A Day In The Life - Emily

"Hey hey! What's been happening with YOU, Emily A----?" You ask, eagerly perched on a tasteful wooden chair loading this week's comedy blog on your tasteful laptop computer in an even more tasteful urban café.

"Oh," you mutter, "I see you've let your vocabulary slide a bit since I last spoke with you."

Maybe I have, faithful reader, maybe I have, but maybe it's because I've been dealing with the BULLET HOLES in my garage window.

My garage window, circa yesterday.

Yeah, it's a goddamn problem. There are six bullet holes, and the rest of the glass is about as cracked out as my neighbors. I live downtown, in an area frequented by drunkards, miscreants, hairy vagrants, and that new Pope - any of whom could be the culprit.

Papa B-XVI, stay the hell away from my garage.

My neighborhood is dirty. Last week I found a used needle on my steps, and I know I stopped throwing my heroin empties there since at least August. I bought a trash can, motherfuckers. It was time. The yard was full again.

My house. Not pictured: crack addicts.

Man, I could tell you tales that would convince you Santa Cruz needs a crime-fighting hero to bring order to our streets. I could go to City Hall, demand an audience, and tell our elected representatives that the time to form a team of justice-seeking, pistol-packing vigilantes is NOW. I could show them the costume designs (think Teddy Roosevelt meets Batman), and I could demonstrate my prowess with a variety of weaponry. And I could be rejected for the fifth time in two weeks.

Not pictured: Success

Anyway, none of this is going to change the fact that my landlord is definitely going to notice that the bullet holes came from inside my garage.

Damn.

Lesson of the week: Indoor shooting ranges and BB guns are awesome, especially when coupled with a case or two of chilled Tecate, but a camping tarp does not a bulletproof backdrop make.

I’ll see you next week, when I’m done searching my lease for a “tenant-is-fucking-retarded” clause. Until next time, cowboys!