Yes, folks, it's that time again. Time for another nauseating episode of The Freak Next Door. I'll keep it short and anything but sweet as possible though, because he's hardly worth the space he takes up on my blog from time to time. I just tend to feel the need to vent where the Freak is concerned, and this blog has to listen whether it wants to or not, so I take full advantage whenever the need arises.
So the Hubs and our grandson and I were out playing ball in the back yard the other day. You know...the Hubs would pitch, Dylan would hit, and I would run and fetch (I always seem to get crappy end of the game, but whatevs). And we were using a rubber sort of ball, rather than real baseball, since it's likely to do less damage if a nearby window tries to jump in its path or something. Because, you know, windows just do that sometimes.
What I have to note here too is that we live in town, on a 60x120' lot, much of which is filled with our home and a few small buildings out back (the Hubs' workshop/office, my studio, and a new storage shed). So there's really not a lot of room for ball-playing, but we do the best we can.
Now mind you, when I play ball with Dylan, I tend to do it in such a way that if he hits a grand slam home run (of sorts), it can't go into the Freak's yard. I'm just sorta smart and semi-OCD like that. But since the Hubs was kind of in charge it didn't exactly roll like that, which was OK...for most of Dylan's hits.
But naturally, as my championship-winning-team-playing grandson has occasion to do, he finally hit an epic, screaming fly ball--that decided to travel all the way over into the Freak's yard. And as any of you who have followed my tales of The Freak Next Door can guess, you know what a crap-our-pants moment it was to have Dylan's ball land in the Freak's yard. I swear it all happened in slow motion too, like a bad episode of TJ Hooker.
The Hubs wandered over to try to retrieve it, but then thought better of it and called the Police to get assistance because, yes, we have to do stuff like that where the Freak is concerned. We actually had to get a police escort to go and knock on the Freak's door to ask him if we could look for our grandson's missing ball.
And what was the freak's reply, you ask?
"Uh, no, I don't think so."
And that's was that. Waste of our time (though no shock there). Waste of the policeman's time. Waste of taxpayers' money to waste the policeman's time. Waste of space on the planet? That title clearly goes to The Freak Next Door.
And so now the Freak gets full and sole possession of our grandson's ball to do with as he pleases. Which I'm sure will result in the disposal of the ball into the nearest trash receptacle as soon as he comes across it, all because he's too much of an asshole to let a 7-year-old have his ball back.
He's got balls all right. But not where most men want them.