The Little Shit
This is just the 335th in an ongoing series of events but I'm pretty irked. Saturday morning, we hung around the house while Mary (aka the Elf of Fan Installation) got settled. To get our of her way, we headed out to the backyard to water our still-not-planted-yet plants. I heard the Little Shit Who Lives Behind Us stomping on aluminium cans, and had a feeling that soon enough, we'd get to enjoy a projectile from him.

And I was right. This time, he threw a stick over at a pretty high velocity. Had my head or any other body part been in it's way, there would be an angry sore turning into a bruise right now, thanks to The Little Shit. So we shouted "HEY!" which sent Little Shit running inside, where he peeked out. I went to the garage and grabbed a chair to stand on, 100% ready to hand out my own can of Whoop Ass to Mr. Little Shit.

But he didn't come out again. I wouldn't either if an angry dyke was looming over my back fence, shouting obscenities at me.

Just you wait, Little Shit. It is time to snag the most menacing of our Spanish-speaking neighbors as my translator and head over there to explain that next time, we're calling Los Police.

Whaddya think of them apples?