Bad Hair

Recently I have finally been able to scan a few pictures from my childhood into my computer. As we were going through the pictures my wife notified my that my family wasn't too great on hairstyles. I have to agree. As proof I have chosen a few examples. Enjoy!

Whoah, I always thought it was real!

The 80's was no excuse

        Cramer???

    What are you looking at?

A good 2 for 1 pic- priceless!!

    Lynsie's She Mullet!!

Taylor after he pulled out a chunk of his hair with an electric drill! He looked like my dad!

Ha Ha Ha. Don't worry, more embarrasing photos to follow!!!!

You'll shoot your eye out!

My father loves the movie Christmas story. I can remember watching that movie every Christmas season for as long as I can remember. My dad also instilled in my brother and I a healthy respect and thirst for guns. So, naturally when I was a young boy I wanted a BB gun just like Ralph on The Christmas Story. When I turned 8 my dreams came true and my dad bought Josh and I BB guns for Christmas. I was so excited and I went outside to shoot it. I set up a wooden board against the fence and took aim and FIRED!!!! Wouldn't you know it . . . that darned BB bounced back and hit me right underneath the left eye! Man it hurt! I can't remember if I ever told my parents. I'll be sure to let MY kids know that shooting against a flat hard surface is a bad idea, and I'll make them wear safety glasses, but I'll still buy them their BB gun!

Skiing

When I was 11 years old my neighbors invited Josh and I to go skiing with them. Living in Utah we were obliged to accept this request and I really did look forward to it. My dad took us down to Deseret Industries (a Salvation Army-type of store) to buy us some skis. The skis that we got were at least 15 years old with old bindings and boots and none of the new fandangled features that skis had. The bindings were old with strap leashes that would prevent runaway skis from jetting down the hillside if separated from the skier- rather than the new fork system if the boot became unbound (see picture).

So, with our new old skis and a desire for adventure we set out with our neighbors to the ski resort Solitude up Big Cottonwood Canyon. It was mid morning and the slopes were just opening up for the morning. Josh and I followed our friends to the lift. Having no idea what to expect we hopped on the high speed quad.

As we got off lift I was quick to discover that even dismounting the lift would take some practice. It is hard to remember but I think I might have fallen down there too- it all seems to blur together now. There was a nice map that showed the various routes we could take to the bottom of the mountain. Apparently the lift we were on was the largest lift and provided the rider with the most skiing/lift time. The trails were all blue, black, or double-black lines (which meant nothing to me at the time). My friends pointed out that since it was our first time we would go down a blue trail since blacks were for experts. I must have fallen a dozen times in the first 200-300 yards of that blue trail- my friends weren't much for teaching as they only instructed us to stop falling down. The blue trail turned out to be harder than I had anticipated but I figured I would be able to make it down to the bottom. After all there really wasn't any other alternative, unless I wanted to ski down on a black diamond slope.

After about half a mile of what other might not call skiing we came to a fork in the trail. This fork was marked by a sign designating which trail was what on the map- HOLY CRAP!!! The only trails we could continue on were black diamonds! There was no turning back. My friends, knowing that we were struggling, gave us the only instructions they could think of . . . “just use your 'snowplow' [method].” We just hunckered down and headed down the hill.

These new trails were MUCH steeper. Josh and I were inching our way down the hill, which happened to be pretty icy as well. Our friends, tired of waiting for us, decided to just go down the hill and ditch us for the day- we never saw them again! Pretty soon I took a pretty good fall and I didn't stop for about 100 yards of tumbling. I looked back and saw Josh tumbling down the trail just to my left. He had hit and taken out another skier and was on course for taking out a ski patrolman- and sure enough he did. In the tumble my skis had come off but were held to me by the ancient leashes made of mammoth or sabor tooth tiger hide. Josh was no so fortunate with one of his skis which in the chaos become separated and was zooming down the mountain at 100mph. It disappeared into the soft power of the trees never to be seen again.

The ski patrolman (Josh's new friend) was livid. He threatened to kick us out of the resort (which honestly wouldn't have bothered me much at that point) but instead he just instructed us to walk the rest of the way down, which we were happy to do- besides- skiing was actually slower for me than walking anyway. Josh spent a bit of time searching for his ski. We spent the rest of the day on the bunny hill, which actually was good for us as we started to actually learn the basics and we didn't hurt ourselves doing it.

Years later now black diamonds are no longer a scary prospect for me and I actually enjoy them the most. I took some friends skiing for the first time a couple years ago . . . the first trails I took them on were blue and black!

Horses

I'm not sure if owning horses was something my dad always dreamed about as a child or if the opportunity just presented itself, but when I was 12-13 years old my father began collecting retarded horses. I say retarded because each one of them had an interesting mental capacity or personality disorder that made riding them a lesson in fear/idiocy. Just to name a few, there was a horse named Ho that was not only temperamental but she would fart every time she would startle. There was an Arabian horse that was blind in the left eye, which freaked him out any time something approached him from the left side. Another horse ate dog food and was then struck by lightning not too much later. The horse Ho had a colt that was fairly well behaved but could spook easily. Last of which was the horse named Satan.


My sister Brittany was riding Ho, who apparently didn't want to be ridden. Ho decided the best way to get Brittany off was to take her through some trees with low-lying branches. Sure enough the plan worked and Ho came galloping back from the stand of trees with an empty saddle.

The Arabian horse wasn't too bright. On a trail ride where my dad was riding this horse, there was a large embankment on the right side and a large drop off on the left (the horses blind side). In order to avoid the embankment the horse veered to the left and down the drop off, taking my dad with him. Stupid horse!

So, after our horse named Midnight was struck and killed by lightning my sister Brittany became very concerned anytime a thunderstorm occurred. Ho just had a baby colt and was out at pasture when a forecast for a thunderstorm occurred. I was instructed by my father to go and get the baby colt and his mother (Ho) and put them in the stalls.

Upon arrival Josh and I soon learned that we could easily catch the colt, but Ho was a bit more difficult. We finally caught Ho but she didn't want to listen to two 13-15 year old's and wasn't about to go easily into the stalls. So . . . we tied her to the metal fence post and focused our attention on the colt. The colt was easy to catch and was small enough to carry. I picked him up and began to carry him towards the stalls.

Now . . . for those of you who aren't familiar with getting between an animal and her young you should know that this isn't a good idea. Ho saw me with her baby and became infuriated. She broke the thick horse rope that we used to tie her up and she came charging at me. Fortunately I looked back in time to see her coming. I threw the colt to the side and ran like H#$$.

Josh and I had enough, we called our dad who was able to coax Ho into a stall, the colt following dutifully behind. Stupid horse! Apparently horses were a privilege. Our price to pay for this privilege . . . Josh and I mucked out horse manure every week!

The Grocery Store

While at Walmart a couple days ago I noticed a young boy crying and squealing for some item his dad wouldn't buy him. I don't ever recall throwing a tantrum for something I wanted at the store, but I sure did have my fair share of instances that embarrassed my parents. The incidents mostly involved fighting with Josh.


I was pretty young when these grocery store fights would occur but I do remember them occurring. Apparently these fights were frequent enough that my mom relegated my dad to taking Josh and I to the store. This, I believe, was an effort to get revenge on my father for giving my mother two rambunctious boys. It might have also been an effort to get my dad to only make one trip to the store. My father had a habit of forgetting what he was sent to the store to get. The most famous of these instances being when my dad was sent to the store to get milk. The first time he came back he had some devil's food cookies, chips-ahoy, and potato chips. He was sent back to the store when my mother discovered that he had not completed the assigned mission. The second trip he came back with some beef jerky, some salami sticks, cheese, and some cereal. Upon return his stash of junk food was looked upon with disdain and he was immediately mobilized by commander in chief mom back to the store. On this third and final trip he completed his mission, this time with some ice cream and soda-pop en tote.

Anyway, the fighting I remember occurred at a local grocery store. My dad liked to go to a store called Stan's Market. It was a smaller mom and pop's type grocery store that also happened to be one of the stores nearest to our house. I was sitting on the bottom of the cart and Josh was pushing the cart from behind. Josh and I started to argue about who was steering the cart (me with my legs, or Josh by pushing from behind- it only makes sense that the guy under the cart should be the one to steer, right!?). Pretty soon there was pushing and assorted punching and kicking involved. We were arguing and yelling and making a pretty big scene in the small quiet store. Before I knew it I noticed that my dad and the cart were nowhere in sight. We had been abandoned at the grocery store!

Josh and I began the frantic search for my dad, who apparently had decided to completely deny any connection he had with the two ill tempered boys fighting in the milk isle and to move to a different isle while we concluded our fight. We eventually found him and all was right again with the world. His tactic was fairly effective, it ended the fight had we were shopping in peace again. Even though he denies it he must have been distracted by our fighting because he kept asking what is was we had been sent to the store to get; we answered devil's food cookies, chips ahoy, and potato chips!

Painting

My wife and I have been talking about painting parts of our house. We even have the color picked out for our guest half-bath. I have been less than excited about the whole venture. Painting has never been my forte. Perhaps I have a subconscious block against painting. This block most likely extends from some of the painting fiascoes I had growing up.


The first real experience I had with painting came when I was about 12 years old. My father had just finished the basement in our house and Josh and I were assigned to do the “cutting in” and priming of the walls and ceiling. There were a couple big 5 gallon buckets of paint that were going to be used on our room and parts of the rest of the basement. Josh and I got to work with our paint brushes and a couple rollers. We worked on various occasions for several hours a piece. It seemed that no matter how many layers we put on it really didn't look right- so, we just kept adding layers. We must have painted nearly 15 coats on the walls of that room. Finally we asked our dad to come and inspect our masterpiece. He came to the basement (Josh and I were always given a room in the basement, always as far away as possible from my parents' room). He took a look at the room and asked what we had used to paint the room. We proudly showed him the bucket we had used.

His verdict came swiftly and stung like the whip of the task master he was- we had used primer to paint all 15 coats of paint. We still had to paint the whole room again! Josh and I were none too happy. I think we complained about it for weeks. Dad . . . that slavedriver!

I can't get too upset at my dad. Despite our disaster painting our own room he hired us to paint one of the rooms in his actual business. He had just remodelled a couple office rooms where he does business. The carpets were new but painting still needed to be done. A very nice oil based paint was chosen.

Josh and I set down covers on the edges of the new carpet and we taped off the edges, floor boards, removed door knobs, etc. We prepped with primer (remembering our mistake from years earlier) and we began to paint with the nice paint. I set the paint bucket on top of a folding table.

What happened next will live on until both Josh and I no more. My dad's version of this incident is probably the best. He was sitting at his desk doing work and from the other room where Josh and I were working he hears a “thud” and then he heard me say several times “Oh no! Oh no!” and then he saw me running past the door to his office and running back with a handful of paper towels from the bathroom. He knew what had happened as soon as he heard me say “Oh no!”

I had accidentally bumped the table in which Josh and I had set the paint bucket (which was nearly full at the time). The paint bucket fell onto the center of the room carpet where we had not set the tarps. The size of the paint spill was comparable to the recent BP oil-spill- at least it seemed to me at the time.

To my dad's credit he never said a harsh word. In fact, my father has always been a very good man, not to ever put objects and possessions above people. A ruined object (by accident- or not under bad intentions) was no reason to belittle or harshly treat someone.

That carpet stain stayed in that back room for over 10 years. It was in a spot that could never be covered. Maybe that is why that room (which was originally intended to be an office) was used as a storage room.

The Chemistry Set

My father ambitiously gave Josh a microscope and me a chemistry set for Christmas one year. I loved my chemistry set. My dad helped us make a concoction of cobalt which changed colors with heating and cooling. It was the coolest thing ever. Josh and I attempted to do our own experiments with the chemistry set. We would mix rubbing alcohol with various chemicals found in the set. This mixture, in a test tube, we would then put a cork to seal the mixture. We would shake it and then heat the alcohol mixture over a flame.

As the alcohol evaporated from the heat it built up pressure inside the sealed test tube. The concept of heating a liquid in a sealed container was foreign for the likes of a 5 year old. All-of-a-sudden it happened . . . the cork blew off the top of the test tube and the alcohol mixture with it! The flame from the heat source ignited the fumes and the liquid spewing from the test tube. The burning alcohol was spread all over the walls. Combined with the cobalt and various metals and salts dissolved in the alcohol the flames were beautiful colors, purple, blue, red, violet, and orange. Despite the beauty of the flames the fear of burning the house down prompted us to quell the flames. Josh and I rushed to smother the flames, and luckily we did. My parents didn't find out about how close we had come to burning down their house until just recently. In fact, I better give a preemptive warning to my parents if they read this blog that there might be stories here that they've never heard before. We kept them secret for a reason. And boy, there were some close ones!

I guess I am a little late, I should have posted this on the 4th of July. I guess that living in a very humid and wet state has made me forget about the dangers of fire associated with fireworks. We went to a couple parties. One of those parties included a ton of sparklers for the little kids, some of which were running around in bare feet. This reminded me, not that I needed much reminder, of when I stepped on a recently used phosphorus sparkler. It hurt pretty bad, and now when I see a kid with a sparkler and no shoes I cringe.

So, back to the story! (By the way, I'm not sure anyone knows I was responsible for this, there are a few stories to come in future blogs that will feature stories that no one knows about. I feel that enough time has expired to keep myself from getting into trouble- the statute of limitations has expired!) It was the 4th of July and we were out in front of the house lighting off a mixture of legal and illegal fireworks. I think I was about 5 years old at the time. It was great fun! We had flowers, tanks, bottle rockets, and sparklers. I was waving a sparkler around, writing my name in the dark evening. I was having a good ol time. It had been a little dry that summer, no more than usual for Salt Lake, but it hadn't rained in a couple weeks. Our neighbors across the street didn't take care of their lawn and it had grown all spring without being mowed. Combined with the dry climate his yard was a nice tenderbox waiting for my just burnt out sparkler.


I had gone on my way after tossing my sparkler over their fence. Some of the adults noticed that smoke had started to come from the neighbor's otherwise empty yard. Soon flames were visible as their dry grass became fuel for my sparkler which was still clinging to some semblance of purpose, beit destructive or entertaining.

While the adults were scrambling with their garden hoses and buckets I was trying to act cool, like the innocent boy I was. I felt bad at the moment, but I never said a word. The back spot in their yard was an improvement! Good ol sparklers!

Gasoline

One winter evening my brother and I told my parents we were going to play out in the back yard in the snow. We did just that and we built a snowman, but Josh and I weren't building the snowman just to build a snowman. We had plenty of experience building snowmen- a regular snowman was boring! No, this snowman actually served a purpose! He was our target for target practice for our bows and arrows. It was getting dark and we decided that we needed something to help us see where our arrows were going. We found the solution was to put toilet paper on the end of the arrows, dowse it in gasoline and have flaming arrows.

My dad was in the kitchen and noticed a flame going shooting from one end of the yard to the other. And then another. He came out to investigate and found Josh and I with a can of gasoline with our bow and several arrows prepped with paper and gasoline ready to go. Our snowman with a couple arrows already sticking out of him with some residual burning toilet paper.

We got a good lecture about how dangerous gasoline was. This was the first time I remember hearing that lecture, but it definitely wasn't the last time either. A few years later, after having heard the gasoline lecture a few times, my brother and I were playing around with the large plastic cars that my parents had bought as toys for my younger brothers and sisters. These cars are the ones that are big enough for a child to get inside. You propel yourself in these cars with your feet like the Flintstones. Josh and I decided to fill the consul on these cars with gasoline- light them on fire and send on a quick trip down the hill in the back yard. When the cars hit a bump it would slosh around the burning gasoline and would make the fire much bigger. We would dowse the burning car in water which would just spread the flames. Eventually the cars just melted and burned after having done this a few times. This time there would be no lecture, apart from the angry look on his face I remember him saying, “I'm tired of talking!”

Ghostbusters

Josh and I loved (still love) the movie Ghost Busters. We would watch the movie over and over again. We would play ghost busters with our backpacks and parts from mom's vacuum cleaner. The family garden was also a favorite playground. We would dig holes in the garden and then fill the holes with water. We would then take the dirt we had taken from the holes and put it back in and mix it all around to make mud. But this was no ordinary mud. My father had decided to fertilize our garden using chicken manure, which, like cow manure, provides nutrients for a variety of garden plants, it also has the added property of increased aromaticity . . . i.e., it stinks really bad. In fact the aroma from this chicken manure would cause people getting off the bus walking by to gag. My dad even witnessed one person running to the other side of the street while attempting not to throw up.


So it was just natural that Josh and I used this situation to our advantage. We sat waiting for our unsuspecting victims. Our backpacks on with the tube to mom's vacuum somewhere nearby in the garden. We sat quietly. Who would suspect children anyway? The nice men and women getting off the bus in front of our house, in their nice suits and skirts after a long day at work. Walked by our fence, and then . . . . that mud we had concocted, with chicken manure and sopping wet went flying over the fence by the shovel-full as Josh and I shouted, “YOU'VE BEEN SLIMED!!!” I'm not sure if sliming people was in accordance with the Ghost Buster code, but we sure got busted.

Jared vs Fat Lady

The UTA (Utah Transit Authority) bus stop was situated in front of my parents' house. It would take all sort of our neighbors to work and wherever they needed to go. Most were dressed in suits and ties or dresses. The stop in front of our house was a big getting on and off point. Most of the time it just became part of what went on in front of our house. Unnoticed and largely ignored. I have always liked playing with water. I would just take the hose as a child and see how far I could spray it. The bus presented a large, irresistible target.

During the summer heat the bus passengers would put the windows down, making my attack on the bus all the more effective. It would spray the bus as it came to a stop at the bus stop. All the passengers NOT getting off got hosed down. I was doing them a favor by helping them to cool off and make the breeze coming through the windows more effective!

That wasn't the only incident to occur with the hose. One of our neighbors was a rather large but very nice lady. She would frequently take the bus and would always get on and off at the stop in front of our house. One day, after getting off the bus she started to tease me. I was playing with the hose at the time and I decided to turn the hose on her for her insolence. As she was a big lady she could move very fast which prolonged her escape as well as making it easy for me to focus the entire spray of the hose on her massive body.

I must have known that I was in trouble because I ran to my room and hid. I heard the doorbell ring and my mom answered. I could hear her voice talking to my mom. She was a very nice lady and she said that she had asked for it by teasing me. Phewww!

Spackle, spackle, spackle

Brothers often fight. With only 18 months separating us we were great friends but we also fought a lot. Some of which included us rolling around in the isles of the grocery store wrestling. My dad, apparently embarrassed by the spectacle of being seen with the two of us, would simply walk around to the next isle and wait for us to finish the bout. These fights were much more evenly matched until Josh began taking Karate while I didn't. Little did I know that I was now out classes when it came to fighting. That would soon become apparent.

The exact reason for this epic fight eludes me, but I recall an argument ensued over laundry. I believe I had taken Josh's clothes out of the washer to put my own in. I didn't care to pass his clothes to the drier so I just tossed them on the floor as any reasonable person would do. Josh happened to come into the laundry room just as I started the washer for my own clothes. He realized what I had done when he saw his wet whitey tighties being trampled by myself. An argument ensued and we ended up arguing at the top of the stairs. I don't remember who struck first (I'm sure it was Josh) but a good ol fashioned fight ensued. I attempted to throw a coupe punches but as I was kicked in the face I realized that my current knowledge of fighting styles were no match for a kick to the face. I quickly came to the conclusion that I should go straight to wrestling to counter his reach advantage. As he threw me down the stairs I realized that this was a poor decision. He threw me so efficiently that I didn't even touch any of the stairs on the way down. Luckily the drywall at the bottom of the stairs broke my fall. I was lucky enough to hit the wall between the studs, allowing the largest possible hole to be created. He realized that Josh now out-matched me, I was desperate. I ran back up the stairs at him- I couldn't lose, I wasn't going to lose! So I pulled out the last tool in my fighting tool box, to be used only in case of emergency . . . and so I bit him!

The fight was over but the aftermath had just begun. My father came home and saw a hole you could walk through in the wall that had been created by our colossal struggle. My father was very upset! He immediately ordered Josh and I to patch up the hole. He told us there was a bucket of spackling in the garage and left us to do fill the small cave we had created. We had limited spackling experience, especially with a hole the size of my little brother Taylor.

We went to work filling the hole with the entire bucket of spackling material. We didn't know of the aluminum mesh that could be used as a backing to the spackling, nor did we have any extra drywall to cut to an approximate shape to fill the majority of the defect. Even if we did we wanted a good solid repair- so we filled the defect with a 5 inch thick layer of spackling. My dad took one look and walked away muttering something indiscernible under his breath. Two years later this spackling had failed to completely dry. Before I went away for college I remember seeing a large crack form in the center a repair that was finally drying out. Needless to say I have never been asked to spackle another hole by my father.

Birthdays

Josh and I are only 18 months apart in age. This was perfect for the both of us in that we were close enough in age to be friends in addition to brothers. We fought a lot as brothers do when they are that close in age, but for the most part we did almost everything together. This presented a problem for my parents around birthdays. I would throw a tantrum if Josh got something and I didn't, even if it was Josh's birthday (which is 6 months from mine). One year Josh got an expensive toy (expensive for my parents, who as they put it many times, “were not made of money.”). It was a Transformer! Josh and I loved the Transformers, we would watch the show regularly and we even went to see the movie (not the new movies, but the old cartoon movie). How could my parents have been so insensitive? How could they get Josh the best of all toys and not get me one too? Only in my parents' heads could those questions be answered! Anyway, I pled my case (which probably included a great deal of tears and crying, and carrying on) which eventually persuaded my dad to buy me one too. Now that I think of it I can't recall specific birthday presents that I received, but this one I can . . . It was the best birthday present I ever got- except it wasn't my birthday!

Speaking of birthdays, my family knows I love snow cones. They even know what brand of snow cone I enjoy. I spent some time abroad in Spain (for religious reasons). One summer I was stationed in the city of Sevilla in southern Spain. It is known to get very hot during the summer. In my letters home I told my family of this and they expressed sympathy (or at least on the surface). I didn't have any air conditioning and my apartment was on the top floor of our apartment complex which meant that it was the hot! My birthday being in July happened to occur while I was in Sevilla, and as a good family does they sent me a birthday package. In the package were various chocolates that had melted in the heat one more item that couldn't quite make out through the sweat running into my eyes and the mass of melted chocolate at the bottom of the box. After carefully separating the item from the chocolate and wiping the sweat from my forehead I realized it was a birthday card. Hoping it was cash to buy some ice cream, or even enough to pay to get our air-conditioner fixed I opened it with enthusiasm. I was surprised at the cruelty and irony of it all- it was a picture of my family eating snow-cones with the caption- Happy Birthday. As it turns out my parents got me back for that Transformer!

My Dad's corrections- edited in the original post

At the behedst of my wife (and due to the funny nature) I have decided to post my dad's response to my blog. Remembering that some of his details were actually funnier than my own I decided to publish his version. I hope you all enjoy. Please note that this is the actual email, no editing was done:

Hold on buck wheat - 1) I didn't notice the smell till after you were caught - I caught you when I told Josh to go get the bags of crap to put into the trash and he started crying. I asked "why you crying, I just asked you to go get the dog crap for the trash" he continued crying - realizing he was now in deep dog doo doo. Then I found where you two morons were throwing the dang %$^$%^%$%$433. It was not only all over the ground under their bedroom window, but it was all over the side of their house where it hit first before it fell to the ground - there was %$##$#%^&*() everywhere, on the house, the fence, the ground and all their kids toys that were left there. And I had the audacity to complain to them about their stupid kid taking a crap in our van just the week before. How we ever survived you two is beyond me.

Dad

The Infamous Dog Poo Fling

The other day while picking up the dog poop in my back yard I was reminded of one of the best Josh and Jared stories. It all started one April or May when the snow finally melted from our back yard. The winters in Utah last until mid May. Our dog, Cookie, had continued with her usual rate of dog poop production all winter long, whilst Josh and I did not keep up with our dog poop patrol that we had been mercilessly assigned to by our parents. When the snow melted it revealed what must have been the dog poop from every dog in the continental United States. My father, choking from the stench of the dog crap, which I remember being several feet thick, pointed out to the back yard and said, “I want you two to pick every dog poop up and put it trash bags and put it in the garbage can.” He handed me a shovel made of cast iron that must have weighed 90lbs, and to Josh he handed several trash bags that were so thin that even an errant breeze would rip them into shreds.

Faced with this Herculean task we trudged out into the backyard to face our doom. We tried and tried to bag the dog crap, but, alas it was too much for mere mortals. All of a sudden a bright idea came, we didn't have to put it into bags and then into the garbage can. The crap was only our problem if it was in OUR yard! The feces could simply be picked up with a shovel and flung over the fence into the neighbor's yard- PERFECT!!! I found the task of picking up dog crap was much less of a burden- especially since I didn't particularly care for these neighbors. The plan had no downside! The yard was soon devoid of dog crap and Josh and I went about our normal activities of pulling the tar up off the cracks in the road.

My dad noticed one day how the neighbor's house and yard smelled of dog crap (my dad cannot stand the smell of dog crap! To him it is the most vile smell in the universe). He took one look over the fence and quickly discovered what my brother and I had done. I'm not sure he was too fond of these neighbors either but his sense of propriety must have won over his conscience and he at least pretended to be angry with my brother and me. We were sent back out with shovel and bags to clean the mess up, which was quite extensive, and far smellier than the half frozen turds we had picked up in early May. Anyhow, the praises of a job well done that had been bestowed upon us weeks earlier were now replaced with a scornful stare and a spanked bottom all before Josh and I got to shovel the poop for the second time, this time into bags and the garbage can.

We had plenty of time and a sore bottom to help us reflect upon our poorly thought out plan. Putting the poop into their FRONT yard wasn't too bright, neither was putting it right under their bedroom window (which they actually never noticed or at least never complained to us about), but the worst part of our plan was that we chose the neighbor who DIDN'T HAVE A DOG to blame it on!