I heard the rumbling sound first. It was approaching me fast from behind. I saw a flash of red in my side mirror as it came around me. It was the roar of an american sports car. Flashy.
The driver gunned his engine on his way around me. He didn't need to. I wasn't driving fast. He goosed the accelerator more as a statement than an attempt at acceleration.
"As expensive as this car is," it said, "do you really think I worry about the price of gas?"

I'm watching Ellen DeGeneres..... I would never suggest that I could change her sexual preference, but I would so give it to that goofy, little woman.

I'd like to paint you a mental picture of a man. He sits on a toilet. Beneath him a lump of feces is beginning to cool in the water of the bowl. How did that lump of feces get there? I'll tell you. It may have been deposited there by a man named William. Further, I can tell you that this man William, who may have left feces under the unnameD man, was of Ockham. William of Ockham. The erudite among you will say that this is absurd. He lived in the 1300's. His biological fuctions would have ceased long ago and therefore could not have created the lump of fecal matter. I'll change my theory then. This rapidly cooling turd was created by a work of art. This work of art is fed a meal, which then goes through a series of chambers which simulate the digestive processes of the human body. Once the final stage of the process was complete, a hungarian man wearing a dress brought it in on a silver tray and gently deposited it beneath the unnameD man. You have to admit that this is at least plausible, if not probable. If given the choice between William of Ockham leaving this inigmatic turd beneath the unnameD man or a Hungarian man in a dress leaving the work of art beneath the man, one would be a fool to suppose the latter rather than the former to be true. And so we discover the idea of methodological reductionism, and determine the turd to be a work of art? Hardly. the choice I presented is a false dichotomy. It would be like saying the unnameD man will either wipe his ass or not wipe his ass. If he does not wipe his ass, does it follow that his underwear will soon be sporting skid marks? It does not. For the choice presented is also a false dichotomy. The unnameD man could have his ass wiped by someone else. And so it is with that puzzling poop. Between the choices I presented of course, the one which requires the fewest assumptions is more favorable. And so it is, that we circle the truth; always choosing the a path that leads us closer to it. The unnameD man flushes the toilet, and the doodie floats in a spiral pattern. Circling the drain; taking the path that leads it closer to the sewer.

I didn't mean to be out so late. It couldn't be helped. I planned on a quick ride to wilderness park and back. It was going to be a short ride. That's why I didn't pack any gear. No spare tube. No air pump. I was on one of my favorite pieces of singletrack when I noticed a few thorns. "Don't worry about it," I thought. It wasn't until I was making the final descent that I noticed a certain softness to my front suspension. Shit! My tire's going flat. Now if you've spent any time on a bike, you know that when your front tire gets very low, it grabs corners much differently than normal. Oddly enough, that's what mine did. At the bottom of the descent is a sharp turn to the right. my wheel cut into it quite sharply which is what I expected. What I didn't expect was the front wheel sliding out from under me. That's what it did. Unexpectedly. I injured my knee. Not badly, but there was blood. Now I had to walk my bike out of the trail, and out to the road that runs next to the highway. Hard asphalt sucks to walk on when your shoes have very little flex to them, and you only company is a flat wheeled bike and the sound of your cleats scraping along the road. I made it about halfway home, which is pretty close to work. I stopped by there and bummed a ride. Of course I couldn't throw my bike in the back seat of the car, so I just stopped by home to pick up a spare and a pump, which I should have taken in the first place. Back to work, changed the tube and I was ready to go. By now however the sun had set. I don't have reflectors on my bike so I made an effort to take back roads. Besides, I have reflectors on the backs of my shoes. And that's when It happened. I'm riding along... Injured... My front wheel misaligned. I see my shadow growing in front of me. Car. I pull over to the very edge of the road. A quick glance back reassures me that the driver sees me. they are in the middle of the road. Besides, I had just passed them at the last intersection. The SUV pulls up beside me and the window rolls down. the lady behind the wheel yells over. "You're hard to see." I nod and continue to ride. She continues. "You don't have any reflectors on the back of your bike." I'm thinking to myself: "It's my bike. I know what components are on it." I don't say that though. I smile and nod. Then I raise my eyebrows and nod ahead of us at the oncoming traffic. At this point she could have accelerated around me and gone on her merry way. Instead she persists. "It's dark out and you're hard to see." I nod again, and do the little head bob more emphatically to get her to look forward. She still has plenty of time to accelerate around me. "You should be careful." It's about this time when she looks up and realizes that there is an oncoming car. So she swerves over to make sure the oncoming car has room to pass and runs me off the road. Thank you lady. Thank you very much.

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Papa Lazarou. I am here tonight to demonstrate my amazing psychic powers! Hokey cokey, pig in a pokey... Good morning Job seekers... I myself don't care for the darkness. It's in the dark that I see the boy's face. Lips black... tongue protruding... What's all this shouting? We'll have no trouble here. You know what they say: Bummers are deaf. I know it's wrong... It just tastes so good. It's a shit business. You'll see. In this house, we don't masturbate. Eskewed Beef! Have anybody got any bokkle orange joof?! Doubtless, you've been in the bathroom, spraying your belly with sticky white love piss. I can, I can't! Don't worry, Mickey love... It won't hurt. Hello, Dave? Precious things? Twelvety. Good. We haven't sold a thing. You always knew I had this gun. Tell him I can't have babies. Tell him my insides are all wrong. Make something happen Luigi. This is a local shop, for local people. No need to be rude dear! So did they turn you into a man or a woman? I dunno. I can't work it out. What do YOU think? Of course you can! We would love you to join us! Oh, you're my wife now... And please, if you don't understand any of my sayings, come to me in private and I will take you in my German mouth.