Windshield Love All

Well, well, well. It has been a while, hasn't it, blogging world? I have excuses, I have heart-felt apologies, and I have rotten tomatoes at the ready for when you finish this piece, but what I don't have, what I don't have is the piece of mind to actually defend myself from the tomato-y onslaught. And do you want to know why? I'll tell you why! (Come on guys...its a blog, if you didn't think I was going to tell you, I think you need to go back to facebook). Anyway, so basically my blog "Brain to Earth, Come in Please" is a giant bitch session, and I am debating on starting another on this site that's a little less ragging and a little more sunshine and roses. Let's be honest for a moment though, who wants to read about my awesome day at work or how my Organismal Biology exam went? No one, that's who.

So I'm going to continue my giant B and M session with another little story. Now I know what you're thinking, you're thinking, "AshVee, there cannot, simply cannot be anything worse than the tights story." You'd be wrong, but again, you'd be painting a better world. This story starts, like most stories do, with a boy, a girl, and a tennis racket.

That's right.

Soak it up.

Ready for the story?

...K...

So I wake up this morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed, with the knowledge in my head that I have to be to work by 11am, which is a pretty good sleep in for me. So I wake up around 8 this morning, make a Toaster Scramble, pour a glass of OJ, and put the coffee on (for those of you who don't know yet, my name is AshVee, and I am addicted to coffee *Hello AshVee*). So I'm just chillaxing in my appartment when I hear a screen door slam in the apartment upstairs. Silently cursing the face that they get a balcony with a hammock and I get a front porch with a three foot hole in the middle, I sit and sip on my orange juice until the coffee stops making that gurgling noise.

Amidst the gurgle another door slams, this time too heavy to be the scream, and I'm assuming that she's left her porch and gone to leave. I was wrong, and I have never been happier to admit to that fact. Less than five minutes later it starts, faint, waivery and almost wispy, coming through the airvents. There's trouble in Paradise. Apparently Brad (names have been changed to protect the guilty) cheated on Janet, and now wants her to take him back.

"Ha! Fat chance asshole." I chuckle into my coffee cup, thoroughly pleased to listen to the argument as both parties seem to be giving as good at they're getting. Then something else happens. Something, and I'm not sure what, clashes to the ground outside my window, shattering to bits and pieces.

Now, you should know something. I'm not a real violent person, and I don't condone domestic violence, but if you've ever actually seen a woman scorned throw a man's tennis racket through a car windshield, you'd be as pleased as I was. Now you have to get the whole picture, this tennis racket, is now halfway lodged into this windshield. I'm staring, curtain pulled back unabashedly, mouth agape in my first floor window, staring with a mirthful twinkle in my eye, because I know...I somehow just know its his car. It took a good thirty seconds for the screaming to start. Again, you have to realize that I am an avid pro-peace type of person, so when I tell you that this real winner runs down the stairs, screaming, with his equally winner girlfriend chasing him with another tennis racket, you have to understand that its not the violence that I find hilarious. Its the pure, unadultered, Three Stooges Comedy that I find almost too good to talk about. He proceeds to his car, screaming, gesturing at the vehicle, chasing her around the car.

Now the really funny part is that while he was chasing her, she was chasing him. This little slip of a woman's chasing this big man around, and after one or two trips around the car, comprehension dawns on him that she's not finished causing damage with that racket. So, with less pride than flight, he takes off, sprinting down the street, tail between his legs, while three or four people peek their heads through their front doors, laughing.

So the real thing here, besides the hilarity of it all, is that these two are the opitomy of white trash. Come on buddy, did you have to come over after you told her you cheated on her? Did she have to launch a racket through his windshield? No, no she didn't...but it made me chuckle, and now, at work, she's making everyone else chuckle. So, moral of the story: if you have to do something less than classy, make at least one person laugh, because you never know how much its going to brighten their day.

Deuces and Later Days