Where are our balls?

Jason and I have been victimized--which is harder for us than for normal people, because usually, we're the victimizers, not the victimeez.

Our balls have been stolen.

Well, our antenna balls. We still have them other balls. At least I do.

Now, Jason had a relatively cute Jack Skellington antenna ball, not too dirty or streetworn. So I guess I can see why the criminal element might want it.

But um, my antenna ball was f'ed up. It was a cowgirl antenna ball Jason bought me to replace a cowboy antenna ball that was, in an unrelated crime, stolen back in the day when I lived in Seattle but I was visiting Canada...anyhoo, it was to'e up big time, its braids completely undone, hair turned almost gray with road dust--actually the entire thing was dirty as all hell and just really busted in every imaginable way, tho all that weathering made the hat look kind of sweet and accurately cowboyish. In fact, I actually have a clean, unweathered, still-in-the-plastic cowgirl antenna ball Jason bought me as a backup but I had resisted replacing the weathered one because, ironically, I thought the clean one would be too much of a temptation to antenna ball kleptos.

Anyway, here's my question: Who the fuck steals an antenna ball, let alone two? We suspect an inside job, as it appears the balls disappeared in or around the same time frame. I guess it's possible our neighbors hate us, as we've lived in the same place for, oh, five years and still don't actually know the names of any of the people we share a building with. Well, I don't, tho Jason helped the next-door lady "fix her VCR" if you know what I mean*.

So. If you live in the area, or even if you don't, since our antenna balls may be victims of antenna ball trafficking, please be on the lookout for our precious balls. And if you have ball(s) of your own, hold them close--or you might find that the next time you go to adjust them, they may be gone.



*What I mean is, help her figure out why the bootleg DVDs of Borat and something or another else wouldn't work on her DVD player, which she called a VCR. It's because her shitty DVD player couldn't read DVD-Rs and the like, in case you're curious. Worked fine in our bootleg-friendly DVD player. We don't know this woman's name, but we do know she favors walking around in her silky, spaghetti-strap, deep-plunge nighties ALL THE TIME. And she's like, our moms' age. So, yeah. Hot. Jason's always trying to fix the ol' VCR. Don't worry. He's kind and rewinds.

Jenni vs. Predator Part One: Illumination

One day, Jenni felt a small tugging at the sleeve of her soul.

"I have a soul?" she thought to herself, and to no one in particular. (Jenni believed other people could hear her thoughts, and while sometimes she addressed them to someone, this time she was just too genuinely surprised to get specific about it.)

"Ahem," said the soul-tugger, "Down here."


In the dimly lit realm of the metaphysical, Jenni's soul looked down past its woefully stretched-out sleeve and gasped. Before it sat a moderately brainless and dangerously lonely child, its helpless face and large-eyed, blank stare artfully--yet ominously--illuminated by the glow of its computer screen.

As Jenni's soul watched, the scene shifted. There was the child in its own cheerfully lit home, looking for companionship and attention in unmoderated chat rooms, innocently typing and LOLing away, when what can only be described as an appropriately dark metaphoric shadow shaped like a hulking, creepy-ass, pathetic man holding a four-pack of a malt beverage appeared in the doorway, severely compromising the once cheerful lighting in the room.

"Help me," the child said.

"Fuck yeah, I'll help you--help you out of your virginity!" the shadow shaped like a big ol' nasty predator said.

"Dude. The kid was talking to me." Jenni's soul asserted.

"ROTFTNLAABIS," the child sputtered. (That means rolling on the floor totally not laughing at all because I'm scared. Seriously, these kids and their secret codes.)

"Don't worry. I got this!" Jenni's soul bellowed.

"You don't really strike me as a virgin, but shit, I'm obviously lookin' for it any way I can get it, so, yeah, all right, baby. I want to hug u and touch u naked and put my thing in u. Ur so pretty," the predatory shade said. "U like Mike's Hard Lemonade, right?"

"Shuh shuh she was talking to me," the child managed to stutter.

Just as quickly as it began, it was over. Jenni's soul tried to make sense of it all by speaking out loud.

"Huh. I wonder what that meant?" Jenni's soul pondered, "An oddly genderless child...a grown-ups' beverage in crowd-pleasing flavors...a talking shadow that shaped like a guy who wants to fuck kids...hmmm. This one's a puzzler."

Back in the physical world, Jenni read a story about Miss America bravely luring internet predators as part of her "internet safety for children" platform.

"I know what I must do," Jenni and her soul said, at the exact same time.

"You owe me a Coke," Jenni and her soul said, at the exact same time.

Two Cokes later, it was ON.

To be continued...

Sweet Christmas!

The holiday season is upon us and thank God that it is. I love this time of year because I love Christmas, and I love Christmas because it's a holiday during which families are usually compelled to pretend like they like each other and gifts are exchanged. But it seems even these two basic tenents of Jesus' birthday are no longer sacred as a mother in Rock Hill, South Carolina just had the local police arrest her 12-year-old son for opening a Christmas present early.


The child apparently knew that his great-grandmother had bought him a Game Boy Advance and decided to just take the gift from beneath the tree and start playing with it. The boy's 27-year-old mother threatened to call the cops if the handheld system wasn't returned. The kid handed over the GBA, but mom called the Five-O on him anyway. The responding officers busted the kid for petty larceny and he was released back to his mother pending trial, where she's said she plans to hand him over to a State institution. Yeah, because if anything can straighten your kid out it's certainly not loving, attentive parenting but cold, cruel justice inside a State-run juvenile detention facility.

There are so many things wrong with this that I don't even know where to begin. First, great-grandma, get with the times. The GBA is on life support. Save some recycling money and get the kid a Nintendo DS so he's not the laughing stock of his friends. Maybe then he wouldn't punch police officers and otherwise act up. Second, mom's a shitty parent. Yeah, it sucks she got preggers at 15, but all that means is she was a shitty parent from a young age. If you need to call the authorities to wrangle your 12-year-old, you suck at this and maybe handing the kid over to the State isn't such a bad idea, but don't pretend like it's Junior's fault. It's all you, lady. And it is extra-bullshitery that when the kid handed the present over, you still called the cops. Christmas is supposed to be the time of the year when families come together, not when you decide to finally have that abortion 12 years too late.

Third, how the hell does the kid know what he's getting for Christmas? I'm just going to assume it's more bullshit parenting skills, because no one's showing me any reason to believe otherwise. When I was a kid, Christmas presents and their locations were guarded with the strictest secrecy. I'd have had an easier time getting the launch codes from the President than I would finding my gifts. But then, when I was a kid I had rules and boundaries that I was cool with because I love my mom and she loves me and I didn't want to disappoint her. Love and guilt are some strong motivators.

And isn't that what Christmas is really all about?


Photo by Jason