So I have this neighbor. We'll call him Dipshit...because I do that. I call him Dipshit always. He's a moron of the lowest order--loose jaw, blank stare, spit bottle. You know the guy....someone you might imagine on Real World Little Rock.
I was sitting, having a lovely dinner of low cal, high fiber food when I heard a big-ass crash. I figured it was one of two things: my stubby uncle finally come to collect his money and bump us off, or that big Yeti from the Rudolph movie come to have his furry, stinky way with us.
But no. I wasn't that lucky. It was Dipshit and his brother Stumpy playing football. One of their wayward balls crashed into our garage door at a relatively high rate of speed, barely missing the window. And they had better thank Allah the door was closed and they didn't hit my car or they would've been publically de-nutted in my driveway.
I find myself sorry that I passed his tobacco-spitting gullet when he was in one of my classes last semester. May he rot in that special corner of hell reserved for sucky sportsmen or be flogged by an amorous deer on a rainy, miserable hunting trip.
Music: "Good Love is on the Way"...John Mayer Trio
Reading: Just finished The Subtle Knife...on to Eleven Minutes (Paulo Coehlo)