Living on a main route to the local elementary school sucks in so many ways, especially if you’re already not a fan of kids in general. On their way home from school, throngs of unsupervised children rampage down my block, stomping in my tree pit (only if there’s something nice to destroy, of course), yelling (even when right next to each other), and the worst part of all of it, tossing their trash up over their shoulders — the way their parents and older siblings seem to have taught them.

I try to clean up after them, but I have just come to terms with the fact that there will always be trash for me to pick up. I thought outside of quota sweeps that Sanitation recognized the futility in demanding that I keep the sidewalk and gutter spotless at all times — I haven’t had a ticket since the last one in October, which I successfully fought.

But, oddly, a week after I did a serious cleaning and de-weeding of my tree pit area, I got a ticket for an “accumulation” of trash in front of the house. I’ll fight it using the precedent of the former owner’s ticket dismissals, adding my own to the pile, so it’s a mere annoyance. But as I was cleaning the other day, grumbling to myself about the perversity of being expected to pay a fine for other people’s slovenly habits, I began to realize most of the trash is junk food wrappers. Tootsie Rolls, Twizzlers, Pop Tarts, ice cream bars, Slim Jims, cake wrappers, and even the Armor All used to shine up the SUV’s that keep them from walking more than two blocks to go anywhere — wrappers for all of these things that give b-cups to Bushwick’s pre-pubescent boys are blowing all over the streets. The inner-city obesity “epidemic” — a strange word for something you can’t catch — is represented in the trash I am being fined for.

Here’s a tip: walk somewhere, do a damn jumping jack, and put the Ho-Hos down you fat hos. Then maybe you can stop treating the rest of us to that most Bushwick of confections — the muffin top.