Charlottesville police are looking for a (you are not going to believe this) black male of average height and build who stole two purses from elderly women yesterday. I’m impressed that someone could actually steal a purse and not get caught. It’s not like Charlottesville offers many places for foot-laden criminals.
Popularity: 14% [?]
Tagged as: Charlottesville, Crime, Police
And I had to pick today to wear my oversized white t-shirt.
In an unrelated story, the CVS on the downtown mall reports that they have completely sold out of Q-tips and maps of Friendship Court.
And I had to pick today to wear my oversized white t-shirt.
*hahahaha!!*
I need to buy a rain guard for my laptop, so when I spray it with whatever I happen to be drinking, it wont get ruined. I probably should invest in a bib too. I had no idea that perusing the comments on the cVillain could be potentially hazardous to my ‘puter.
Could the description of the perpetrator be any more vague?
That description would seem to exclude most of the likely purse-snatchers in my acquaintance. However, several of them are quite capable of cruising Trans and/or a lá reverse MIchael Jackson, and can’t be ruled out as suspects. Who will volunteer to be old ladies and troll for the malefactors?
TUIs are very dangerous street. We have TA meetings every week.
I’m going to put my coffee down before I ask.
TUI’s? TA meetings? What, pray tell, are these?
Typing Under the Influence. We encourage it over the weekends.
http://img151.imageshack.us/img151/3670/newsrapistwx1.jpg
Between this and the “black ice” alert - this town is a racial time bomb!
They might as well have just said they were looking for human beings.
No, i’ve seen the guy! He lives across the street, and down the block, and around the corner. I ruled out everyone at the bowling alley last night, though.
Reminds me of my neighbor, the only one I have a problem with really. She lives directly behind me. When I first moved to the ‘mont, we were chatting over the fence, saying hi and what not and she kept referring to the “drug dealers” next door to her. Finally, I stopped her and asked how she knew they were drug dealers. “Well”, she said “they’re black….” long pause as it sinks in to her that this is not sufficient evidence for me. I give her the “aaannnnddd” look with my eyes. “Aaaand they have visitors!” Well hell, case closed. Call JADE! There goes the neighborhood!
She has since built a sixteen foot fence all around her property, and lives in there with her two nervous guard weiner dogs. Its like she doesn’t even exist anymore. Which is nice.
Meanwhile there was a very real, very multiracial, crack house two doors up from me. My kids were little and were always asking why the “neighbors” had different children (customer’s kids who would play outside).
Ahhh… good times in belmont.
Yo! Where do you find this shit? LMAO!!!!
glad to hear she built the fence, b-yo. now you don’t have to see her or any weiner poopies.
/been patiently waiting for the opportunity.
My adventures of a decade in belmont should be documented. Its been a wild ride. For instance (yes, i have absolutely no work to do)…
One day I was mowing the front ‘lawn’, when the kids came running up from the back of the yard saying, very excitedly, “Dad! The neighbor wants to talk to you! He wants to talk to you!” There was a little too much excitement in their voice for it to be any of the neighbors I usually talked to. Knowing that, and the fact that there is nothing more that the yo boys enjoy more than grand spectacle of humanity gone horribly wrong (see truck nuts story, subway story) I knew I was in for something special. I steeled myself, and plodded over to to the back fence.
What greeted me was indeed something special. A man had wandered across his street, through the “drug dealer’s” yard, and to my back fence (three lots = lots of fence neighbors). This was no ordinary man. His most prominent feature was what could only be described as a prehensile beer belly. I mean, I’ve seen a few, but this was world class, jutting straight out at ninety degrees for a full foot an a half. He was grizzled. He was dingy. His clothes were woefully undersized. He was perfect.
“Can I help you sir?” Said I in my plucky new neighbor meeting voice. With his response I had two immediate observations. One, that at 9:30 in the morning, he smelled of beer and liquor so strongly that his breath could sterilize a toad at 300 yards. And two, that even if he had more than three teeth, I would not have been able to understand a word he was saying so thick was his Virginny hill accent. The best I could decipher was the word “dog house”. So I fell to my default conversational position, which I do in these situations, which basically involves a lot of smiling, nodding, and saying yes. And though soon “the conversation” soon ended, I realized not much later that this perhaps had been the wrong tact to take.
Back I am mowing my front lawn, when very slowly and stutteringly backing down my dead end street comes an old truck with an old beat to hell homemade doghouse in the back. I felt a slight chill, despite the summer heat. Having no dog, just what, I wondered, had I agreed to.
Mr. Hillbelly, as he has become known in yo legend, backs his truck on to my lawn. And proceeds to unload this giant, shingled wooded termite infested canine domicile on to my front lawn. Then me, the boys, and Mr. Belly begin a very awkward, only slightly cohesive conversation. In my mind, I kept wondering if he was going to ask me for money or some other (shudder) method of barter. Sensing my distraction, he turned his conversation to my boys and began to ask them about NASCAR.
Now let me back up a little. Two weeks prior to this, the three yo’s had been eating at that horribly smokey slow place known as the blue moon diner (I keed). We were looking at the newspaper which was going on and and on about the “Daytona 500″. My children enquired about the phenomena of the 2000 left turns, and, being fairly fresh from California I was left with precious few answers. Tell you what I said. Lets flip it on wen we get home and see. Once home we didn’t flip it on until perhaps the last fifty laps or so. Within ten minutes of watching, Dale Earnheart drove himself into a wall and died. This of course, though we did not realize it at the time, was the second biggest historical death, getting beat by a bumper by jesus. We still don’t watch NASCAR, not because it isn’t somehow hypnotizing (like my ceiling fan), but because believe whenever we do as a group, someone will die. You fans have us to thank for keeping your driver’s safe, and we’re real sorry about the intimidator. We did not know we had the curse.
Anyway back to my lawn, and Mr. Hilllbelly is asking my kids who their favorite driver is. My children, knowing no names or numbers, began to state the cars by their colors. My youngest son, being an Oakland Raiders fan, said he liked “the silver one”. Wrong answer. Apparently the silver one was driven by a driver named Martin, who had been somewhat instrumental in the crash that had killed Mr. Earnhart. Mr. Hillbelly flew into a sudden drunken rage, muttering angry things like “Your boy killed my boy, how dare you” etc. To my seven year old, who was now understandably defensive and confused. Mr Belly then hopped in his truck and peeled out up my street and I have never seen him again. The dog house sat at the end of my street for three years til it was swept up in a large trash pickup for fear of traveling termites.
Ah yard work in belmont. So relaxing, isn’t it?
very nicely told, @15. and i thought i would point out that it seems to be on topic, what with the dog house, the dogs in the threadline photo dressed for the big house, and whatnot.
very nicely done.
Yippee for another epic b’yo story! I can see the title of your short story collection now, “It Ain’t Just a Place - The Trials and Tribulations of Belmont (yo).”
my step-dad watches NASCAR (he’s this very odd mix of tough guy italian and redneck who grew up in suburban connecticut. it’s quite confusing.) and he’s developed this amazing talent for watching the first 10 minutes, falling dead asleep, and waking up for the last 40 laps. it’s amazing.
my mom makes fun of him because she used to race formula 4 and they think the NASCAR guys are wimps.
/apologies for threadjack.
“and he’s developed this amazing talent for watching the first 10 minutes, falling dead asleep, and waking up for the last 40 laps. it’s amazing.”
someone needs to buy me a thesaurus.
I always loved the sign after crossing the Avon Bridge…..”Belmont……if you lived here you’d be home”