Uncle Al's Basement

Due to the fact that there volumes upon volumes of Uncle Al stories, and that I sense many that knew him may want to contribute, I've set up an Uncle Al blog.

Just click on the link on the right, creak down the stairs and enter Uncle Al's Basement.

Hurry, Hurry, Die

So I saw a dead body yesterday.

Laying in the middle of a crowded and car-jammed street.

The sheet only partially covered him as he lay next to his crushed Mustang.

A well tanned arm crept out from under the sheet and into my field of vision.



Why is it we're in such a hurry to get places in life, but in death our hurse proceeds at a crawl?

Uncle Al

Today's post comes courtesty of my memory and my late Uncle Al. Let's just say that among my family, enough stories exist about Uncle Al that we could publish a daily blog and exist for the next twenty years.

Hmmmm....a good idea. I may do that. An Uncle Al blog.

So, when I was about 11 years old, we were all over at my cousin Bradford's house. Uncle Al was his dad.

We're downstairs, pestering the shit out of Uncle Al while he's trying to watch his "critters" on TV.

Al would sit for hours, in the days before Animal Planet and the Discovery Channel, and watch Wild Kingdom or any other show shot in nature, preferably on the African prairie.

He called the animals his "critters".

So, while he's trying to watch his "critters" we're acting like a bunch of Sugar Hyped Assholes, screaming and carrying on.

He then tells us "Boys, you know, there's some pudding upstairs in the fridge."

We knock eachother over climbing the stairs out of the basement and to the kitchen.

Bradford scoops us all a few mounds of the brown bliss and I take the first taste.

It's not pudding....it's gelatinized gravy.

That Al, he's a funny motherfucker...

Seen Today

So I went to the mall today.

I needed to go to The Body Shop to get some shaving cream and face lotion.

Yeah, I know I'm fancy.

Get over it.

On my way into the complex, walking through the garage, I spy something out of the ordinary.

An elevator repair company van is backed into the parking space closest to the door leading to the mall.

It's one of three "Reserved For Expectant Mothers" spots.

On the front of the van, someone has taped a sheet of 8 1/2 X 11 paper, on which is written, in black permanent ink:

I'm not pregnant!

I'm a idiot!

I ask myself, and I ask you, my faithful readers,

Who's the bigger idiot...

The driver who has selfishly occupied the reserved space

OR

The moron who affixed the gramatically incorrect sign to the van?

Remember When Cable Companies Were Really Stupid?

Remember Cube Cable?

Remember the "remote" control that actually had a cord running from the "remote" to the cable box on top of your TV?

Remember that there were certain shows that asked you to "vote" using your remote?

Remember that you could watch the porno channel for "up to 2 minutes" and not be charged?

My God, how long did it take a bunch of 12 year old boys to figure out that you could watch 1:59 consecutive minutes, wait 10 seconds, switch back and not get charged?

Only a few years later the cable company figured out that it might make more money if they charged for anything over two cumulative minutes.

Remember the "parental key" that could lock out certain channels?

Climbing Like A Sausage...Sliding Like Overweight Baggage!

Jesus H Christ it's hot here!

So, Friday night we met Jackson and Bridget at the City Museum. God, I love that place!

Lots of incredible architecture to appreciate and SLIDES FOR EVERYONE!

Okay, mostly everyone.

Adults under 210 pounds.

Who gives a shit?? It's a slide!

They've got three story slides (AWESOME!) and the Monstrocity outside. Sample pictures above.

So, I decide it'd be a good idea for me to climb to the top and hang out in the airplane!

After all, it's 10:00 in the evening and still 96 degrees outside!

Great idea my friends and wife say.

We'll stand here and heckle,...err, watch you.

So, I managed to squeeze my fat ass into one of the "spiral tubes" (Pictured above) that ascend upward to the plane. Hey look! It's Sausage Boy!

I get into the "triangle looking thing" (pictured above) and see that the diameter of the "tube" is reduced significantly at the next level.

I admit defeat and climb back to down to boo's and catcall's...a much better alternative to a "creative" rescue by the STL Fire Departement.

To make myself feel better, I headed to a slide that was 10 feet tall and about 15 feet wide that dropped straight down.

When I got to the top of the slide, two little girls were perched there, and had been for 10 minutes, afraid to descend the stainless steel drop.

I solved that really quick by using my foot to nudge them on their backs and down the slide. Problem solved. Now it's my turn.

WHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Pic O' the Day - July 25th

God I love the Internet.

Pants - Yellow and Deeply Stained

So, I'm reading

They Call Me Van Wilder

today, and he's got a piss yourself its so funny post about gas passing in elevators, which reminds me of a story of a guy I used to work with.

Ray was really successful, wealthy, but still retained the tarnished edges of an upbringing in a poor family. He could talk to anyone, from any economic background. He was just the kind of guy everybody loved.

Anyway, he's in Boston for a conference about 30 years ago. Needless to say, being from the midwest, he's eating A LOT of seafood.

He's in a business session and he begins to feel movement in his intestines.

He gets up and steps outside the room.

BLUUURBBLE.

BLUURBLE...

He quickly realizes that this impending movement cannot be completed using the hall restroom.

No, he needs privacy.

He needs comfort.

Things are bound to get messy.

So he gets on the elevator in the lobby.

Mind you, he's staying on the Concierge level, which is like floor 50 or something.

He's decked out in his finest 70's business attire, a blue blazer and yellow pants.

The elevator rises to floor 6 and stops.

A woman and six year old little girl get on.

The blurbling down below is intensifying at each floor and soon he can no longer keep the floodgates closed.

MMMMMMMRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTTTTTTT!

UUUGGHHHHH oh God, that feels better. Oh God, thank you. Oh yes. Oh God, oh no!

The little girl turns to the woman and says "Mommy, what's wrong with that man?"

They ride silently (well almost) BBBLLLUUURRBBLLLLEEE MMMMMMMRRRRRRRRRRRPPPPH! to the 18th floor and exit the elevator.

He's still taking the ride up to 50, but he's got some extra baggage in the trunk...

He gets to his room, takes one look at the seat of his yellow pants and immediately throws them in the dry cleaning bag.

He completes his transaction, changes into something dry and goes back to his business session.

Two hours later he comes back to find the pants hanging in his closet,

in a dry cleaning bag,

on which is drawn a simple face :(

Pic O' the Day - July 22nd

Taken entering a beach in Antigua.

Come to think of it...there were lots of horseback riders on the beach that night...

Pic O' the Day - July 21st

It's said that "orbs" will appear in pictures, and that these "orbs" are the earthly manifestation of ghosts.

Taken last fall at the

Lemp Mansion

.

We snuck upstairs to the old servant's quarters.

Aside from the creepy 1800's baby carriage, we didn't see anything scary until we looked at the pictures.

Orbs?

You be the judge.

Pic O' the Day

Somewhere where the weather suits my clothes.

Today's picture of the day is from our vacation to St. Lucia, W.I.

String? What String?

Come On Blue!

So Trixie and I went to the baseball game. We had box seats on the 1st base side, thanks to the generosity of our neighbor Dolph.

First of all, it's hotter than a monkey's ass in the place.

But, we settle in and begin to enjoy the game.

Until he says it.

"Come on blue!" "Let's go blue!"

Nonsensical comments continue to bellow from behind us, and I ask Trixie if someone's here on their special day,

Nunez hits a chopper to short and is out by four steps and again we get ""Aw, come on blue!".

A foul ball into the first row of seats along first base and we get a "Come on blue! Let's run a little more!"

Carlos Lee grounds out to second and we get a "Good call blue!"

I finally have to get up to grab a beer and go see Dolph and as we're walking, Trixie asks me "So, is he rooting for the umpire?"

A short visit to Dolph and an unsuccessful attempt to sit one row ahead of them (this I don't get. We're ALL sitting in field boxes, my seat just happens to be on the 1st base line and he's sitting twelve rows up behind home plate, and in the fifth inning, when I spy two completely empty rows in front of Dolph and Trixie and I sit, we're asked to leave and return to our seats? Huh? The seats were empty the entire game!) we return to our seats and I glance at him.

He's big.

He's fat.

But he clearly isn't retarded.

He just sounds like it.

So, when he looks at the scoreboard and says loudly "Man! The Cardinals are winning 9-2!", I assume the Congress of Superheroes is in town, because he's clearly Captain Obvious.

OR

When he says "Man! It's finally cooling off in here" and the temperature has only dropped ONE DEGREE in two hours.

The best is when he was CONVINCED that the Brewer's pitcher was balking.

He WASN'T EVEN CLOSE to balking, but the guy incessantly bleated "COME ON BLUE! HE'S BALKING!"

"WATCH 'EM BLUE! BALK! BALK! BALK!"

Finally Dolph rescues me and Trixie in the seventh inning, and we join he and his wife and some friends behind home plate for the remainder of the game.

I manage to snag a game ball and make a big mistake when I let Baron play with it.

By the time I found him later, the damage was done.

He'd chewed up Trixie's game ball.

The game ball that she'd never gotten as a kid, because she either sat behind the protection screen or because she was always forced to leave early to "beat the traffic".

Now who's the retard?

I'd think a lot about Momma and Bubba,

and Lieutenant Dan, but most of all, I thought about Jenny. I thought about her a lot.

Isn't There Something Wrong

with toddlers boxing?

Your Priorities Are Our Priorities

- Seen on Friday on a lonely country road. Click to enlarge

Ameren UE Customer: "When do you expect service to be restored? I've got an elderly mother on oxygen and she needs air conditioning. She could die."

Ameren UE Customer Care Associate: "Ma'am, rest assured, we've got our best men on the job right now."

There Are Signs Everywhere

I know, it's been a while since I've had anything to say! I normally post all my thoughts at work, where I have a T-1 line, and can upload pictures with ease...not so much here at home.

Thursday I played in a St. Louis Cardinals golf tournament. It was fun, lots of Cardinal Alumni there (Bob Forsch, Danny Cox, Rick Horton, Ken Daley, Whitey Herzog, Red Shonendienst, you get the picture) but no Vince Coleman. If he was playing, I was going to make it my personal responsibility to see to it that he didn't trip over a spinkler and ruin his team's chances of winning the tourney.

I had a good time and we weren't even close to winning. Our -7 score wasn't even close to the -18 or -20 that won it.

Friday I worked out of my home office and wasn't able to post the "Picture of the Day", so I'll hit you with 3 on Monday. I've got some good ones...

Friday night found us dining with Jefferson and Bridget. We scarfed on Mexican food and jumbo margaritas at a great little place in South City, Chimichanga's. If you're a St. Louisan, do yourself a favor and drop what you're doing and head down there right now. Parking's a pain in the ass, but after all, it's in the City. Grand & Bates area.

After muchos tacos, cervesa and margaritas we headed out to see a friend of Bridget's band play at what was described as a Bar/Used Car Lot.

We traversed the grid of South City streets, and when we got to the state streets, Trixie visibly clenched up and I knew that when we did in fact arrive at our destination, we wouldn't be staying.

We soon found ourselves descending closer and closer to the Mississippi River, and at Idaho or Texas or some other state street we made a left.

Bridget, who's leading the convoy, pauses in the intersection to ask a stumbling ex-patron, who's crossing the intersection, if in fact this is the Bada Bing! tavern.

It is.

Although we didn't actually cross any railroad tracks, we were in fact on the wrong side of them.

My God.

I've been in bars where people have been shot and I've been in bars where I regretted ordering a drink and finished it before the natives ate me alive.

This was more than I've ever seen, and a little bird tried to warn me.

The group makes its way past a row of condemable shacks, past the numerous fenced yards teeming with jumping German Shepards and Rottweilers, to the sidewalk fronting the bar.

And then it happens.

As it begins to drizzle, and as I'm walking under a tall birch tree,

a bird shits on me.

It may have been two birds, I don't know.

Shit on the left leg

Shit on the right leg

Purple shit penetrating the fibers of my shirt.

At this point, I should have recognized the sign, turned around and gone home.

No, we enter the bar.

No sooner do we cross the door's threshold, and we're visually assulted everyone lined up along the bar.

Hoping for a less imposing greeting, we scan the opposite side of the bar.

No luck.

The blue collar bar crowd scowls at us, especially the Yuppie Twins, Trixie and I.

The band is playing somewhere in the back of the place, but I can't find anywhere to sit, or stand for that matter.

It doesn't matter, Trixie shoots me a look and when Bridget asks,"You guys want a beer?" I tell her no thanks, we're leaving...

And so we do.

Driving back home and hoping to stay out and find something fun to do, Trixie and I are mentally gridlocked and can't think of a single thing to do.

So, I head home, tell Trixie to go light the torches on the deck, and grab two wine glasses and a nice Sur-Lie out of the wine fridge.

We pour the wine and laugh at the evening's events, glad we weren't dead and happy to be home enjoying a nice summer night together on the deck.

Then it starts to rain.

God hates us.

We try to enjoy the bottle on the front porch but again, God hates us and has made sure every flying insect from the surrounding four counties is participating in Bug Conference 2005, right under the porch light.

God hates us.

With little fanfare, the bottle is emptied, and we're soon off to bed.

Today we're playing in Jackson's golf tournament and I'm nervous.

I'm not nervous about winning or losing the tournament.

It's Saturday, and I've got one more shot at having a good night tonight.

But there are lots of trees on a golf course.

And where there's trees...there are birds.

There was one time...

when Van and I were out for an evening of carousing, hell-raising and alcohol consuming.

We patronized a number of establishments and settled upon one, late in the evening, joining the past 1:00 a.m. crowd, and ordered a round of beers.

Round one met round two, round two met round three...you get the point.

From both a physical and state of mind standpoint, we were W.C. Fields and Edgar Allan Poe...so, as the bar crowd spilled into the alleyway after 3:00 a.m., Van decides he'd really like some company for the evening.

I tell him to stand at the end of a walkway, where everyone exiting will pass.

He complies, and to every, every woman that walks by alone, I simply say

LAST CHANCE LADIES! LAST CHANCE FOR LOVE TONIGHT! HE'S ALL YOURS!

No takers.

His urgency sharpens and he sets out to find an hourly companion. I watch him stumble and weave across the cobblestone street, back toward the quickly vacating waterin' hole.

He zeroes in on one and makes his move.

She's laying on the sidewalk, face down, friends all around.

Van begins to rub her shoulders and whisper in her ear.

I'm pissing myself at this point.

He's not trying to be funny.

He's trying to be a date rapist with a heart.

After all, he is rubbing her shoulders.

Finally, a large friend of the slumping sidewalk sleeper picks her up and put her over his shoulder and walks away.

No love for Van that night.

It just wasn't meant to be.

After all, he can't have ALL the luck.

Just the week before, at the same bar, he approached a girl and actually said, with all sincerity "I've got a van parked right outside." and ten minutes later was having Creepy Van Sex with her.

Way to go Chester.

The Morning Commute

I'm stealing, outright stealing, the idea of a daily (or as close to it) picture from a blog I check daily and really enjoy. Only, the guy running

STL Pretty War

has a natural eye for the artistry of line and form, while I merely take pictures of hoosiers, storms and hair weaves. As you know, I've been known to post pictures I've taken, of things that make me laugh, or just interesting events I've seen while driving. I've got a long way to go, but here's my start...

Driving to work one morning, I think to myself, "Man, that's awesome how the sun is beaming through the clouds. I should take a picture."

So I did.

This is it.

Why?

Why do we count down for things like Shuttle Launches, Basketball and Hockey Games, etc.?

Why don't we count up?

Rock & Roll May Never Die...But Your Fucking Car Just Did

So Trixie and I head out to the Black Crowes and Tom Petty concert on Saturday night.

It was at the UMB Bank Pavilion, which, as I have numerous complaints regarding the venue, let's start with its name:

UMB Bank Pavilion, translated to United Missouri Bank Bank Pavilion. Huh?

So, we leave in plenty of time, because as much as I wanted to see Tom Petty, I came to see the Black Crowes, who went on at 7:30.

At 7:00 we're sitting at HWY 270, maybe a half mile from the bridge to HWY 70. At 7:15 we moved three inches.

We creep closer and closer to the bridge, and I spy two tractor trailers I've been using as a "How much are we fucking moving?" guidepost. I've watched them for a half hour and they've moved maybe 500 feet.

I decide to take an alternate route and we back track onto HWY 70 and fly past all the bastards on the bridge, but traffic is still snarled and I'm PISSED now because it's 7:45 and I know the Crowes have started playing.

We creep along, and I change lanes and quickly make my way past the traffic that's stopped for my exit, knowing I can squeeze over to the lane once I pass the accident, that I've now noticed and realize is the cause for the mess.

I make my way up to the exit and squeeze in (like I had any doubt), to see on the EXIT ramp, a cop has a beat up, rusted out, was once white pile of shit on wheels. I admonish him for his selection of pullover venue and proceed to the concert, nearly 45 minutes late.

We meet Jefferson and Bridget, who've been kind enough to snag us a couple of lawn chairs.

A 25 minute trip to the beer stand later and we're enjoying the last few songs of the Black Crowes show with cold beers in our hands.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The UMB Bank Pavilion not only sucks because of its name, it sucks because of its liquor sales practices and its flawed design, but more on the design later. So, me and Jefferson go up to get a few more beers for our ladies and those sitting around us. He orders 4 beers and is asked "Do you have someone else with you, because you can only carry two?" He points to me. I have half of a jumbo beer in my hand. She says "Well, you need to finish that before I can let you carry two more." Excuse me? Ok, so you're trying to cut down on irresponsible drinking by limiting service to two beers per person, per purchase, and by cutting off liquor sales at 10:00 p.m. (the concert ended at midnight, Tom Petty went ON at 9:30, so we had to hustle our asses off to get one last beer) and you want me to CHUG A BEER SO YOU CAN SELL ME ANOTHER?

Isn't that counterintuitive?

So we enjoy the Tom Petty show and make our way, through the sardined parade of sweaty flesh and to the parking lot.

My God it's a nightmare and a festival all at the same time.

Women squatting, emiting streams of piss...fireworks blasting above our heads...those who although they just sat through a two hour live concert must play the CD of the same artist in the car...and THAT GUY.

He's concert guy.

He's the one that stands cheering long after the curtain's dropped and continues to WHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! in the parking lot.

While the picture above isn't him, you get the idea. It's damn close. He had the mullet, the muscle shirt and an overweight hottie with frizzy red hair and jean shorts. Nice cameltoe too!

He's WHHOOOOOOOING!!! very loudly and giving high fives to strangers.

He's proclaiming his dedication to Tom Petty and telling everyone he encounters that "TOM'S THE BEST EVER MAN! THE CONCERT ROCKED MAN! THE BEST I SEEN!

He sticks his head into the back window of an SUV waiting in traffic and then I hear it:

"Hey man, rock n' roll will never die!"

True, rock n' roll may never die, but judging form your walking capabilities, you certainly might.

He escorts his hottie to his car, THE SAME PIECE OF SHIT THAT WAS PULLED OVER ON THE EXIT RAMP PRIOR TO THE CONCERT and opens the passenger door with the car key.

He joins the parade of the post concert cars.

Here's another reason UMB Bank Pavilion sucks: It was designed by a fucking trayslapping retard. One entrance. One exit. 20,000 people. That makes alot of sense, doesn't it?

So Trixie and I find ourselves sitting in the car for fifteen or so minutes, not moving.

At all.

So, I pull the nose out into the aisle move, and some jackoff in a ten year old Gran Prix, who's obviously on a first date, decides not to let me in, but he's not able to move close enough to the car in front of him to completely block me.

Trixie starts looking at him and he won't even look our direction. He's playing the "if I don't look at you, you can't see me" game.

Well, this continues for 40 minutes. Nosing and nudging, sliding forward, creeping inches. He won't let me in, but I've got enough nose out there that he doesn't want to hit me.

Out of nowhere comes a drunk guy who decides that he likes me and the Gran Prix Jackoff (who Trixie and I have dubbed Maroon Golf, ala Jerry Seinfeld), and steps in front of his car, so I can get in.

Ordinarily this works, except we've been sitting for nearly an hour.

Not moving.

I've failed to mention that I've got to piss like never before.

I'm bouncing around, imparting detriment to my kidneys, and finally I have enough, and so does the guy who's trying to help me.

He gets in his car and I tell him thanks for trying.

I bolt to find the Johnny on the Spot.

After walking for ten minutes, using every bit of concentration and muscle control not to liquidate my assets, I find the JOTS.

There's a line 30 deep.

Again with the UMB Bank Pavilion sucking. Sure, sell me your $8.00 beers, then stick me in a parking lot, laden with the desire to piss, for two fucking hours with inadequate facilities.

I walk to a deserted parcel of land, past two security guards and behind two dumpsters, thinking "I've got the right idea...suckers."

At first I did. I must have pissed for four minutes, because before I was done, I was joined by a fat guy and two hot girls. (No, they weren't together)

Back to the car, Trixie has now nudged us out into the main aisle. We're on our way!

ha.

We finally get out of the lot two hours after we left the concert.

I make a left out of UMB and right before I make my way back to the highway, I see him.

It's ROCK N' ROLL man.

His car is stalled, lights flashing on the side of the road.

Well, again, you're right Mullet Boy.

Rock & Roll may never die, but your fucking car just did.

Seen Recently

This one's a gem.

# 1 - In no way would I ever entrust my physical well-being to a doctor whose office is in a strip mall.
# 2 - Again, not jumping up on an exam table and getting the "ol' prostate swirl" from a doctor who has a neon sign out front!

A Stiffened Resolve?

The attacks this morning in London are despicable and cowardly acts.

I was not surprised to learn of them, however.

It appears that the major incident plans of London and Great Britian are doing what they're designed to do - clamp down on the affected areas, treat the injured and instill a sense of calm among the citizens. I commend GB for their outstanding work in the face of uncertainty and peril.

I hope that these attacks stiffen the resolve of the citizens in GB that support PM Blair and the war on terror, and persuade those who in GB, France and worldwide that denounce Blair and the United States as "barbaric terrorists" to support those making our world safer.

On a personal note, the picture above is eerily familiar. I was in London in 1996, and my brother and I were evacuated from the same train station, King's Cross, because of a bomb scare. At that time, the fear was that the IRA had planted a bomb at the tube stop or on the train we were riding. The train we were riding came to a sudden stop at King's Cross, and when the doors opened, an ear splitting siren, along with shouting policemen were the first sounds we heard. Nobody told us why we were being evacuated, and after we ran up five or six flights of stairs and emerged on the street, only then did we learn that there may have been a bomb on the train or at the station. A suspicious package or briefcase had been found, and due to the well executed plans of the city government, we were delivered to safety with minimal effort.

At the time, a good five years before the 9/11 attacks, the entire concept of terrorism was foreign to my brother and I. The Londoners around us were accustomed to it and dealt with it accordingly. I must say though, although there was much uncertainty and possible danger, we remained calm. I credit my fellow passengers and the London emergency workers for maintaining calm that day and this morning.

Perspective

Trixie just called me.

If she calls me during the day, there's a reason.

An acquaintance of ours, the husband of someone she works with, died this weekend in a wave runner accident.

He was down at the lake house he bought just this weekend, with his wife and less than year old son.

He was thirty.

Thirty.

It's unbeleivable, because although I met the guy socially maybe a half dozen times, I'm paralyzed.

Thirty.

Trixie's voice was shaking as she told me the few details she knew.

It just shows you how quickly you can be snatched from those that love you.

All at once, your life is turned upside down and all the plans you made together die.

They just bought a new lake house.

They were supposed to be building two houses down from us in our new neighborhood.

A whole life ahead of them, dreams, vacations to take, places to see together, just gone.

Like Trixie said, it's all just so senseless.

Real things, everyday meaningless discussions, now seem meaningful, don't they?

Tell someone you love them.

Killer

This is Killer.

Actually he's my dog Baron.

He's a miniature schnazuer.

He's fearless.

So, last night Trixie's taking him for a walk around the neighborhood.

Enjoying an uneventful jaunt, they're making their way down the home stretch...

then they get to the hoosier's house.

Backstory: (Short I promise)

So, there's a guy in our neighborhood, who may have won the lottery or something, or he's in an assload of debt, either way, he looks like no one else in our neighborhood. (I know, I'm an elitist, get over it.)

He's got sort of a mullet and he always parks his car going the wrong way on the street.

1. It's against neighborhood rules to do this.
2. Dude, are you THAT lazy? Just park it across the street from your house (Which is still against the rules. No street parking allowed overnight), and walk!

He also lets his dog run free ALL THE TIME. (Against the law, not just the rules. Are you sensing a trend here?)

I knew it was a matter of time before it happened...

So, Trixie is walking past Mullet Manor and his dog comes running out into the street and at my dog.

Mullet Man and his bride do nothing to stop it except yell it's name...that didn't work.

Trixie just stands there and attempts to put herself between what appears to soon be a dog fight.

Fact: Baron is a spoiled asshole. He doesn't like children and he doesn't like other dogs. But we still love him.

The dog, who is three times the size of mine, charges ahead and attempts to lunge at Baron.

At which point, Baron, who has no fear, leaps into the air and goes right for the dog's throat.

Trixie had to yank Baron away...he was unrelenting.

Mullet Man, sensing now that there's a problem, jogs across the street to retrieve the dog...something he should have done minutes before.

Baron is still snarling at the dog, who has now backed down.

Mullet Man grabs the dog by its collar, kicks it in the ass...HARD...and walks into Mullet Manor without saying a word.

No sorry.

No nothing.

As Trixie walks Baron down the street, he's bouncing with adrenaline and confidence...she looks back to see Mullet Bride consoling the freshly kicked dog, and gives Trixie a dirty look!

Can you beleive it?

1. My dog was on a leash.
2. Your dog habitually is not.
3. You made no attempt to retreive the dog when you saw my dog approaching. If you can't control your dog by voice, put it on a leash!
4. You saw Trixie walk past your house earlier, wouldn't you figure she might pass it again and put your dog inside, or, am I trying to make a point here, PUT IT ON A LEASH?
5. My dog may have kicked your dog's ass, but neither Trixie nor Baron actually kicked your dog. That would be your Mullet Man. Take it up with him bitch.

Van's Ass

Form an orderly queue ladies...