Inside Job

What a night! The little woman was still at her conference in Dover, and I was watching "Project Runway." The house was dark; that's when I heard the rattle at my back door. I had read about burglars in the area. I quickly unlocked and opened the door. Three men were standing there in the dark, surprised. I warmly greeted them, saying I was expecting them. They were Latvian immigrants to the Seine area---plenty of them around here lately. I insisted they enter my kitchen. I had them sit, remove their caps. I served them bourbon, and we downed eight or nine drinks in memory of J. Edgar Hoover. They didn't seem to mind. We sang a couple of songs from the old country. While they were still drinking and snacking in the kitchen, I quickly went to my bedroom, then returned to show them my loaded pistol. They were taken aback, but I let them carefully examine it. Because they were without firearms, I recommended my kind of handgun for their ventures. They were grateful. With one more drink on my part dedicated to the honor of that great Latvian-American, Andy Kaufman, I abruptly walked out the front door, telling them to close the front and back doors behind them when they too departed. After a walk around the block in the dark, I returned to find everything tidy in my kitchen, the boys gone, and nothing stolen. I like Latvians.

-Old Gargoyle