My Neighbor Installed a Toilet on My Lawn with a Note, Flush Your Opinion Here, After I Asked Her Not to Sunbathe in Front of My Sons Window

When I respectfully asked my neighbor to stop sunbathing in barely-there bikinis directly in front of my teenage son’s bedroom window, she retaliated in the most outrageous way: by planting an old, dirty toilet on my lawn, adorned with a sign that read, “FLUSH YOUR OPINION HERE!” I was furious, but karma served up the most satisfying revenge. I should have sensed trouble when Shannon moved in and immediately painted her house in a series of neon colors — first purple, then orange, then blue. But I’ve always been a believer in “live and let live.” That belief was tested, though, when her sunbathing escapades began, right outside my 15-year-old son Jake’s window. One morning, Jake came into the kitchen looking mortified. “Mom,” he stammered, his face redder than the tomatoes I was slicing, “can you do something about… that?” I peeked out his window and found Shannon, lounging in what could only be described as a sequin-covered thread. I told Jake to just keep the blinds closed, but he looked defeated. “Mom, Tommy was over to study yesterday, and he walked in, took one look, and just froze. I can’t live like this! I’ll have to become a mole person and move to the basement!” After a week of watching Jake awkwardly navigate around his own room, I decided it was time to chat with Shannon. But my attempt to address the issue politely was immediately shot down. Shannon leaned back on her lounger, oversized sunglasses perched on her nose, and suggested, with exaggerated sincerity, that I look into “better blinds” or maybe “therapy” for Jake’s “repression.” Two days later, I found her “response” on my lawn. Right in the middle of my carefully maintained grass sat a filthy, ancient toilet with a sign: “FLUSH YOUR OPINION HERE!” Shannon cackled from her yard, claiming it was an “art installation.” When my complaints fell on deaf ears, Shannon escalated. She turned her backyard into a personal Woodstock — sunbathing sessions with friends, late-night karaoke, and even a “meditation drum circle” that sounded like caffeinated elephants learning tap dance. I stayed calm and let karma work. A few weeks later, it was my turn to chuckle. One Saturday, I saw a fire truck screech to a halt in front of our house. Apparently, Shannon had reported a “sewage leak” from the old toilet, hoping it would be removed by force. The firefighter took one look at the dry toilet bowl and told her to “call a plumber” — or maybe an interior designer. But karma wasn’t done yet. One sweltering afternoon, Shannon decided to elevate her sunbathing by hauling her lounger onto her garage roof. She climbed up, reflector sheet in one hand, a giant margarita in the other. That’s when fate intervened — or rather, her sprinkler system did. Suddenly soaked, Shannon lost her footing and tumbled straight into her prized petunias. Covered in mud and grass stains, she looked up to find half the neighborhood staring, including Mrs. Peterson, who helpfully asked if she was “trying out for Baywatch.” After that, things quieted down. Shannon stopped sunbathing in front of Jake’s window, the toilet bowl vanished, and she put up a privacy fence around her yard. The next morning, Jake cautiously raised his blinds. “Mom, is it safe to come out of witness protection now?” I smiled, handing him a plate of pancakes. “Yep, honey. I think that show’s been canceled for good.”

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