The FBI just stopped by my house. They asked me if I knew my neighbor. I said “ No, do you know him? “ They said no.
One of them...I think his last name was Carbone, kept muttering to himself...” ooo that Barney Rubble! What an actuh!...and he said nothing more. I ate a cherry pop tart, and went back to sleep.
The previous occupants of this house were named the Greys.
They were profoundly dysfunctional.
One of them had a weed problem, his substitute tobacco of choice keeps sprouting and growing where he tossed his stubs, and we keep having to kill the stuff with round up.
Well, one fine day there is a knock on the front door.
Now, we don’t use the front door, the driveway is behind the house so we use that door instead.
I answer the door, and this clean shaven guy in a suit near jumps out of his skin when I answer the door.
He’s looking for the Greys.
Problem for him is, the Greys hadn’t been here in over four years at that point.
He has his hand inside his jacket, and I’m smiling away.
He’s within grabbing distance if he does anything stupid, and I wasn’t so sure he wasn’t a drug dealer or something.
You see some weird stuff out here in NY.
I was polite and told him the people he was looking for weren’t here.
He suddenly looked very frightened and ran back to his vehicle, I think he got on a cell phone for a few minutes.
He looked rather animated in there before driving off and looking at me really oddly.
A little bit after that these two ‘inner city yute’ looking types came walking down the driveway and up to the back door.
One went to grab the door handle, and about that moment my missus came walking up while holding a shovel.
Without a word they just turned and walked away.
Thank God for gardening, right?
They have cherry poptarts now?