I am not my grandmother

But because my gram moved into assisted living a few weeks ago, I had the job of cleaning out her house in Indiana last week. Not too terrible - less so than you'd expect. Except when I was taking out the trash one afternoon and I hear the LOUDEST whistle ever. I spin around, arms full of bursting plastic bags, and see these two idiots behind the now-closed gas station across the street, leering at me. An entire sack of trash had broken open moments ago, so I've been bending over to pick up discarded former food products, and you're going to yell at my ass? Literally? This is too much. It's November, I'm wearing a coat, and I'm covered in old food garbage. Ya'll need a hobby. - small town Indiana