Midwestern Shenanigans

Neighbor's truck

It would appear that I have a new neighbor.

New Neighbor turned while negotiating his new back door, carrying a cardboard box wrapped in duct tape which was  labeled "shit" in carefully scripted black sharpie and caught me in mid-stare.

Naturally, I was attempting a stealth and ninja-ishly (yummy faux word) eye-balling from over the top my worn and tattered copy of To Kill A Mockingbird while sitting out on my back deck. He smiled but didn't wave, probably in fear that he'd drop his carefully wrapped shit box.

It's all good.

New Neighbor looks like a miniature surfer. It's June and he's tanned and bleached to perfection. Unfortunately for him, we're several thousands of miles from the nearest wave-producing body of water. Perhaps he frequents water theme parks and takes advantage of the wave making machines.

Yes. That's exactly what he must do. I'm almost certain of this little bit of deliciousness.

New Neighbor's truck is crazy loud and sports a unique little vanity plate. Nothing says I love you like a very little man driving a very large truck with a "Move Bitch" vanity plate.

Road rage doesn't always rock like one would imagine.

New Neighbor does have excellent taste in music. He's most definitely a rung up on the ladder of musical goodness. A far cry better than my last neighbor, who on a nightly basic would pull his car into his backyard, blast "I'm Here Without You" by 3 Doors Down and sob over his pitcher of mojitos.

While still sitting in his car.

Until 3 a.m.

And still manage to make it to work in time.

Which is actually a feat in itself.

Raccoon homicide

I have a confession that I really, really need to get off my chest.

I have a growing concern regarding zombie warfare/apocalyse.

I've participated in the various quizzes offered throughout the mighty interweb. I usually do quite poorly due to the fact that I have this gnawing need (Yes, I said "gnawing") to be a hero and actually assist in saving others. Whereas what I really should be doing is screaming "EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF" and hauling ass into a large department store or Costco and hiding in the duct work.

I, for one, think that zombies do not play by the official rule book.

Zombies of the 21st century are NOTHING like zombies of the late 70s. Remember those fellows? You actually had time to sit down with your morning paper and a cup of coffee, have breakfast and then remind yourself to barricade the back door because it took THAT long for the bumbling idiot of a zombie to negotiate down your lane. That is, if he didn't trip over a loose patch of gravel.

Our modern-day zombie is now quick as a cheetah. Anything that's quick as a cheetah scares the bejesus out of me.

And trust me on this little bit of information: Real zombies do not dance. (Thriller video).

So I'll be stocking up on nonperishable foods these days. I have an air pistol that looks suspiciously like a 9 mm. but how's that going to protect me? It jams nine times out of ten so I suppose I'll just have to chuck it at the zombie like a rock. I'll keep a fire poker near the back door. I have a key to the public library so I could always hide there if necessary. I could barricade myself within a wall of self-help guides.

By the way.

I think there's a zombie living in the woods near my house. He's reduced to living off wildlife gray matter for now. But he's merely biding his time...