My husband and I have faced many a foe in the past few months. Hospitalization. Natural disaster. Unemployment.
None, though, have been as frustrating for my husband as the following, the enemy who most regularly gets my hubby's briefs, er, boxers in a bunch.
See for yourself:
You thought you could stop me?
I don't think so, buddy!
Whatcha gonna do about THAT!?
Pity the foolish squirrel who provokes my husband in such a manner, leaping onto the bird feeder Jim so fastidiously fastened in what seemed out of the critters' reach.
Pity, too, the unsuspecting conversationalist who witnesses Jim, mid-sentence, suddenly bound from his chair and dash to the window muttering <cussing> <cusser> <cussedy> <cuss> intent on scaring away the taunting little turd stealing seeds meant for birds.
(That conversationalist typically being me... left to recover from a near heart attack as Jim frantically freaks out on his very worst foe.)