Bad boys, bad boys

I felt like I was 17 again this weekend. We had 2 BBQs on Saturday, and since we arrived late to the second (and had imbibed in a few drinks) we decided to stay. We awoke the next morning to the sounds of a fierce, persistent knocking at the door around 8:30am. (Jesus, is that you? We're on our way to church, we swear.)

I grumpily peered out the curtains to see who was gracing us with their early and unwanted presence. To my surprise, it was a burly, balding police officer. And he wasn't bearing coffee and donuts.

I craftily hid behind the curtains to watch the magic unfold, because that is my sneaky secret detective way. I had been to parties when the cops had arrived DURING the festivities, to address a noise complaint or arrest underaged drunkies, but never the morning AFTER. This had to be good.

Apparently, a neighbor had complained that a partygoer had ridden a bike down the street and wiped out on their lawn, a-la America's Funniest Videos, causing divots that were irreparable and emotionally damaging. Which is totally understandable, because grass doesn't grow on it's own. Oh, wait.

What party?

Anyways, our gracious hosts talked to the police officer and worked out the issue at hand. The cop asked if there had been a party the night before, and he admitted as much. Good thing he didn't try to lie, because this was right about the moment that I realized how the cop had found the house:

All was settled and nobody was arrested. And the moral of the story? Doesn't matter if you're 17 or 27, you can still get a laugh (and an unwanted visit from the cops) with a beer box. Also, don't ride your bike down the street and wipe out on your neighbor's lawn.