One wonders if even the most dedicated city code enforcer, staring at 25 years’ worth of accumulated household detritus and yet another sculpted backside looming over the neighborhood, ever imagined their career would intersect with a six-foot fiberglass ode to defiance. Such is the ongoing tableau in Seminole County, Florida, where, as ClickOrlando reports, Alan Davis has marked the silver anniversary of his very first county code violation by installing an enormous buttocks sculpture on his property—a rather literal gesture underscoring the message he’s been telegraphing for a quarter century: “You can all kiss my (expletive).”
Protest, Performance, or Both?
Davis’ yard is, by almost any definition, a standout in the annals of homeowner disputes. The latest fiberglass addition joins a landscape already dotted with posteriors of varying proportions, mountains of metal scraps, discarded appliances, junked vehicles, hosed-and-tarped oddities, and weeds so ambitious they’re occasionally fertilized for extra effect. According to details chronicled by ClickOrlando, Davis describes this display as a kind of running First Amendment art piece—or, if you’re his neighbor, a perpetual dare for local officials to intervene.
He’s frank about his goals, too. “I pile it up intentionally to aggravate them,” he told reporters. For Davis, the yard functions as an ongoing protest against what he perceives as government overreach: a decades-long performance at the intersection of civic boundary-testing and avant-garde landscaping. Anyone else might eventually run out of steam, but Davis seems only more energized—especially when the county makes another move.
Penalties, Prison, and Persistence
It’s easy to laugh off a six-foot fiberglass derrière, but the stakes and sums at play are far from minor. By mid-January, county records reviewed by ClickOrlando show Davis owed over $5.4 million in accumulated code enforcement fines—a total that grows daily as long as his property remains, to put it mildly, unconventional. These fines date back to an initial $13,000 charge for noncompliance in 2000 and have been rising by $250 each day ever since, with multiple additional cases for everything from unpermitted construction to excessive vegetation.
Court documents cited by ClickOrlando reveal that Seminole County officials have, over the decades, issued court orders authorizing extensive property cleanups—each one costing taxpayers thousands as teams haul away tons of debris, only for Davis to rebuild the stockpile soon after. The outlet also notes that Davis’ unique history with the county includes felony convictions for littering (stemming from an infamously weighty haul of over 500 pounds), supervised release violations, and several stints behind bars—hardly the resume of a casual code violator. His current job as a truck mechanic even traces back to a work-release program during his first incarceration.
Despite all this, Davis remains resolutely unmoved by the legal and financial crosshairs. “I’m not going to pay it,” he matter-of-factly declared to ClickOrlando, explaining that Florida’s Homestead exemption—and the absence of a homeowners’ association—makes the house all but immune to forced sale or seizure. As a county spokesperson explained to the outlet, unless Davis attempts to sell the property, actual collection of those staggering fines is unlikely.
Neighbors in Limbo
It is, perhaps, the neighbors who have traversed the largest emotional distance—from early hope that enforcement would eventually clear the eyesore, to what now appears a kind of resigned cohabitation. David Radosevich, quoted in the same ClickOrlando investigation, admits he has given up on seeing the property restored to anything resembling order. With every passing hurricane season, he worries more about a metallic exodus from Davis’s yard to his own, yet feels powerless given the county’s stalled efforts.
Drawing from statements by both locals and officials, ClickOrlando points out that county representatives repeatedly emphasize their commitment to enforcing regulations but concede they have reached the end of available remedies. “Seminole County understands the community’s frustrations,” spokesperson Andy Wontor acknowledged, stating that new state-level laws—or an unlikely change of heart from Davis—would be required to shift the status quo.
What’s the social contract, after all, when one man’s proclamation of “This is freedom” is another’s daily encounter with a backyard landfill? At what point does a protest become a performance, and where is the line between personal liberty and neighborly responsibility?
Freedom by the Ton, with a Dash of Irony
Some might characterize the unfolding spectacle as little more than stubbornness, but Davis frames it as an act of principle. “Freedom has a look. This is what it looks like,” he told News 6, the broadcast arm of ClickOrlando, gesturing at his eclectic collection of debris. His claim that “If the government can tell you what to do with your property, you don’t have freedom” hovers somewhere between libertarian credo and avant-garde installation manifesto.
For Davis—now approaching 70, looking forward to retirement, and describing himself as a lifelong renegade—the yard is not an eyesore, but a symbol. The buttocks sculptures? Part political statement, part running joke, threaded with just enough tongue-in-cheek stubbornness to keep everyone guessing about what’s next. Will there be a golden anniversary-sized buttocks for his 50th code violation year? Is there a limit to the amount of fiberglass irony one lawn can take?
A Monument to Stalemate
So here, in a uniquely Floridian standoff, the fiberglass butt reigns: at once an exclamation mark and a punchline, staring (or perhaps mooning) outward toward officialdom, exasperated neighbors, and, occasionally, gawking passersby.
Beneath the oddity, the saga illustrates the strange intersection of the American longing to be left alone and the communal need for basic standards. The county continues to promise vigilance. The neighbors have moved from outrage to weary anticipation. And Alan Davis, undaunted, stands surrounded by his junk and his monuments—waiting, it seems, as everyone else does, for what could possibly come next. How many statutes or sculptures might it take to move this tableau? In Seminole County, there’s yet to be an answer—just one more giant rear end, framed impeccably in the Florida sun.
