Uncle Albert always bragged about being a “lucky” guy. He trusted anyone and everyone; he was always talking to strangers and turning them into friends. He was always giving away his property, and getting new stuff. “Hey, there’s nothing attached to me except for my heart!”
Uncle Albert’s heart seemed to be nearly broken when I visited him the day after his annual vacation. “Everything I did in Las Vegas stayed in Las Vegas,” he said, trying to find some cheer. “Everything I left at home must be staying in Las Vegas too.”
In the living room, where a giant high-definition plasma television had been hanging on the wall, only a large hole in the wall remained. His entire DVD collection – including the entire Three Stooges collector’s edition – was nowhere to be seen. Even the easy chair, in which he sat night after night, was now just a stain on the carpet. It was as if someone had pulled a large moving van up to the house and helped themselves to everything in the house. “They didn’t even leave me a remote!” he said, as if the remote could magically make everything re-appear.
Everyday he would go into the neighbor’s yard and feed their guard dog some extra biscuits. Tonight, the biscuits were gone, and the dog was still expecting a reward for a “heckuva job.”
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