Dear Jews Across the Street

Dear Hasidic, or at the very least Orthdox, Jews who live across the street:

Hymie and Rivka, your house is a dump. In a neighborhood of generally well-manicured, well-maintained fourplex stucco buildings from the 1920s, yours is an eyesore. Shrouded behind an unruly thicket of rhododendrons, your dumpy-ass maison is the sad sack of the street.

Your home is, however, unmatched in squalor, by this:



This unfortunate, 20+ year old Chevy Rape-Van (which I think was actually the official General Motors model designation), is, sadly, yours. It is a disgusting abomination. It is rusty. It blocks our view when backing out of the driveway. It squeals unpleasantly on the rare occasions it actually starts; aided by the muttering of Talmudic prayers and Hebrew Hammer-powered jumper cables. And one of these days, Hershel, as you bend over it, tinkering with the engine, it is going to suck your two-foot long beard right into the timing belt, sending your black hat shooting into the air.

Frustrated as I was by this van's presence, the best car is, as my father always says, the one you own. Imagine my frustration then, when I discovered, however, that this van is NOT, in fact a mode of transport, nay; it is essentially used by you, Schlomo and Bathsheba, as an extension of your closet. Haphazardly filled to the brim with everything from unused bicycles to old tax forms, the van is essentially a Pod with wheels, accessed only occasionally as one would a distant corner of the basement.



This van is never driven out of the neighborhood, only moved from one side of the street to the other so as to avoid ticketing on street cleaning days. Frequently, this seems to be directly in front of our living room windows, providing us with a picturesque view into the van and its sundry piles of shit. Avram and Chavah, in a neighborhood populated by yuppies who often park their Volkswagens and Prius' (Priii? Priam?) on the street, whose elegant old buildings are generally well maintained, I wish that you'd dump the rolling closet, take a hedge trimmer to your front yard, and literally clean up your act. And if this doesn't happen, I will take advantage of the law a friend brought to my attention and report you to the city of Los Angeles next time you don't move your Jew Canoe for more than 72 hours.

And don't make me do that. Because then I'll probably feel bad, and have to go to temple to pray for forgiveness.

Best Regards,
Dear Crabby