you first refused to move. That’s why I’m here.”
A police officer handing a violation ticket | Source: Pexels
A police officer handing a violation ticket | Source: Pexels
“This is all a misunderstanding. I was just picking up my son.”
“In a clearly marked no-parking zone,” Officer Rodriguez noted, writing in his notepad. “And then she operated that vehicle recklessly with a child inside.”
The woman’s shoulders slumped.
“Home telephone number?” Officer Rodriguez asked the boy. “We need to call someone to pick you up.”
As Jerry signed off on his delivery and prepared to leave, the tow truck arrived to remove the SUV from the curb. The entitled mom was being helped into the back of Officer Rodriguez’s patrol car, all fight gone from her posture.
An officer watching a person being escorted toward a cruiser | Source: Pexels
An officer watching a person being escorted toward a cruiser | Source: Pexels
“Driving on a suspended license too,” Officer Martinez informed me as she finished her report. “Plus child endangerment, destruction of property, and reckless driving. She’ll be spending more than a few minutes dealing with this.”
I watched as an older woman, presumably the boy’s Grandma, arrived to collect him, her face tight with worry and resignation, as if this wasn’t the first time she’d been called to clean up her daughter’s mess.
That evening, as the sun set over our hilltop construction site, I sat on a stack of newly delivered lumber, nursing a cold coke with my crew.
“You should’ve seen her face when you threw her own words back at her,” Jerry laughed, cracking open another can.
A man laughing while holding a can of beverage | Source: Midjourney
A man laughing while holding a can of beverage | Source: Midjourney
“I almost felt bad,” I admitted. “Almost.”
“Don’t, buddy. Some people need to learn the hard way.”
“What was the damage on the porta-potty?” someone asked.
“Company’s sending a replacement tomorrow,” I replied. “Thankfully it was due for service anyway.”
The crew laughed, and we raised our cans in a toast.
“To entitled parents everywhere,” Jerry proclaimed. “May the parking spots they steal always come with a side of instant karma.”
“And may they learn that in construction, as in life,” I added, “sometimes the harder you push, the more you get stuck.”
A chuckling foreman holding a beverage can | Source: Midjourney
A chuckling foreman holding a beverage can | Source: Midjourney
As twilight settled over our half-built house, I couldn’t help but smile. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, more materials to haul, and more problems to solve. But at least our parking spots would be clear.
And somewhere across the town, one mom learned a very expensive lesson about patience, respect, and the high cost of entitlement. Maybe next time she’d take the chill pill instead!
A no parking zone | Source: Pexels
A no parking zone | Source: Pexels
Here’s another story: In a crowded airport, a teenager mocked a janitor, thinking it was funny. What he didn’t realize was that his father was watching silently… from behind.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
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