Category: Random

I don’t know where to file these posts.

Catwoman

I had Monday off, so to celebrate, I engaged in one of my favorite leisure activities: watching terrible movies with my buddy Matt, the head_of_fema! We decided on

winner of several 2005 Razzies, and like the others we’ve watched, it disappointed in the most pleasing way.

We open on a credit sequence (Matt: “Directed by Pitof? That’s not a thing”) of cats and maps. Maps and cats. Cats. Maps. Soundtrack evocative of, but not as good as, Enigma’s “Sadness Part 1” (come on, you know that was your jam).

Maps.

Cats.

Voiceover: “It all started on the day that I died.”

That’s Patience Phillips speaking. Not-a-thing Pitof clearly tried to make the main character start out as frump girl — unkempt hair, flowy Afro-print tank top — but how do you make Halle Berry unattractive? Un-possible. Whatever, she’s supposed to be not-hot and clumsy and flustered all the time. She’s Halle Berry, of Monster’s Ball — girl can act — so I’ll buy the clumsy and flustered part, even if she’s gorgeous.

Patience and her chubby BFF Sally (you probably know her as Ms. Swan) work in the marketing department of a huge cosmetics company. Sidekick Sally is shown slathering herself with the as-yet-unreleased product Beau-line (pronounced Bee-you-leen, for no reason whatsoever) and effusing about how great it is. Wanna bet?

Cut to board meeting. CEO with a Fronch accent and slimy demeanor is announcing the launch of Beau-line. Wifie (Sharon Stone) interrupts to say she’s stepping down as the face of the company and introduces the new model, who’s fucking her husband. She doesn’t say that last part, but you can just tell.

Back in his office, Fronch CEO dresses down Patience for her work: “I don’t know why I expected your art to show better taste than your wardrobe.” Ouch. But he has a point. That tank top. Ugh.

Late that night, Patience is awakened by a loud party at the neighbor’s apartment. She opens the window and says at a conversational volume to the closed window across the alley, behind which death metal is playing at full volume, “Could you, like, turn down your music? Aw. Hmph.”

The next day, she attempts to rescue a cat on the ledge of her building. Police officer Tom Lone (Benjamin Bratt — mmmm, dreamy) thinks she’s a jumper, tries to talk her down, runs upstairs, bashes in her apartment door, and catches her as she’s about to fall to her death, all in the span of about eight seconds.

Me: “That was fast.”
Matt: “He’s a really good cop.”

Patience sprints out to work.

Back at the company, Wifie is wearing… I don’t know.

Me: “What’s she got on there?”
Matt: “Seven yards of amazing.”

Fronch CEO is lecturing her about how we can’t defeat Father Time. Wanna bet?

Tom Lone has tracked Patience down (using her dropped wallet, natch, because she’s clumsy). While Sally looks on, Lone asks her out for coffee. After he leaves, Sidekick Sally tells Patience she has to wear that leather outfit she got her for her birthday. (I always wear chaps on my coffee dates.) Patience says she’ll never wear that leather outfit. Wanna bet?

Late that night, Patience takes the redone artwork for the campaign to the cosmetics lab and overhears the brass talking about whether they should release the product given the side effects (headaches, fainting, nausea, and if you stop using it, dinocroc skin!). Aw, man, she shouldn’t have heard that. But she definitely shouldn’t have bumped into a tray full of glass, alerting them to her presence. She’s so clumsy!

The brass send a coupla goons after her, who flush her out a pipe, and she drowns.

BUT!

Eighty-seven cats stalk up to her washed-up corpse. One sits on her chest and breathes Fancy Feast breath right in her face, and she’s a cat! She coughs up a hairball, bats at a spider, jumps onto a balcony, and punches through her own window because those are all things cats do.

Patience/Catwoman wakes up the next morning. The breathy cat from last night is in her apartment. She checks the collar and goes to visit the owner, the mom from Six Feet Under, in her craftsman house right in the middle of the city skyscrapers, because sure. Francis Conroy rubs catnip on Patience’s face. I am not making this up.

In some of the worst dialogue of the movie, Fronch CEO tries to fire Patience for not getting the artwork in, and she quits. Sassily. Like how a cat quits its job.

Walking with Sidekick Sally, Patience hisses at dogs and then is drawn to a necklace in a jewelry store window. You think this necklace will have a big significance later in the movie, but you’re wrong. Sidekick Sally faints. (Are you wondering if she has headaches, nausea, and dinocroc skin too?!) They go to the hospital. Sidekick Sally flirts with her doctor and acts totally not sick.

Patience visits Officer Lone at the school where he’s giving a Say No to Drugs talk, and then they play the weirdest game of one-on-one basketball ever. Patience wins because cats are good at basketball.

The neighbor is having another wild party, but this time, Patience busts down the door, sprays the speakers down with the soda hose, and then uses it as a whip! She’s recognizing her power!

Matt: “MONTAGE! MONTAGE!”

That leather outfit she was never gonna wear? Wears it. That unkempt hair? Edward Scissorhandses it. That motorcycle? (Whose motorcycle? Shush!) Rides it all over the city.

Robbery in progress at the jewelry store where she saw that necklace! Catwoman puts a stop to that. “You thought you could come here and steal all these beautiful things? What a purrrrrrfect idea!” She beats them all up and surfs on one dude across the floor. Cats and surfing are like cats and basketball.

Matt: “They love water! They love surfing.”

Catwoman grabs the loot and leaves. Regretful in the morning, she returns it all. Except a real pretty ring and the Insignificant Necklace.

Patience returns to Francis Conroy’s house. Frances Conroy tells her she died and was reborn a cat and pushes her off a balcony to show her she’ll land on her feet. Patience vows to find her own killer.

She runs across rooftops in even less leather than before until she sees one of the goons who was chasing her before her death, at which point she follows him into a club. Dance break! Whip! Fight scene! She whoops ass.

[Other stuff happens but it’s boring.]

Fronch CEO has a fight with Wifie, slaps her, and almost breaks his hand. Beau-line has made her face like marble!

[More boring stuff.]

Shortest, least satisfying sex scene ever between Patience and Officer Lone. I’m feeling real weird about how hot I got watching Halle Berry have sex with Billy Bob Thornton and I’m scowling when she’s getting it on with Benjamin Bratt?

<Avid Bruxist makes therapy appointment>

Lone is putting zero and zero together to figure out that Patience is Catwoman. Meanwhile, Wifie kills Fronch CEO and frames Catwoman. Officer Lone arrests her. She tries to explain that things aren’t what they look like.

Lone: “What should I see?”
Patience: “The girl you had that short, unsatisfying sex scene with last night.”

Patience slips through the bars of her cell, leathers up, and steals a — wait for it — Jaguar. To thwart the evil cosmetics company’s plan, Catwoman chains all the Beau-line truck axles together. All of them. Because for their worldwide launch, all the company needed was a baker’s dozen of 18-wheelers.

Catwoman confronts Wifie. Wifie explains that if you stop using Beau-line, you get dinocroc face, and if you keep using it, you get marble face.

Um.

Thanks for that exposition.

Because exposition always goes in the climax.

And we didn’t already know that from the exposition earlier in the movie where exposition goes.

CAT FIGHT! Not a bad one either, actually. Wifie ends up falling fifty stories out a window.

And then we have another Montage! Montage! Francis Conroy pets a cat. Sidekick Sally finds love.

Me: “Hey, chubby girl gets hot doctor!”
Matt: “Doctor loses license.”

Catwoman writes Lone a Dear John letter and cats off into the distance to a sassy song that’s evocative of, but not as good as, anything by Christina Aguilera (come on, you know she’s your girl).

I mean, if you only have two hours, go with Dinocroc vs. Supergator, but if it’s a lazy Sunday, you could put on your Blu-ray of Pitof’s Catwoman.

Tweedly Tweedly Dee

Hey, do you follow me on Twitter?

If you don’t, you’re missing so, so much. For example, this insightful analysis of the third presidential debate:

I’m a foreign policy expert.

While you’re at it, Like my Facebook page too. For crying out loud, Tulip has more Facebook Likers than I do, and I’ve been hammering away at this shit for years.

(I will try to put up a real post tomorrow, friends. All my words for the week got syphoned off into a piece of thinly veiled fiction about a river tubing trip that I barfed out [the story, not the trip] for my writing workshop. But it’s not even good yet, so I can’t post it here. Plus, I’ve been staying up past my bedtime again because the subject matter of the short story is making me all agitated. I need to go to bed now.)

Retrobruxist Friday 10/19/12

A week ago, I submitted The Foster Chronicles (Buffy’s) to my writing workshop for critique. So it was with more than a little agita that I went to class last night. The folks in the class are nice and supportive but frank; if something doesn’t work, they say so.

I needn’t have worried so much. People liked my stuff a lot. In fact, two people said some version of “I don’t read blogs, and I’m not a dog person, so I was skeptical, but I really got into it!”

One guy did say, “As a blog this is fine. For writing to keep someone’s interest or tell a story, it doesn’t work for me.” In his other notes, he kept referring to Buffy as ‘he’, so it’s clear it really didn’t hold his interest.

And there was some confusion. One woman wrote that I shouldn’t underline things so much, not realizing that those things were hyperlinks, and just about everybody put a big question mark next to where I wrote “What is that I don’t even”.

But overall, it was validating, and I got some ideas about how to turn it into a larger piece, even one where I fictionalize it and weave it together with another, totally different, painfuller thing I’ve been going through for the past four months.

Now. All I have to do is do that. No big.

*****

Three years ago, I was figuring out that dogs are pretty much fourth graders.

After failing at Match and OKCupid, I decided eHarmony was worth a shot two years ago. That was dumb.

I did NOT celebrate ANYtober this time last year.

MOAR FUN WITH PHOTOBOOTH:

Don’t I look like the old woman from “Goonies”?

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Steal the Sun from the Sky for You* (and Make a Dress Out of It)

I promised you my 8th grade prom dress for the Embarrassing Photo of the Week, and I like to keep my promises. Pretty much every girl at the dance wore some version of the dress that my best friend (also pictured, because dates? — what even?) wore, but NOT ME. Because why would I wear something conservative to the prom at Cove Creek K-8 Elementary (graduating class size: 30), which sits ten miles outside of Boone, North Carolina?

No, this occasion called for another Amy Scott/McCall’s Couture design with Mama Scott at the bobbin. Notes:

  • Once again, my mother did exactly what I asked of her.
  • The three skirts(!) are made of a highly flammable fabric that is white with a gold lamé pattern;
  • The bodice, spaghetti straps(!), edging of the three(!) skirts, and the side-pony-tail(!) holder are gold lamé(!);
  • When I found those 3-inch heels(!!) also white with a gold lamé pattern(!!!!!) at Payless ShoeSource in Boone Mall, I nearly crapped myself from happiness;
  • Again, the reason my legs make it look like I’m two half-people stitched together at the waist is because I spent Mondays and Wednesdays from 5:00 to 7:00 at the Dancer’s Corner — in that building that used to be Shadrack’s Barbeque, you know — doing tap and jazz, of course; and
  • My bangs are curled, teased, and shellacked to a bullet-proof state.
Go ahead. Click on it. It’s pretty spectacular.
What.

And you get a special bonus Embarrassing Photo of the Week because that’s the kind of guy I am. I used the “Bulge” effect in Photo Booth to do a better version of the horrifying photo from the Monti.

I think I nailed it this time.

Bonus #2 because I can’t stop!:

Don’t I look like a sad hobbit?

I will look for more prom photos next time I go to Boone. There are a couple real doozies I think you’re gonna like.

*Super-special prize for the first person who can identify the prom theme without Googling it. And by super-special prize, I mean I’ll be really proud of you.

Retrobruxist Friday 10/12/12

I was suffering through a pretty extended period of terminal insomnia three years ago. I thought it was from grief, but turned out the Effexor I started taking right after Boonie died was the culprit. When I decided to go off it a little while later, the wake-ups stopped. Now the same thing is happening, but I’m not on meds so I don’t know what the hell. Sometimes it shows up when I start a new job or move to a new city or something, but there’s no major circumstantial upheaval right now. So I don’t know. But it sucks.

Two years ago, I was soliciting career suggestions. Still am! (If you guys had actually come through with my request for a bajillion dollars, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.)

Thing is, I love teaching: I love my content area; I really like my school and the people I work with; I dig the vacation schedule; my administration is supportive; and the kids, the kids are hilarious. But the parts I hate about my job, I hate so bad, namely (1) frequent, long, useless, pointless meetings, (2) 7:20am start time, and (3) stupid, stupid hoops to jump through, passed down from people who have never been in the classroom or were there so long ago they haven’t the foggiest recollection what it’s like.

And those things, minus maybe #2, would be true for any teaching job. So maybe teaching’s not it for me?

But what is?

(Send one bajillion dollars now.)

A year ago, I wrote one of my most commented-on posts. You think it’s about dating? Guess again.

Happy Retrobruxist Friday, y’all.

Dinocroc vs. Supergator

The illustrious head_of_fema and I got together yesterday afternoon to view another awesomely bad movie, Dinocroc vs. Supergator, which he owns on Blu-Ray, natch. Matt had first suggested Halle Berry’s Catwoman, but when I read that D vs. S included David Carradine “in one of his final performances [before he killed himself jerking off in Thailand]”, I knew it was time for us to see some people getting eaten. Getting et.

By the way, previews included Dinoshark (exactly what you might imagine from the title) and Cyclops (“A general will be betrayed. Alliances will be forged. Revenge will be delivered,” said they. “Passive voice will be used,” replied I.)

…And now I’m thinking Roger Corman should probably produce Dinoshark vs. Cyclops.

OK, onward!

Alarms are blaring at Drake Industries Research Lab in Hawaii. “Everybody out now! It’s escaped!” yells a blond MILF in a lab coat, never mind that if it has escaped—just an idea but—maybe everybody should stay in. At 0:46, the Dinocroc or the Supergator, one, has its first white-coated snack. (Matt and I never figured out which beast was which. All I know is one had a lopey T-Rex gait, and the other ran low to the ground and wide, like Tulip.)

Dr. MILF hides behind a palm tree and gets on the phone. She calls Drake (David Carradine), who is smoking a cigar and having his blood pressure taken by a stripper nurse—oops, sorry, stripper doctor. My bad. He gets the low-down on what’s happening at his research facility from Dr. MILF, who then watches the other beast bust through a wall and flatten a dude. So many white-coated people get et.

Next up are the credits, including sweeping shots of Hawaiian landscape and a theme song, evocative of the Spaghetti Westerns of yesteryear, which will play relentlessly throughout the movie. And hurt my feelings.

A couple is lying on the beach (“Fully clothed. Interesting,” remarks Matt). They debate whether to stay there or go to a waterfall.  She runs; he follows. [Many superfluous shots of them running through tall grass.] They arrive at the waterfall. “Come on. Let’s get wet,” says the dude, in a totally non-sexual way. Way to blow an opportunity, guy.

He tells her she’ll look prettier—no shit—if she gets him a beer, and she—no shit—goes to get him one. Serves him right: one of the beasts, who had apparently Flat-Stanleyed himself, rises up out of the shin-deep water to snatch the dude under. Girl turns around, can’t find her beau, and then gets et by the other beast. So far, the two beasts are like ships passing in the night. Ships that eat people.

Two dudes are arguing on the phone. Paul is some sort of investigative reporter or something?, and he’s saying he’s found some sketchy stuff at Drake Labs, like maybe they’re using the growth hormone not on plants as they’re supposed to, but on animals. The other guy, Mark, is telling him… I can’t remember, but there’s a homoerotic what-are-you-wearing moment at the end of their conversation.

A young blond in a uniform (we learn later she’s a conservation officer, ohhhh) docks a speedboat and goes up the pier to speak to her father, the police chief, with whom she shares an inappropriate amount of personal space. He reports that something strange is afoot; they found clothes and backpacks at the waterfall. Blondie should check it out but not without backup. She punches her dad flirtatiously. Ew, Electra.

Meanwhile, Drake sends in mercenaries to kill the beasts a la Predator. But you know what? They’re just in it for the money, so you know what else? They all get et. Ha. That’ll teach them to be so greedy.

Victoria, a British Natalie Imbruglia impersonator, beats up a bouncer to talk to Drake. Not sure why she has to beat up the bouncer, since she works for Drake and so does the bouncer, but I think it’s to show how tough she is. Drake recounts an anecdote about this pizza place on the Lower West Side of Manhattan, where he grew up; on their boxes was written, “You’ve tried the rest. Now try the best.” And he instructs her to call The Cajun. (This scene was done eleventy billion times better in Pulp Fiction.)

Cut to The Cajun, a hot guy with a rifle (but no discernible accent, Matt points out), who cuts himself with a Bowie knife and drips his blood in the water. His phone rings, and he simultaneously talks to Victoria and shoots an alligator in the face.

Paul, you remember Paul, who turns out works for the federal government, duh, is fishing. His lover(?), Mark, calls him and says he’s had intel that proves Paul was right! Fishy shit going on at Drake! Keep digging! Build a case!

Cassidy, the blond ranger who’s maybe probably having sex with her dad, reappears in her speedboat, which breaks down at the dock where Paul is fishing. She peruses his computer files while he checks her propellers and knows he’s not an engineer as he claims. He offers her a ride in his Jeep. (Now I’m concerned because the cover said these beasts can outrun SUVs!!!)

They have this conversation:
Paul: Why did you become a conservation officer?
Cassidy: I love animals. I hate seeing them hurt or exploited.
Paul: What if I killed a wild boar?
Cassidy: I’d throw you up against the car and handcuff you.
Paul: Is that a promise or a threat?

Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a minute, Paul! Are you flirting with her? I thought you were having sex with Mark! I have no time to be confused, as they hear a roar and speed off in the slower-than-mutant-reptile-mobile.

I’m going to paraphrase a little here for the sake of Internet space:

  • Some bikinis go to the waterfall and ask a nature photographer to snap pics of them; he says, “OK, one roll,” because apparently we still put film in cameras.
  • Bikinis & photographer = et
Paul and Cassidy find a field of two-story mushrooms, which have no relevance to the rest of the story. Dr. MILF runs down the road. They help her into the Jeep, and the requisite Jurassic Park scene commences, with the more upright of the two reptiles chasing the car. Cassidy’s bullets do nothing, but the exploding crossbow of The Cajun, who just happens to be in the river next to the road, slows him down enough for them to get away.
  • A movie producer asks the hotel clerk for a room stocked with food, liquor, and cheeses (that’s right!: food and cheeses) for three, if you know what I mean. (I think the producer’s telling the clerk that he’s invited for a three-way, but later it turns out to be the producer and two chicks, in a hot tub.)
  • Producer/chicks = et

In the hospital, Dr. MILF explains how Drake misused federal funds for this project. Paul videotapes it. Once everyone’s gone, Victoria jabs Dr. MILF in the neck with a syringe full of cyanide (MILF: “What are you doing?” Victoria: “Something bad”). Paul catches her, but she defibrillates him and gets away.

The Cajun has the brilliant idea to get the Dinocroc and the Supergator together and let them duke it out. They’ll use helicopters and explosives to bring them together. The Cajun and Paul get in separate helicopters* and use heat-seeking electronics to locate the (cold-blooded, notes Matt) reptiles but then go back home because they didn’t bring the explosives with them? Seems like they could’ve made one trip. But I’m not Cajun so I don’t know.

*Cassidy kisses Paul square on the mouth with tongue at this point, in front of her dad/lover, but just minutes before Mark had told Paul to “watch [his] 6”, which I understood as phone sex. I DON’T KNOW, PEOPLE.

  • A tour guide is taking a group of tourists around an abandoned hotel, which had been devastated by a storm years prior.
  • Tourists (after some truly spectacular bad acting)/tour guide/bus driver = et

Paul tells The Cajun it doesn’t matter that the MILF is dead because he sent her videotaped testimony to a friend.

The Cajun: What kind of friend?
Paul: The serious kind.

EVERYONE NEEDS TO STOP BEING SUCH A SLUT.

Paul’s serious friend has made his way to Hawaii at this point and shoots Victoria. Drake’s stripper doctor comes down the stairs. “Who are you?” asks the serious friend. “I’m Drake’s nurse,” she replies. (Me: “Earlier he called her ‘doctor’!” Matt: “She must have a PhD in nursing.”) Drake has a heart attack and dies. Of autoerotic asphyxiation. In Thailand.

Back at the abandoned hotel, Police-Dad and Cassidy have a Moment:
P-D: You ready?
Cassidy: I’m your daughter, aren’t I?
P-D: And I’m lucky to have you. I should tell you that more. And have more sex with you.

[I added the last sentence.]

(Me: “They just had a Moment. He’s gonna die.” Matt, indignantly: “SPOILER ALERT!”)

  • Police-Dad = et

Cassidy cries for exactly 34 seconds and then gets pissed. “It killed my dad. I’m gonna kill it.” She leads it through a tunnel into a field, where Paul and The Cajun are crouching behind a tractor, sharing a homoerotic touch.

This whole movie is nothing but sex.

The beasts collide! It’s finally the vs. part of the movie!

While one is killing the other, Paul comes up with a convoluted plan to finish off the victor, involving an explosive and a tub of rainwater. And guess what. It totally works.

The Cajun, Paul, and Cassidy walk off into the sunset, probably to have sex with each other. And Mark too. They shouldn’t leave Mark out.

Overall, super-fun and recommended. I just wish, since everybody was apparently having so much sex, they would’ve showed some of it on screen instead of making me picture it all in my mind. It was hot in my mind, though.

Trigger-Happy

Bit o’ the ol’ 3/8-life crisis over at Avid Bruxist headquarters, folks. So far, I’ve bought a new car, dyed my hair dark, and made inappropriate advances at a friend.

So! Guns!

Right?

I don’t know, I’d always wanted to shoot a gun, and my buddy Kyle, you know, has several, so in my I’ll-be-37-next-month/dead-soon-enough/might-as-well-do-shit mode, I requested a tutorial from him. We got our schedules aligned and headed to the shooting range Monday night.

I read the whole rules and rights and responsibilities document and signed away my right to sue the place if I shot myself dead.

Kyle rounded up our eye and ear protection and bought some ammo. The dude behind the counter, who had a holstered sidearm, handed me a target sheet. “Skeletor,” remarked Kyle (about the target, not the dude). We were assigned lane—lane?—6, but we had the whole place to ourselves. I thought that was probably a good thing—I wasn’t sure how floppy my aim would be, and accidentally shooting somebody would probably harsh my (whatever the opposite of) mellow (is).

The range was different from what I expected. First, it was about 100 degrees in there, and second, well, the place was shot all to shit. Seems like exactly what one would expect; don’t know why I pictured more white walls and glass? That doesn’t even make any sense! Did I see that in a movie?

Anyway, walls were black/ceiling was black. Or at least everything had once been particle board painted black and was now pock-marked and pulpy-looking.

Kyle clipped Skeletor up to the hanging thing, scooted him away a few yards, and loaded one of his weapons. “What am I shooting here?” I asked him.

“A .40—it’s what the cops carry,” he told me and placed it in my hand.

He told me how to grip the gun (during the session, he had to say, “Finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot,” aboooouuut 9 times… maybe 11… baker’s dozen). He asked which was my dominant eye. I told him right. He told me to close my left eye. Knees bent, he said. Lean forward. Aim. Don’t pull the trigger; mash the trigger.

The noise-canceling headphones left only a dull roar from the exhaust fan and Kyle’s voice prompting me from behind.

I gripped the gun. My hands felt greasy. I closed my left eye and aimed at Skeletor. I bent my knees and leaned forward and mashed the trigger. Blam! The gun jerked in my hands, and I screamed a ridiculous, high-pitched, girly scream. Kyle was laughing behind me. We both looked at the target sheet.

“Nice, Amy Scott. Center mass,” Kyle said. I had hit Skeletor pretty much in his evil goddamn heart. Whoa.

The gun held 12 bullets. I shot all twelve. All twelve hit in the box in the middle chest. Skeletor’s vital organs would’ve been porous.

The first knuckle of my thumb was red and stinging, but I was ready to shoot again. Kyle loaded the gun and moved the target a little farther away. I still hit mostly center, but with each shot, my thumb smarted more, and I was pulling left. On about the ninth round, the flesh on the back of my thumb in between the knuckles split open.

“Jesus,” Kyle said, looking at the blood. “Show me your grip.” I showed him. Oh. Oh. I had been holding the gun totally wrong, and it had been biting me on the kickback.

For the last few shots and then a whole clip from another piece (9 rounds), I held the guns properly and, guess what, no more bleeding.

Kyle offered to keep going, but I was sweaty and shaky and tired. Plus, I liked the way Skeletor looked, and I didn’t want to mess it up.

33 shots. Even those ones outside the box, I feel like probably would’ve slowed him down.

I got home from work today to find two bullet holes in my living room window. (My neighborhood is so fancy!) The cops came out and said, since the bullets hadn’t pierced both panes of glass and there were four dents in my siding as well, it was most likely a kid with a BB gun. My sister suggested I laminate Skeletor and hang him outside. Yeah, I could put a sign next to him that says “You aim your goddamn BB gun at my living room window again, I’ll aim my .40 at your center mass”.