This afternoon there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find one of the next-door redneck neighbors.
“Oh crap,” I thought. It was Fuzzy, the owner of Sir Shits-A-Lot. We had just shoveled over another load of poop over to their yard a day’s previous.
“Hey, I’m Ron from next door.” he says. “Today’s my birthday.”
“Um, happy birthday,” I replied. What, are you looking for cookies?
“I’m having some friends over tonight,” he begins, “and I just wanted to give you my number in case anything happens or whatever, just call or text me.”
So now I have this guy’s cell phone written on my hand and the fratty redneck neighbors have created the Black Gate of Chelsea across their garage with lifted trucks.
Steven and I figure if the party gets out of hand he will just mow the lawn tomorrow morning at 7:00 a.m., when the hangovers are still fresh.