Friday, April 15, 2005

My wife and I were discussing our neighborhood the other day and its relative safety. We must talk about these things now, since we’re going to be parents. I think it’s a Los Angeles city ordinance or something.

I say that even though we may not live in 90210, we do live across the street from Beverly Hills--more officially known as Beverly Hills Adjacent--and that’s pretty good isn’t it?

The mother of my unborn child, however, seems to think we should consider moving.

Wife: A car crashed into our apartment building the night we moved in.
Me: But that was an accident, right?

Wife: Earlier this week, I saw a scrawny, shifty-looking guy standing suspiciously on the corner. He just hangs out, shivering in 80-degree weather until a car drives up, to which sticks his head in and SOMETHING happens.
Me: Exactly what are you suggesting? It could just be old friends reuniting. Have you no faith in humanity?

Wife: On a late-night dog walk, didn’t you see a guy pulled over on the street getting a blowjob?
Me: Yeah... But, can you blame him?

Wife: Remember when you saw the 7-11 clerk punch a customer in the face?
Me: But the guy was asking for batteries. Battery... Batteries. Maybe the clerk got confused.

Wife: What about the time we saw a streetwalker selling her wares about three blocks from our apartment?
Me: C’mon, this is LA. All the ladies dress like that!

Wife: Do you remember when they found that guy murdered in an alley a few blocks from here?
Me: Hey, if you’re lurking in an alley late at night, are you really that innocent?

Wife: How about the major bank robbery up the street where the police gunned down one of the perps?
Me: Honey, he was robbing a bank.

Wife: What about the time that 12-year-old kid made fun of your pants?
Me: ...

Wife: Well?
Me: It’s time to move.

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