Brookside Dr.
It was well past midnight and he was at it again. Dressed in his hotpink leotards and lime green leg warmers, he sashayed around on his front lawn while singing Memory by Andrew Lloyd Webber at the top of his lungs. His untrained motion and apparent lack of skill at dance, butchered the blades of grass unlucky enough to be plodded on by his massive hooves. His voice shredded the notes of the song just like a woodchipper does to the helpless branches it grinds up.
Yet this night, much like every night, he thought he floated on air and sang like an angel. He also gave himself his own standing ovation and a loud chorus of bravos. He was very loud and I knew exactly what that meant. Soon the police would be coming and they would draw their pepper spray, ready to shower him in it. The real fun has not yet even begun. Just a little slice of life living on Brookside Dr.