Yesterday a neighbor came home from visiting a friend to find a surprised burglar in his house, pointing his own .38 Special at him. I’d call that a Monday times, oh, ’bout a thousand.

So we had cops out the wazoo for a spell, in cars, astride motorcycles, on foot, with dogs. Bupkis. The scumbag got away, as scumbags often do.

I went through our house, checking to make sure that all our various smokepoles were unloaded and the bullets stashed elsewhere, so that I can surprise anyone who points one at me by clocking him with a skillet.

Which once again raises the question: “Why the fuck do I have all these goddamn things in my house if I’m gonna draw down on a baddie with a skillet instead?”

Good question. One of these days I intend to answer it.

Meanwhile, Herself celebrated her (mumble-mumble)th birthday today. I sang her “Happy Birthday” twice and got her a new MacBook Pro to replace the abacus she had been using. She says I can live here for another year if I don’t get shot accidentally on purpose with one of my own guns.