Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

*61

I, my friends and my not-so-friends, will take no responsibility whatsoever for this mother-fucker of an event. I asked if there was enough gas to get over to Dr. Cyborg's house, since control of my vehicle has been out of my hands for the last few days. He, who shall remain nameless, didn't know. So, of course, when I turned over the engine, the little needle was hovering at the "E."

I figured that I had better head to the nearest gas station. I came close. I pushed my motor scooter the last 200 feet, feeling like I did when I was a very little kid, pushing the 26" bike because I was too little to ride the monster. Except now, I was bigger, waiting until there was no traffic at all at the town's busiest intersection so no one would see me pushing the scooter. I didn't let it fall like I did the 26" bike, my big toe being nearly cut off by the metal cap on the end of the pedal, a copious amount of type B blood spilled onto the sidewalk.

The fill-up was $2.81 -- 93 octane unleaded. Take that, BP!

Okay, technically, I did run out of gas. It will go on my permanent record, but, perhaps, the commissioner will see to it to add an asterisk to the entry.

I say that like people know what I mean, since the asterisk was removed from in front of Roger Maris's (Don't fuck with me on the apostrophe and "s" because this is now the preferred punctuation.) 61 home runs a long time ago; and Roger's name was chemically erased totally from the record book by Mark McGwire and then Barry Bonds, so Roger Maris is a nobody now.

New Rule: Stay off my fucking motor scooter.

Posted by Bill at September 29, 2005 11:25 AM