I love dressing up. So, as I was bringing in groceries and assessing my need to perform yard work, I decided to throw on some overalls from my costume box and mow the lawn. I headed to the basement and didn’t turn on the light because I know my way in the dark. As I approached the back bedroom, I heard a bell jingling. I turned on the light to find Fuckin’ Cat running out of the bedroom, up the stairs and out the back door (which I like to leave ajar occasionally).
The nerve of this cat, seriously. This is the second time I have been burgled by him. He has an uncanny ability to access my premises without warning or detection. Strangely, his jingling bell always gives him up as he is on his way out the door. With the exception of the paw prints he regularly leaves while sliding down the windshield and hood of my car (no doubt running from another crime scene), he doesn’t leave any evidence of his presence inside the house. He does, however, like to leave fecal matter on my lawn. Like I said, his name is Fuckin’ Cat. I’m not sure what his owners call him, because I haven’t gotten close enough to see his collar, but I think this name is fitting.
After having my privacy violated by this felonious feline, Opreggano and I decided to crash the tailgate party at the local university. We arrived to find prime parking near the bus stop and after several minutes debating whether or not it was a good idea to park there, we decided if we got a ticket it would go to a good cause – our city. As we walked around the tailgate party we weren’t having any luck finding people who would share their food, drinks or private toilets with us. We started calling out names, as if we knew people, “Vanessa,” “Xander,” etc. We felt using uncommon names, preferably those that start with letters from the lower region of the alphabet, might sound more legit. As legit as it sounded, it didn’t work.
Fortunately, we ran into a few people we knew who were generous with their beverages (obviously more beneficial for me than for Opreggano). We soon ran into It’s The Eyes who was two large Vegas style drinks in and really needed to use a toilet. “Me too. I saw some porta potties over there,” I told her. “Perfect, let’s go,” It’s The Eyes replied. “Gross. Do you know how many diseases are on those toilet seats?” her friend asked. “Can’t be more the few guys you’ve been with have had,” It’s The Eyes quipped. “Yep, she’s drunk. She’ll be crashing soon,” Opreggano advised me. Being that we were not successful in burgling a private party tailgate toilet, we ended up using the portas.
As we walked away It’s The Eyes was telling us about a bit of a burgle at a bachelor party, “I kissed the bachelor.” “You what?!?!” Opreggano asked. “I kissed the bachelor, but it’s not my bad, it’s his. I’m not the one in a relationship or getting married,” It’s The Eyes defended her action. “You made out with him,” her friend interjected. “Did not make out. Kissed, totally different. Kissing is French kissing and making out involves groping,” It’s The Eyes corrected her. “Groping would definitely constitute a form of violation,” I agreed. A few maintenance workers were driving by and overheard the conversation. “French kissing is making out. You made out with him,” they told It’s The Eyes. “No way. It did not involve groping,” It’s The Eyes stood firm with her defense. She may have burgled the bachelor, but he robbed her of a proper make out.