metaphoric fist

So here we are. 

Today, in the cranky, sticky, prickly heat of summer, I am sitting on my metaphoric porch, shaking my metaphoric fist at everything and everyone, and yelling from my metaphoric rocking chair: get out of my yard.

Get out of my yard, Citizen’s United Supreme Court decision of 2010. All of those corporations and Super PACs keep trampling my begonias. I can tell it’s them. Their shoes are all muddy.

Get out of my yard, half-melted Snickers bar at the drugstore with the broken air-conditioning. Stop knocking on my door. I know you’re half-melted. Stop making me want to let you in for tea.

Get out of my yard, junk mail from mean-spirited organizations I do not support nor want to support, but somehow get anyway because someone with a similar name must have donated to them in the past. And tell your little friends, those robo-callers, to stop beating my mailbox with a baseball bat. I know it’s them. 

Get out of my yard, pointless tweets that never seem to stop. Can’t anyone just shut up for five seconds? And why do you have to play that godawful loud music at all hours? 

Get out of my yard, suddenly malfunctioning DVR. You can’t just decide you’re going to not record that one show for me but record the other one just fine. I’m tired of rebooting you. Plus, you did a shoddy job mowing my lawn. No, you don’t get your five dollars. Not until you clean up those trimmings. 

Get out of my yard, subpar muffin. Don’t you look at me like that. You know what you did. Your frisbee is going to stay on my roof until I’m good and ready to let you come take it down. 

Get out of my yard, TV show that everybody likes so much but I do not, and I don’t dare let them know it lest I be ostracized from society. You think it’s charming to run along my white picket fence holding that stick, don’t you? I see right through your little facade. You’re bad news. If I see one more broken fence post I am calling your mother.

Get out of my yard, freak lightning storms that keep setting fires and wreaking havoc. And tell those tornado brothers of yours to stop being such bullies. I just knew when your hurricane parents moved in next door that the whole neighborhood would go to hell. 

Get out of my yard, politicians who straight-out make up crap and pass it off as truth. My front lawn is not a place for you to play kickball with your little friends who mindlessly follow your every invented word or the journalists who do not question you. You best not trick-or-treat at my house this year, because I’m giving you rotten apples.

Get out of my yard, new summer sandals that felt so comfy in the store but give me blisters after walking a mere five blocks. Stop soaping my windows, you little hooligans. 

And finally, get out of my yard, idea to write about shaking my metaphorical fists at things. You seemed so clever when I met you. Now you just get me all riled up and whiny. No one likes whining. People are probably going to shake their metaphorical fists at this post. 

And I don’t want to get out of their yards.  

Yes indeed. Welcome to me.