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My car, while parked out in the suburbs at my mom’s, was broken into this weekend.

Or… got into this weekend. They didn’t break anything. At least that I can tell. I haven’t looked in my trunk for fear of a dead body stowed away.

In fact, the only evidence that something was amiss was that the contents of my glovebox had been unceremoniously dumped onto my front seat.

I suppose there was nothing all that tempting for the would-be burglars. I would have taken the roll of stamps sitting on my front seat. I mean, they’re as good as money, issued by the government and everything. But neither those nor my relatively new sneakers were disturbed. Nor was the decorative ceramic bowl that’s been sitting in the backseat. Which is really rather attractive—and proof the would-be burglars just have no sense of style.

I have mixed feelings about this whole situation. Part of me is thankful that nothing was taken and nothing was damaged—it was most likely neighborhood kids finding an unlocked door and checking for anything good to steal. It could have been worse.

But the other part of me wants to hunt down the little cocksuckers and kick them in the nuts repeatedly. And then go to work on their face.

Oh well. Maybe they’ll get hit by a car or higher taxes or something.