More fun with picture uploading

There will be more fun with pictures at the end of this entry, but since Petey has not yet figured out what in hell happened last week, I’ll post them at the end.

STOP SCROLLING! The witty entry is worth the wait!

I’ve noticed lately that this thing has taken on a new personality. It’s less and less about me being a lousy father and more about me being a guy who has really weird shit happen to him.

Case in point:

Friday evening, we’re sitting in the basement. I’m on about hour 22 of basketball watching since Thursday at noon. JewelrySlut is playing on her computer and generally being driven mad by the fact that I insist on trying to watch 3 or 4 games all at once. It’s not something that women understand. I’m convinced.

Anyway, at about 9:30, the phone rang. I figured it was my father calling to tell me that he just now learned how to work the remote and had found all 4 games. No. Based on the past week, I should have known better. It was BSG on the phone.

BSG? Yea. BSG. Short for Big Sexy Glen, our next-door neighbor. Let me describe the BSG. BSG is an older black gentleman. He’s probably in his late 50′s or early 60′s. He teaches at one of the local universities. However, as a black man, he’s about as convincing as C Thomas Howell in Soul Man. I have more black in me than he does. He teaches property management and, as a hobby, sends letters to our property management company about every 2 months or so threatening to sue us.

He’s a fucking dickbag. He’s rude. He’s an asshole. He’s just not a nice guy. I’ve made several attempts at conversation and/or nice neighborness, and it usually ends with him cursing at me and walking away.

Because of this attitude, nobody bothered to wake him up the other morning when we all had flat tires. We didn’t want to hear about it. So, when he came outside to go to work the following day, I had to let him know that he wasn’t going anywhere on account of his 2 flat tires. He had failed to notice the parade of tow trucks in the lot all morning. Now, his car had been in the shop, so he had a loaner that got slashed. Later that evening, he came home with his car. He left his dome light on. We saw it. We did not go to his house to tell him. Because he’s an asshole. So, on Thursday morning, he came by and banged on the door for a jump. Boo-hoo, the jump didn’t work and his car had to be towed. Served him right. JewelrySlut felt a twinge of guilt over knowingly letting his battery die. That was until Friday night.

As I was saying, the phone rang at 9:30. He was on his cell. He’s locked himself out of the house and CrazyAnne had told him I had a ladder. I told him he could borrow it and I’d get my shoes on. He said he “had a dish coming over to watch the game” (NC State in the NIT) and needed to get home soon. That’s right, folks, he referred to his lady friend as “a dish”. I got my sneakers and headed to the door; expecting to see him pull into the lot in a few minutes. I waited. Then, I went downstairs. I waited some more. I checked my watch. Finally, at 10:45, I went outside, got my ladder and put in his backyard. I put a note on our door that basically said “WTF Dude?” Then, we closed up and went to bed.

10:55: the phone rings again. He hopes I’m not “in the bed” (what?) yet because he’ll be home soon.

You have got to be kidding me.

11:05, he rolls into the lot. Mind you, it poured all day on Friday. Also, the ladder in question was my grandfather’s. It’s probably almost 60 years old. It’s made of wood and starting to rot. But, I keep it because I think it’s the last thing I have that belonged to my Papa.

BSG and I walk out back and he complains about the ladder. I tell him it’s all I have and he’s more than willing to climb up. He has a basement unit like ours. We’re on the ground level behind the house. He climbs the ladder and vaults himself on to the deck. I’ve done this move before and it’s not that bad. I start gathering up the ladder, ready to go home. I assume his back doors are open. They’re not. At this point, JewelrySlut is on our deck, looking on in horror and The Dish is outside the fence doing the same. I pass the ladder up to BSG on the deck. He’s climbing through a bedroom window…3 stories up. He goes up the ladder and kinda flings himself through a window. For a second or 2, he just kinda hangs there, legs flailing in the moonlight, ladder teetering back and forth.

I walk The Dish up around the house to the front door. At this point, his alarm system is going bonkers. The Dish and I wait. And wait. Finally, I decide to run down the hill around back to see if he’s there. Apparently he had been because JewelrySlut told him I was around front. By the time I ran back around front, he and The Dish were in the house and the lights were off.

No thank you. No Good night. No nothing.

Asshole.

He finally got around to coming over at about lunchtime on Saturday to offer a cursory thank you and to tell me I could take my ladder home.

He’s a great guy.

From there, the weekend was painless. I had a few moments of glee. On Saturday, before Washington State lost, I was #240 in the ESPN pool. Considering that about 4 million people join, I was impressed with myself. Since they didn’t stop the tournament at that point, I officially sick now. Alas.

My parents came over on Saturday for dinner and took Shmuppie with them when they left. So, JewelrySlut and I had an evening all by ourselves and Sunday to ourselves. It was peaceful. I got a haircut and we got passport pictures taken.

Enjoy.

We have the old passport photo (scanned off the passport). This was taken 10 years ago. The second shows the ravages of the past 10 years.

old passport

mugshot

Pete: the pictures are side by side. I didn’t want that to happen! SHIT! I can’t get anything right.

6 thoughts on “More fun with picture uploading

  1. BSG sounds like a huge douchebag. Next time he calls you for something like that tell him to fuck off. Then, go get yourself a huge plastic syringe (sans needle, ididot; they use them to inject lubricant onto machinery)

    Huh, huh-huh I said ‘lubricant’.

    Anyway, get yourself a huge plastic syringe and some mineral oil and inject an assload of it into his muffler. It’ll smoke like a bitch making him think there’s something wrong with his car and JS won’t get all guilty-like because you haven’t damaged anything. At least that’s what I would do.

    Also: You had hair? HAHAHAHAHA!!!! You look like you just got sentenced to 20-life in the state pen.

  2. I want you to know that I did NOT scroll down first. Also, on my computer at work the pictures are not side by side, but here at home they are.

  3. Hey, I have a CrazyAnne neighbor, too. Maybe it’s the name?

    So, after looking at the picture from ten years ago, I’m left wondering – why don’t you smile, ever??

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