When Drunken Hillbillies Attack (One Another)

I had an eventful weekend.

- I went MOUNTAIN BIKING. Or, to be more precise, I went TRAIL BIKING. In the rain. Near Raleigh. It was fun. My tires were overinflated (my fault), my glasses were seriously fogged (due to the rain), and I'm incredibly out of shape. I also ENDOed into a tree. It was crucial. In fact, I had to remove my shoe in order to extricate my foot from my bike. Then I accidently hawked a massive loogie on my hand.

- I checked in on my AWESOME STENCIL in Raleigh. That photo is not doctored; the neon pink really does stand out like that. It's a like a beacon of absurdity.

- My NEIGHBORS (the aforementioned drunken hillbillies) got in some sort of fight. Kate and I were watching the Sopranos on DVD (which we've been into lately) and we could hear the fracas building outside. This is not an abnormal thing by any means. These neighbors are almost always drunk in the front yard, yelling obscenely at one another. Something about the screaming ("GET OFF MY OLD MAN!") made me think that this time it wasn't a normal fight, and so I called the cops. Shortly afterwards, I heard tires screeching as a car surged away from their yard, leaving a guy on the pavement moaning, "call 9-1-1 ..." I think his hand or arm got run over. I joined my other, saner neighbors on the street and shared a few moments of neighborly gossip. It was weird.