Carpooling You To Shame With Timmy Tinkles In The Back Seat

This child today was trying to convince his mother he was a moose, I think, with the simplistic tactic of placing his thumbs to his temples and extending the rest of his fingers outwards at the sky. I can't speak for the mother, but he certainly wasn't fooling me. He looked nothing like a moose, save perhaps for the brown t-shirt and groaning noises eminating from his mouth. I was incredibly tempted to stop him and tell him in plain English: "You, sir, are not a moose! Hands at your head do not a moose make, son! Not only did your hands not win me over as antlers, but your body type and hind-leg walkery have such a disresemblence of the moose type that I feel bad for moose everywhere for your tarnishing of their good name." He was gone far too quickly for me to do anything of the sort. I hope someday he gets over this moose fixation. It can't be healthy in the long run.

Someone decided to grafitto-tag the side of a building downtown with their MySpace adress. Though my rate of walking did not change, I did crane my neck as I passed it by so as to fully take in the fact that some fool done put a directive to go to their depressing web site, likely riddled with Green Day music videos and messages from 168 people who he'll never meet but all like the movie Old School (instant classik!!!). I found this remarkably ridiculous, as though they actually thought someone would stop, pull out a pen and jot down the site, itching to return home so they can find out just what this MySpace business is all about. Is silly.