Bikes, Excrement, and Glass Tiger

October 8, 2017

[Originally written April 26, 2006]

 

Brace yourself, the title of this entry basically sums it all up, and it's not that exciting....


Last night, I had a dream I was riding bikes (!!) with one of the most repulsive looking women you've ever seen (I happened to work with her) and her daughter. We were weaving in and out of traffic in Washington, DC, and my bike happened to be making an annoying sound, as though there were nuts and bolts swinging against the metal.

 

Also, my horn didn't work....yes, my bike had a horn. It was a small button on the handlebars that read, remarkably, "horn"...and when I pushed it, this pathetic little "whhaaaa" came out, like in cartoons when the evil villain is trying to escape the good guys, and their getaway car suddenly and comically dies. 


We decide to head back to this woman's house (mind you, the house is as homely as she is....) and we hook up my bike to some diagnostic tool that can magically infer what's wrong with a god damn Schwinn 5-speed. Low and behold, a couple nuts and bolts fall off, and she goes "There ya go, you're all set." Great, my bike is fixed. (Except the horn....that's still fukahktah.)


We go into her living room, and she's got crazy dark shag carpet from 1973. It's nasty, but I lie down on it, belly down, and start chattin' it up with her equally ugly daughter...ya know, about bikes 'n shit. I look down, and notice there's a tremendous amount of goose crap on the carpet. But since the carpet is 70s dark brown shag, no one notices but me. And I don't want to draw attention to it because I don't want to embarrass this already incredibly heinous-looking woman.

 

Then I remember I'm wearing my favorite pair of jeans, and start getting a little pissed. Ok, a lot pissed....they're Seven jeans for God's sake. So I slowly get up, and look down, and bing-bam-boom, there's shit all over the front of my jeans. Then, the actual shit on the carpet -- that was originally shaped like gigantic goose-size shit -- transforms into little tiny balls of shit. Like rabbit shit.

 

Shit.


I look up, and a HUGE rabbit comes hopping out across the carpet from behind a recliner. I mean this thing is the size of a medium sized dog. Small for a dog, but pretty fuckin big for a rabbit.


I say my thank-you's for fixing my bike, and get the fuck out before anyone can notice how filthy my jeans are, and how pissed I am about the fact.


Then I wake up this morning, and the 1986 classic "Don't Forget Me When I'm Gone" by Glass Tiger (featuring Bryan Adams...) is playing over and over in my head. 


Analyze THAT,

 

....

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