A Good Punch in the Face

We have an alley in back of our house. If you don't have an alley, you should get one, because that way other people can block you from getting into your garage or your driveway or the street, or, really, wherever it is you're trying to go. 

The other day a fellow had his mammoth truck parked in the middle of the alley, clogging it like a turd in a straw. He's dinking around with something in his garage, comes out, sees me waiting in my car, goes back into his garage. This causes my lips to purse and me to wait. I waited. I waited for him to come back out to see that I was still waiting, but with pursed lips this time. I guess the lips did something because he got in his car to move it. Only, he didn't just move it, he made me back up for him. He didn't pull his fucking truck over to the side a little bit so my thimble of a car could poke through. He make me back up out of his way. After he drove by, out of site (I guess to the street in front of his house), I had my house keys in my hand, out the window, ready to key his other car. But I decided that that's not what neighbors do. So later that night I fashioned his likeness into a life-size doll and scorched it in the backyard.

Then, today, Levi and I are returning from a happy hour on a motorcycle, and, lo, there's something blocking the alley. But not completely. The bike can fit through tiny gaps, so Levi goes for it, figuring that the man leaning against this truck will likely step aside as we motor by. But the dick doesn't budge, just watches us as we butter ourselves up so we can slip through the crack between him and the fence. So thanks, jackass, for stepping aside. I hope you're good at driving without brakes. 

Get an alley. Really, you're gonna love it.

The Warmth of James Earl Jones

As I awoke this morning, I was thinking of far-off things, as I usually do when I awake: an accordion made of butter; day-glo sweatpants on Dolly Parton (turns out you wouldn't even notice them); and, today, James Earl Jones on the toilet. This last occurrence is the only of the three that I've experienced first hand, thanks to a trip to the Late Show and a duck that appreciated cottage cheese. I didn't see James Earl Jones on the toilet, but I did hear him on the toilet and, when he was done, I assumed his throne, and I did feel the heat of him left on the seat. It was very intimate and something I immediately called to tell a friend about. And you thought there was nothing warm about Darth Vader. 

This is my left ankle:

(This is where a picture of my ankle should be, but I tried to take a picture and, because I'm freakishly pale, my camera couldn't translate what it saw into anything but a square of pure white.)

When I was five of six or seven my mom was giving me a ride on the back of one of my grandpa's brakeless bicycles. She took a right turn, I failed to keep my legs out, and my left foot was sucked into the spokes much like a bony, featherless goose is sucked into a jet engine, but without the sucking. My leg twisted around for a bit before my mom figured out I was screaming, not about how much fun I was having, but about a bloody, mangled appendage being cleaned of its skin. She and some nearby horrified neighbors pried me from the wheel, carried me to a bright orange Volvo wagon (the closest thing to an ambulance we had access to), and we were off to St. Anthony's where a large nurse in tights and a wedge hat (I know!) scraped, with a wire brush, whatever was left of my ankle into a stainless steel bin. I don't remember the noises I made, but they were, apparently, quite obvious. 

Here's that horrible bike:

Here's that horrible nurse: