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The growing resistance to the lemon nazi.

September 14, 2009

There’s a cute little old lady who lives a few houses down from me. Cute, that is, until you try to pick a lemon from one of the enormous lemon trees in her front yard. And then all of a sudden she’s barking at you in a thick German accent and, well, I have [affectionately] called her the Lemon Nazi… This was before I found out that she was actually a holocaust survivor and is absolutely terrified of dogs, which can’t be good in this neighbourhood because everybody has a dog (which must suck in this neighbourhood because everybody has a dog), and then I felt like a royal asshole but the name had already stuck.

But still, she barks at people who even look at her lemons. I know this because I looked at them once.

I like to sit on my front step early in the morning, to watch the sun come up and listen to the closest thing I’ll get to silence in Los Angeles. After a while I noticed that every morning, the same few people walk past my house in the direction of L.N.’s house with empty plastic bags in their hands. And then a few minutes later they come speed-walking back in the other direction with full bags.

I think this is quite funny.

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