Brother reports that he shot a big raccoon that was hanging out on the back porch this weekend. He let Hank outside and saw the big monster just as Hank did, and was able to drag Hank back into the house by his tail before the creature decided to shred the Saint Bernard. From there, Brother tossed some bread on the deck, armed himself with his trusty Red Ryder BB Gun (and possibly dressed in his Real Tree cammo), and waited. The raccoon, unable to resist the aroma of day-old Wonder Bread, came out from his hiding spot where he met the business end of Brother and the BB gun. Brother also has a 45, but felt it might make too much noise in our fairly quiet neighborhood, especially with all the cops who live around me. Besides, leveling a 45 at a raccoon is like using a Sherman tank to hunt a deer. Overkill.
The raccoon, hit somewhere in the neck, ran away, scaled the 6 foot privacy fence, and escaped to the neighbor's yard, where, I assume, he died a slow painful death. Later in the evening, Brother spotted a smaller raccoon emerging from under the deck. However, his previous escapade caused him to waste his entire load of pellets, and he was rendered the impotent hunter for the rest of the evening.
Don't you guys ever learn to pace yourselves???
So now I am considering hiring someone to come and trap my very own wildlife sanctuary that resides in my back yard. Then, they can be released elsewhere. Far, far away from my house. Opossums, raccoons, bunnies. God only knows what else is living under my deck. Some nights, I look out the window and almost expect to see Al Sharpton crawling out from behind the chiminea.
Yesterday was Mother's Day. Because I had to work, I really couldn't do much for Mom to celebrate. I did, however, call her. She was rather glum. Some further scrutiny revealed that Redneck Brother had not called. We attributed this to the fact that he borrowed money from Mom about three weeks ago, and has yet to pay her back. When she loaned him the money, the agreement was that he would pay her back the following week.
I love my brother, but I think he could use a good kick in the head. The only time he calls is when he wants something. Since he figured out that the First National Bank of H-Train had closed, he hasn't called. Brother is fearful to talk to him because he knows he'll be hit up for something.
Deep down, Mom thinks that she was a horrible mother, and that is why Redneck Brother is an inconsiderate asshole. I tell her that is not the case, but rather, he is just a shit-head. A trait inherited from father's side of the family.
I came home this morning to a GINORMOUS Bow-Flex occupying the other spot in the garage. Apparently, Brother bought this monstrous torture device from a guy he works with, for a fraction of what they actually sell for. It's supposed to go in the basement, but I have my doubts because the basement has a low ceiling. Brother says he's measured and it will fit. However, I wonder if the fit is contingent on how many holes Brother can cut into the ceiling. There's already a punching bag affixed to a joist, courtesy of Brother. Directly in front of where the television is supposed to go. Men have no concept of floor layout and interior design.
At this rate, he's not going to have any room for a bed if he keeps adding to his own personal gym. He'll be stuck in the guest room forever. I guess if the trade-off is a home gym in my basement that everyone can hang clean clothes on, I can live with that.