So Saturday morning, there’s a knock on the door. It’s a scruffy looking redneck type offering free estimates for tree trimming. Since we have a huge oak in our backyard with broken branches and major overhang, I take him up on it. I’ve had people give me estimates before, but they were always ridiculous – like in the $500 - $750 range – so I’ve always declined. This guy offered to do all my trees for $250, so he won my business.

But anyway, as I was taking him into the backyard to show him the oak, he stopped me and said (imagine HEE-HAW accent here), “‘Scuze me, I don’t mean to be unprofessional, but do ya mind if I take a leak right here?”

As one whose bladder is always full, I could sympathize. “Whatever,” I said. “Just don’t expect me to shake your hand later.”

“I hate to ask, but man, I gotta pee, ya know?” he said, letting it loose. “My balls are floatin’!”

We left the house before he and his crew were completely finished, so no telling what other bodily fluids they further secreted/deposited. But upon overhearing this story, my 5-year-old daughter informed me she never wants to go in the backyard again.

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