No Need to Bust Balls


At some point last week, it looked as though the moving company had lost about 10% of our stuff, including the precious wooden cradle that Scott built for the Bollinger babies, my computer and Max’s ultra expensive, stupidly small BMX bike. In true New Jersey fashion, Max was ready to bust some balls over the misplaced stuff but he really couldn’t do much about it while on vacation with Grandma BJ and Pop Dick on the idyllic island of Martha’s Vineyard. So then we thought about enlisting the services of Pop Walter, who truly knows how to bust balls when necessary (we’ve used his services in the past), but in the end we chose to be patient, listening quietly to the moving company’s daily updates about the possible whereabouts of our things. There was some muttering, yes, and a few choice expletives uttered in private. One of us had a few bouts of heavy breathing, the other a stomach ache, but there was no ball busting. We got all our stuff back yesterday…in fine condition. Sometimes there’s no need for ball busting. Sometimes there’s just no need for it.

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