My brain fart turned into explosive mental diarrhea

Sometimes when I am trying to pry the screen window off of some unsuspecting schmuck's suburban home, I get to thinking about what life would be like if I had decided to follow in my dad's footsteps and entered the work-a-day world. The alarm clock in my hand, which I can only guess is one of those fancy ones that plays soothing ocean sounds or crap like that says 8:12, which, if it were in the morning, would be about the time my dad heads off to work every day. How does he do it? He would have to work for a month to collect the amount of cool stuff I am going to pull out of this place tonight. And I will get it all for less than an hour's work, casing included.

My friend T.J. who is in jail right now for burglary may have a different take on things, but if he hadn't passed out in the neighbor's crib after a five day bender hopped up on goofballs, he probably wouldn't have ever been caught. They called it robbery because he kicked in the front door, stole a bunch of stuff and carried it next door before he fell asleep. If you ask me, he just got screwed over by a rookie public defender who probably couldn't even plea bargain his way out of jury duty on a case he was trying.

Really. You want to talk about theives. Look at those bastards. They write up a lot of paperwork, go to fancy meetings and dinners and stuff, and then they charge a ton of money to let people they don't like talk to them. Imagine if the rest of us could charge people we don't like to talk to us. I could go to one family reunion and make enough just there to retire in Branson.

All bowling alley tales aside, I really do like the smell of a pizza right out of the pizza oven. Microwaving pizza just isn't the same. I also like rented shoes. But that is a whole nother story that needs to be told sometime when my dogs aren't barking. Those three won't shut up. They just run around the yard all moronolly as if they are actually looking for solid objects to run into. Sometimes it is fun to put tape over their eyes and watch them run around like demolition derby dogs.

Speakin' of demolition derby, Rusty down the junk yard finally found me a door for my '67 Chevelle. The door is technically for an El Camino, but he said that with some torchin' and some poundin' it could be made to fit into the gaping hole where my door once was before Eli took it. He claimed I owed him money for a bunch of candy bars I bought off his kid, but seriously, who just up and takes a car door as payment? Apparently Eli. That's who.