Mailed packages swiped from Bates. Care packages from home, I assume. Some form of casserole that will look as gross as upchuck, homemade brownies but not the kind you and your dorm friends make, an orange because you crazy college kids don't eat right, a photo of your Snuggle Bunny holding a sign that says, "I miss you," some extra phone minutes so you can call home once in a while, you ungrateful punk, and a package of tighty whities because it's important to wear clean underwear. You never know when you'll be in an accident, you know.

Dude, call your mom.

A River Road resident last week interrupted the theft of a barbecue grill from his backyard. Police are seeking a suspect who is actively on fire and reeking of A1 steak sauce. Yes, it's that important.

A door at Bill Davis' Tobacconists was kicked in, rolling papers and water pipes stolen. Papers and pipes, you say? Chances are good that when the suspect is caught, he will be hungry and his confession will contain some form of: "Dude, I totally owned that back door. You got anything to eat?" This culprit ought to hook up with the barbecue guy, who probably still tastes like chipotle.

The Mexico Tipico restaurant was busted into in a similar overnight burglary. A good sleuth will look into the possibility that a tapeworm epidemic is afoot.

A Howard Street home was broken into. Food stolen. So, I think it's safe to assume you can stop worrying about that laptop computer, big screen television and jewelry inherited from Aunt Agnes. Just put an alarm system on your refrigerator and go about your day. Come to think of it, has anybody seen hulking, hungry sports writer Randy Whitehouse lately?

These days it's the store brand, all-meat jobbies over at Shaw's. It may contain Montauk Monster Meat, but I like it. I don't, however, keep any of these pizzas in my home. Please don't bust down my door.