I wandered outside, sock-clad and sandal-shod, to see what all the ruckus was about. Oh, damn, it's just the neighbors, having another bloody row, out in the sight of God and everybody, yelling and screaming and throwing tantrums and fits. I was hoping for something exciting.

I walked across the street, my sandals making a pleasant flap flap noise as they hit the pavement, to where my friend Bob was sitting, as always, on the swing set in his front yard, next to the pink yard flamingo, drinking Southpaw. "Hi, Bob," I said. "The Bennetts are into it again." Damn but the sun was bright today. Sometimes I think the thing needs to back up paces. "Yuh, I hear 'em," said Bob, taking another swig. "Ya wanna beer?"

"No, thanks," I replied, "I'm trying to stop drinking before noon." At that point, his automatic sprinkler system kicked in. "Jesus FUCK!" I exclaimed as my socks promptly became utterly soaked. "Goddamn." Bob looked on in slightly tipsy bemusement—he was barefoot.

So I went squishily on back to my house, stopping on the stoup to lay out my waterlogged socks and sandals on the sunheated step. I wondered if The Price Is Right still came on, and went on into the house to find out. "Fuck," I muttered one more time as the screen door banged shut behind me.

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