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.