I get it. I really do. Little shits repeatedly crossing the corner of your immaculately landscaped lawn pissed you off. I mean, hey look: That’s some green-ass grass there. How dare the little spic bastards touch it with their unclean feet!
And then one of the little bastards had the audacity to mouth off at you when you yelled at him to get off your grass. How dare he! So you chased him and his homies halfway down the block, body-slammed the little bastard to the ground, dragged him around, and then fired off a shot from your handy concealed pistol when his homies tried to yank him away from you. And then the local cops came, and arrested the little bastard, and congratulated you on successfully arresting a terrorist 13 year old and holding him for them. Damn, but you taught that little bastard a lesson!
And that’s where it ended? You really thought that was where it was ended?
Oh fuck no.
First, the kid poses for the lawsuit. Which is going to name you, eventually, because the teen’s lawyer is going to argue that you weren’t acting under color of law, you were acting as a private citizen, thus you don’t qualify for immunity.
Then came the riots. The riot squad had to be called out to protect your house:
And the kids live there. Their families live there. They have hundreds of relatives who live nearby. Hundreds of relatives who are not going to forgive and forget. And they’re right there. Where you live. Where at any time, someone might throw a molotov cocktail through your front window or torch your car. They know your name. They know where you live. And the Anaheim riot squad is not going to protect your house forever. The Anaheim PD has things to do. Crimes to solve. Streets to patrol. Sooner or later, they’re gone. And then you’re alone.
Was it worth it, Kevin? Was it worth it teaching that mouthy little spic a lesson? You’re never going to be able to live in that home again and feel safe. Every time you leave the house and drive away, someone is going to vandalize it. Every night, someone is going to throw eggs and bottles at your house at 3am. Every day. Every night. Forever. And ever. What did you think was going to happen, doing this to neighborhood kids in your very own neighborhood? What on Earth possessed you to think this was a good idea compared to just calling the Anaheim cops or installing a white picket fence like your neighbor two houses down to keep the kids off your lawn, or just ripping up that stupid grass that doesn’t belong in a desert altogether and replacing it with some kind of thorny xeriscaping that would have punished the kids all by itself if they tried to shortcut through it?
You have made your bed, Kevin. It’s a thorny bed, that will prick you bloody every night for the rest of your life until you’re forced to flee this neighborhood in fear and set up in some other neighborhood where people don’t know your name. You’ve made your bed. Are you happy now? Was it worth it?
— Badtux the Consequences Penguin