My parents own a nice piece of property in a neighborhood in the suburbs. There is a quarter-acre pond on the property, and to be honest, it’s picturesque AF, mainly because my parents are amazing gardeners and keep everything looking great. It also sits down a small hill a little ways from the house. Throughout the years, we’ve had to chase away people fishing and kids playing. One, because it’s a liability, and two, because there are a ton of huge-a** snapping turtles. We have “no trespassing” and snapper warning signs, but I guess reading signs is for losers?

One night while I am in high school, I look out and see a man standing on the other side of the pond from the house, fishing. He’s about three feet past a “no trespassing” sign. I tell my dad, and he walks out to tell the guy to leave. Being a nosy teenager, I follow.

My dad stands up the hill from the pond and calls out:

Dad: “Excuse me! I need to ask you to leave.”

The guy turns and seeing my frankly short father just snorts.

Fisherman: “Yeah, no.”

Dad: “You are on private property and need to leave.”

Fisherman: “It’s not private property.”

My dad gestures to the signs, and the fisherman changes his tune.

Fisherman: “Yeah. Uh, right, the owner said I could fish here.”

My dad isn’t physically intimidating, but when he’s pissed, the vitriol in his voice is palpable. Usually, these exchanges are short, and the people are very apologetic. But this dude clearly wants to stay and doesn’t care what my dad says.

Dad: “I definitely didn’t tell you that. Get the f*** off my property!”

Fisherman: “WELL, I THOUGHT ANYONE COULD FISH HERE!”

Enter “S”. Who is S? S is a huge-a** f****** snapping turtle that is making its way out of the water with the fisherman’s line in its mouth. S, who is now hooked after attempting to eat the worm, is pissed. Neither my dad nor the fisherman have noticed as they are still arguing.

Dad: “Just leave my f****** yard!”

Fisherman: “F*** off!”

The fisherman is facing us, away from the water, but still holding the rod that S is using to floss his teeth. Finally, he gives up on being able to fish and jerks the rod to leave. It doesn’t move much, but it pisses S off even more. The fisherman turns to see what it is caught on and, instead of a rock, sees an angry prehistoric scrotum with teeth and kevlar meandering its way toward him.

My dad finally sees S and uses this moment to yell:

Dad: “THIS IS WHY YOU CAN’T FISH HERE, DUMBA**!”

The fisherman apparently didn’t want to lose the rod, and he tried to pull it toward himself as if it was a fish he could catch and release and not a demon mini dinosaur. This got S more pissed off, and it lunged, biting the fisherman’s leg. There was blood everywhere, and we had to call an ambulance. He ended up getting some infection and dying like a month later. We made a pen for S, and now he has a little family.

Nah, I’m kidding. The fisherman dropped the rod and scrambled up the hill to his car while my dad laughed. My dad then went down, cut the line, and ushered S into a trap to be rehomed out where kids, dogs, and dumba**es wouldn’t accidentally run into him.

The dragging-heels entitlement still baffles me to this day. If the guy had apologized and been kind, my dad would have geeked out about fishing rods with him. Instead, he lost an apparently nice rod.

There are plenty of fish in the sea — except where snappers ate them all — so fish in a place that doesn’t have warning signs.

When I was in elementary school in the mid-1990s, my friend lived in the upstairs portion of a duplex that was owned by the woman who lived downstairs. She was the definition of the neighbor from Hell. She constantly called them about being too noisy or lied about what they were doing. She would call the parents at work to complain about the kids ([Friend] had two siblings), which hilariously backfired a few times when the kids were at sports practice after school or something and the parents called her out for lying. 

I went to their house a number of times and witnessed that the slightest noise resulted in [Neighbor] banging on the ceiling with a broom. They knew that previous tenants hadn’t lasted long, and their theory was that [Neighbor] was purposely awful in order to drive people out of the house, which meant breaking their lease, meaning she could keep their deposit.

I wasn’t there for the glorious final straw, but I wish I had been.

[Friend]’s mom was pulling a casserole out of the oven when the dish slipped out of her hand and hit the floor. The dish shattered, which splashed hot casserole on Mom’s feet and legs and caused some of the glass to cut her. There was an immediate banging from the floor below, at which point [Friend]’s dad had had it. He told the kids to start stomping and don’t stop. [Friend] told me they stomped throughout the house for twenty minutes straight (surely an exaggeration, but you get the idea) and had a lot of fun doing so. 

When Dad finally told them to stop, he went downstairs and told [Neighbor] what had happened with the casserole dish and that her reaction was unacceptable. Instead of coming to check on them after hearing such a big crash and someone yelling in pain, her banging on the ceiling was irrational. He told her that from then on, if she ever did it again, he was going to tell the kids to start stomping again.

She was good for a couple of days, and then she banged again, which started the stomping, after which Dad went downstairs and told her he wasn’t joking; it WOULD happen every… single… time.

Apparently, they had stomped so hard and for so long that they had shaken the popcorn off the ceiling. Popcorn ceilings were pretty popular in houses built in the 1970s, and I know from experience that the stuff is a nightmare to clean up.

At some point shortly after that, [Neighbor]’s son came to visit, and she must have complained to him. The son went to talk to the family and apologized, basically saying:

Neighbor’s Son: “I know my mom is awful and that you guys aren’t bad. You’re actually much better than other tenants we’ve had. I have talked to her, and she will not bother you anymore.”

After that, the relationship didn’t become friendly, but it at least became strained ignorance of each other, which was better than what it had been.

I am at a board game convention where a few thousand folks get together to play board games, card games, RPGs, Larps, etc.

I’m in the restroom washing my hands — as one does — and a lady walks behind me to use a disability-accessible stall. She quickly apologizes to someone already in the stall using the facilities.

Woman #1: “Don’t forget to lock the door for privacy.”

The woman in the stall announces:

Woman #2: “I don’t touch the doors so I don’t need to wash my hands.”

I am so grossed out that I loudly say, “Ew!”, for the room to hear. As I head out, the woman retorts from the stall:

Woman #2: “If I don’t touch anything, I don’t need to wash!”

Okay, yucky lady.

I hung around outside to get a glimpse of whom I would not be playing games with that weekend.

I did a zombie event like this one in Glasgow, and other than an awkward moment with some confused junkies in a car park the event was a lot of fun.

I did nearly flatten a zombie at one point, though. The actor stepped in front of me when I was sprinting at my top speed, and I couldn’t stop or sidestep.

Apparently, body-slamming zombies is a viable survival strategy. Who knew?!

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The Mental Imagery Alone Is Both Adorable And Terrifying

A friend texted me.

Friend: “Which is more, $9 or 5%?”

Me: “5% of what?”

Friend: “Money. 5% is less, right?”

I eventually got him to explain that he was making an online payment of $1,200, and the website charged a 5% fee if you used a credit card, or you could use a debit card for a fixed fee of $9.

He had been saying that 5% was obviously smaller, but his wife thought $9 was less.

He wasn’t happy with my answer.