Someone Finally Called The Cops![]() As
I was pulling out of my neighborhood on my way to work this afternoon I noticed
several police cars parked askew and akimbo outside the
house of our resident redneck white supremacist family (does every neighborhood
have one of these?). The cops had the husband handcuffed and sitting on the
front lawn while the wife was busy flailing away at the air with her stubby arms,
crying and inconsolable. I was beginning to wonder when this scene would take
place. It seems as if every other weekend this family opens their garage and
pulls out all of the crap that they have stored in there
and scatters it across their front yard. They and their Harley biker friends
then proceed to party it up in the street, and when you drive by you can't help
but notice their disturbing collection of Nazi SS flags hanging proudly from
their garage rafters. I wouldn't be surprised if there was a meth lab in their
spare bathroom.
What makes people behave is such odd, counterproductive ways? Is it a lack of education or drive to succeed? Is it a case of not wanting to fit in with the rest of society in even the most basic of social norms? More importantly, why does someone who acts in such a destructive antisocial manner deserve a house in a nice, family oriented, quiet neighborhood? I understand it's different strokes for some people, but when your actions directly affect your neighbors in negative ways (eg: dead front lawn, loud parties, lowered property values) it's high time that you rethink your life and either respect your neighbors or get the heck out of Dodge. ...and don't act surprised when someone finally snaps and calls the cops on your narrow ass. Posted: Thu - August 17, 2006 at 05:16 PM | |
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I had a dream last night about a dog that was made out of grass. It looked like a cross between a Bull Terrier and Labrador, and it seemed very happy. It had deep expressive eye sockets, but no eyes. It was circling me, wagging its grassy doggy tail and staring up at me with its dark grassy eyeless sockets. Green drool was dripping off its grassy tongue and onto my shoes. Slowly, it began to change color. Splotches of tan spread across its body. The grassy tail stopped wagging. It turned, and the dog made of grass walked through the gate and into my backyard, where it laid down and died. Its green body had turned to the color of wheat. Apparently unable to hold the shape of a dog any longer, it now resembled a small pile of dead grass that was slowly being blown away by the wind.
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