Shocker
Spring: The time of year when young men's fancies turns to love, awkward electrical engineering students scurry back under whatever rock they came from in protest of the additional hours of sunlight, and small children test the vocal limits of their larynxes while continually threatening to pound their sibblings into a greasy paste on the asphalt.
In this life, we often find ourselves reaching goalposts, expecting fanfare, with little more than the turning of another calendar page. This can apply in both professional as well as emotional landmarks: What is a Christmas with no Santa? My young neighbors have done their personal best, I believe, to make sure I feel the fullness of spring, whether I like it or not.
While I commend them on both their vigor and originality, I can't help but grind my teeth when hearing outright bawling every 10 minutes... and remain mystified as to the attraction of riding a bicycle precariously close to my fly ride, the unique holder of the devil's best luck, in a circle for hours on end. I mean, these children have endurance.
There is, however, one bright spot in this tale. And that bright spot is hair. The middle child, who also happens to be the loudest, most domineering, and annoying of the posse, is Rufio.
Yes, the apparent spawn of Dante Basco lives next door to me, and he has a sense of steeloh like none other. Business on the sides, punk rock on the top, and party in back. He looks like a Michigani who got attacked by a black leather pants-wearing rocker from the early nineties. It really is an impressive sight. I've had his appearance verified by a multitude of third parties. It is... well, it is shocking.
He is so flipping loud. Oh, my GOD.
Ok, got that out...
Anyway, in between bouts of anger and wishing I stocked more raw eggs, I find myself cracking up over his crazy-ridiculous hair.
Rufio, RUFIO, RU-FI-
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
Talking hands off the field.
In this life, we often find ourselves reaching goalposts, expecting fanfare, with little more than the turning of another calendar page. This can apply in both professional as well as emotional landmarks: What is a Christmas with no Santa? My young neighbors have done their personal best, I believe, to make sure I feel the fullness of spring, whether I like it or not.While I commend them on both their vigor and originality, I can't help but grind my teeth when hearing outright bawling every 10 minutes... and remain mystified as to the attraction of riding a bicycle precariously close to my fly ride, the unique holder of the devil's best luck, in a circle for hours on end. I mean, these children have endurance.
There is, however, one bright spot in this tale. And that bright spot is hair. The middle child, who also happens to be the loudest, most domineering, and annoying of the posse, is Rufio.
Yes, the apparent spawn of Dante Basco lives next door to me, and he has a sense of steeloh like none other. Business on the sides, punk rock on the top, and party in back. He looks like a Michigani who got attacked by a black leather pants-wearing rocker from the early nineties. It really is an impressive sight. I've had his appearance verified by a multitude of third parties. It is... well, it is shocking.He is so flipping loud. Oh, my GOD.
Ok, got that out...
Anyway, in between bouts of anger and wishing I stocked more raw eggs, I find myself cracking up over his crazy-ridiculous hair.
Rufio, RUFIO, RU-FI-
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
Talking hands off the field.
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