My new neighbor Lisa turned laundry day into a spectacle when her rainbow of underwear—lacy,
hot pink, and stringy—started flapping outside my 8-year-old son Jake’s window. Jake,
ever inquisitive, asked if her thongs were slingshots or superhero gear,
even suggesting his Captain America boxers join her “crime-fighting” display,
I tried to laugh it off, but when his questions persisted, I knew her “panty parade” had to end.
I approached Lisa diplomatically, but she dismissed me with a laugh, suggesting I “loosen up.”
Determined, I crafted a massive pair of flamingo-patterned granny panties and hung them outside
her window as a petty prank. She was livid, struggling to pull them down, and finally relented,
moving her laundry out of sight. Peace returned to suburbia, and I repurposed the fabric
into curtains—a daily reminder of my victory in the great laundry war.
