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My underwear-clad, drunk neighbor introduced himself to me during the Summer of 2006, roughly a week after I moved in across the street from him. I'm a fairly tall woman, easily six feet with heels on, so when confronted with someone I have to look up to, I generally pay attention, especially when I sense they mean me bodily harm.

I came home late from work one night, parking on a public street opposite my house. As I was dragging my weary body from my car after a long commute and longer day, a Caucasian man who appeared to be in his late twenties came jogging out of the house I had parked in front of. He started yelling immediately, telling me I couldn't park there. While his request was unfounded, I might have moved out of courtesy had he not laced said request with every variation of a female slur I could think of.

I refused to move the car, politely informing the almost naked, angry, and possibly chemically influenced man I found his unreasonable mannerisms and language offensive (despite having a mouth like a sailor myself) and would remain parked in public parking where I had every right to be.

He understood perfectly, I'm assuming, because he abruptly ended the conversation by spitting on me. It wasn't a little spit either he really put some effort into compiling a nice large loogie to sling my way. Sprayed with spittle, I marched myself across the street, saying snidely, "You stay classy, Sacramento," over my shoulder. Not the brightest move I've ever made, provoking a clearly unbalanced individual.

He ran across the street, grabbed me by the front of my shirt and pulled his fast back, snarling, "I'm going to knock your teeth in." Normally, I would have handled this a different way, perhaps diplomatically suggesting he pound dirt or perhaps calling for reinforcements. I think his underwear were throwing me off; a Speedo body he most certainly did not have.

Disgusted, he returned to his house without doing damage to my expensive dental work and I contemplated my luck in not taking a knuckle sandwich to the grill for about a second before locking myself inside. It was no surprise when, roughly a half an hour later, the cops responded to a neighbor's report of a domestic disturbance. I was a little perturbed when the officer, who was more upset than I was over my being spit on, confiscated my clothing. I was not, however, surprised in the least when I watched my significantly calmer neighbor treat the female cop with barely restrained disdain and denied everything, stating he didn't know what the big deal was. "It's not like spitting is assault or something," he declared.

I know cops get a bad rap sometimes, but there was nothing more satisfying than watching that short little female officer stare down my neighbor and inform him with pleasure, "You're right, it's not assault; it's battery."

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