Police responding to a report of noise pollution and arson in progress found a bunch of us Tinbox Acres residents standing around outside Andy's trailer in space #68, singing "The Star Spangled Banner" at the top of our lungs instead. It should be noted that BT's blowtorch was throwing sparks all over the place, making Andy and Lulu's trailer look like a gigantic Roman candle. That's what got us all singing the National Anthem in the first place. No arrests were made.

Bobby Roy went down in flames last month. That's what attracted all them cops and firetrucks and the HazMat guys and the coroner and even some anthropologist feller from up the University. According to the police report, Bobby Roy didn't feel a thing when he bellyflopped into the dirt in the field next door and exploded into flames. According to everyone here at Tinbox Acres, the police report is inaccurate 'cause nobody ever screams, "EEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAGH!" right before they die a painless death.

Carl Bailey was hauled in for drunk in public again when he got all liquored up and toddled to the market up the road.  When Hung Phuc the owner wouldn't cash his check, he staggered out in the parking lot and stumbled around for a while, breathing booze-breath all over patrons entering the store. Eventually, Carl's sea legs gave out on him and he passed out facefirst against the market's front window. Hung Phuc called the cops because Carl's squashed, drooling face on the glass was scaring the shit out of the customers, except for two little old ladies who were trying to see inside his open fly.  It should be noted that even though Carl was completely unconscious against the grocery store window, he never once loosened the death-grip he had on that bottle of Thunderbird clutched in his left hand. It should be further noted that Carl woke up and crapped his pants in the back of the cruiser halfway to the drunk tank, then sat there and howled for the whole rest of the ride about having to ride in such a gooey, stinky cage.

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