MY NEIGHBOR INSTALLED A DIRTY TOILET BOWL ON MY LAWN WITH A NOTE SAYING, “FLUSH YOUR OPINION HERE.”
My new neighbor Shannon started sunbathing right in front of my house — literally right outside my 15-year-old son’s bedroom window. She was always in these tiny bikinis, and it made Jake super uncomfortable.
I decided to be civil and ask her to move to a less conspicuous spot. She just laughed in my face and said, “If your son’s uncomfortable, that’s HIS problem. I do what I want in MY yard”
A few days later, I came home to find an old, dirty toilet bowl on my lawn with a note that said, “FLUSH YOUR OPINION HERE.” I knew it was Shannon’s handiwork.
When I confronted her, she smirked and said, “You wanted to share your opinion, so I gave you a place to put it.”
I was furious but kept my cool, knowing that people like her eventually trip over their own arrogance. A few days later, I turned out to be so right.
Part 1: The Awkward Beginning
When Shannon moved into the house next door, I was cautiously optimistic. My neighborhood had always been a quiet, tight-knit community. Most of us knew each other, waved in passing, and exchanged baked goods during the holidays. Shannon, however, wasn’t interested in any of that. From the moment she arrived, it was clear she had her own set of rules.
She was loud. Her music blared late into the night, and she seemed to have an endless string of visitors coming and going at all hours. But it wasn’t until she started sunbathing in front of my house that things escalated.
It wasn’t just in front of my house—it was directly under my 15-year-old son Jake’s bedroom window. Jake was a shy kid, and this made him visibly uncomfortable. He avoided the living room, stayed in his room with the blinds shut, and refused to even look outside. When I asked him what was wrong, he muttered something about the “bikini lady.”
Sure enough, Shannon had set up her lounge chair in her front yard, barely six feet from our property line. She wore these tiny bikinis that left little to the imagination. To make matters worse, she was loud, always on her phone, laughing and talking to whoever called her.
I knew I had to say something.
Part 2: The First Confrontation
I decided to approach Shannon as politely as possible. One afternoon, when she was sunbathing, I walked over, smiled, and said, “Hi, Shannon. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
She barely glanced at me, pushing her sunglasses down her nose. “Thanks,” she said flatly.
“Well, I wanted to talk to you about something,” I said, keeping my tone light. “My son’s room faces your yard, and, uh, he’s a teenager, you know? The sunbathing—it’s making him a little uncomfortable.”
Shannon pulled off her sunglasses and sat up, staring at me as if I’d just insulted her entire family. “Are you serious?” she asked, her tone dripping with disbelief.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m not asking you to stop entirely. Maybe just move to the backyard or another spot?”
She laughed—a loud, mocking laugh. “Your son’s discomfort is not my problem,” she said. “This is my yard, and I’ll do what I want. Tell him to stop being a creep and keep his eyes to himself.”
I was stunned. “He’s not being a creep. He’s a kid, and—”
“Not my problem,” she interrupted. She laid back down, put her sunglasses on, and said, “Have a nice day.”
I walked back to my house, fuming. It was clear Shannon wasn’t interested in being reasonable. I tried to let it go, hoping she’d eventually get bored or realize how inconsiderate she was being.
But I underestimated Shannon.
Part 3: The Toilet Incident
A few days later, I came home from running errands and froze in my driveway. Sitting on my lawn, right by the walkway to my front door, was an old, dirty toilet bowl. Taped to the lid was a handwritten note that read:
“FLUSH YOUR OPINION HERE.”
I was speechless. For a moment, I just stood there, trying to process what I was looking at. Then the anger hit. I marched over to Shannon’s house and pounded on her door.
She opened it with a smug grin. “Oh, hey,” she said. “What’s up?”
“You know what’s up,” I snapped. “There’s a toilet bowl on my lawn with a note. That was you, wasn’t it?”
Shannon crossed her arms, leaning casually against the doorframe. “You wanted to share your opinion, so I gave you a place to put it,” she said with a smirk.
I couldn’t believe her audacity. “This is harassment,” I said. “You can’t just put trash on my lawn.”
“It’s not trash,” she said, feigning innocence. “It’s a statement.”
I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. “Shannon, this isn’t funny. You’re crossing a line.”
“Lighten up,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “It’s just a joke.”
But it wasn’t a joke to me. It was disrespectful, childish, and infuriating. I walked back to my house, determined not to stoop to her level.
Part 4: Getting Even
For the next few days, I avoided Shannon as much as possible. I moved the toilet bowl to the curb for trash pickup, but the whole thing left a sour taste in my mouth. I kept replaying our conversation, her smug expression, and her dismissive attitude. I wanted to do something—anything—to stand up for myself and show her she couldn’t push me around.
That’s when I got an idea.
I spent the next evening crafting a sign. It was simple but effective:
“PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE DRAMA QUEEN.”
I planted it firmly on my lawn, facing Shannon’s house. It wasn’t malicious, just a playful jab to let her know I wasn’t going to be bullied.
The next morning, Shannon came out to sunbathe and saw the sign. Her face turned red, and she marched over to my house.
“What the hell is that?” she demanded, pointing at the sign.
“It’s a statement,” I said, echoing her words. “Lighten up—it’s just a joke.”
She glared at me but didn’t say anything. Instead, she stormed back to her house, slamming the door behind her.
Part 5: Shannon’s Downfall
A few days later, something unexpected happened. I was out watering my garden when I noticed a police car parked in front of Shannon’s house. Two officers were at her door, talking to her. She looked flustered, gesturing wildly as she spoke.
Curious, I watched from my yard, pretending to be focused on my plants. After about 20 minutes, the officers left, and Shannon stormed inside.
Later that evening, my neighbor Karen stopped by to fill me in. “Did you hear?” she asked, clearly enjoying the gossip. “Shannon’s been running an illegal Airbnb out of her house. Someone reported her to the city.”
“Seriously?” I said, shocked but not surprised.
Karen nodded. “Yep. Apparently, she’s been renting out rooms to tourists without a permit. The city fined her, and she’s furious.”
I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction. Shannon had caused so much drama in the neighborhood, and now it was finally catching up to her.
Part 6: The Final Straw
After the Airbnb incident, Shannon’s behavior became even more erratic. She started playing loud music late at night, throwing parties, and leaving trash on the curb for weeks. It was clear she was trying to provoke the neighborhood, but most of us ignored her.
One evening, I heard shouting from her yard. Peeking out the window, I saw her arguing with one of her “guests.” The man was waving his arms angrily, and Shannon was yelling back. It escalated quickly, and soon the man was pounding on her door, demanding his money back.
The commotion attracted several neighbors, and someone called the police. By the time the officers arrived, Shannon was in full meltdown mode, screaming and crying as they tried to calm her down.
It was a spectacle, and it was clear Shannon’s reign of chaos was coming to an end.
Part 7: Peace Restored
A few weeks later, Shannon put her house up for sale. She didn’t say goodbye to anyone, not that anyone expected her to. When the moving truck pulled away, the entire neighborhood felt a collective sense of relief.
I never found out exactly why Shannon left—whether it was the fines, the drama, or the fact that no one in the neighborhood wanted anything to do with her. But I didn’t care. She was gone, and peace was restored.
As I took down the “Drama Queen” sign from my lawn, I couldn’t help but smile. Sometimes, people like Shannon don’t need you to get even—they do it to themselves.
