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Every Sunday morning I get a copy of the D.C. Examiner newspaper thrown onto my driveway. And it really irks me. Did I subscribe to this newspaper? No. Did I ask for a sample copy? No. It's like those damn phone books they throw on my driveway every six months. I. Don't. Want. It.

I sooooo want to throw the newspaper back into the street every Sunday, but that would only piss off the people on my street and crapify the neighborhood. Plus, that obviously wouldn't stop the newspaper from coming. So maybe I need to sit at the end of my driveway one Sunday morning at o'dark thirty and wait for the delivery person. And then throw it back.

One of these days I'm going to be a fantastically crotchety old man.