Sepia toned, haunting lullabies poured forth from a steely guitar while the brassy voice of the singer stirred us. It was our first time actually listening. Before this we would hear it, but we never really listened, now we knew for sure that turning it up to 11 really does make all the difference. 10 just doesn't cut it anymore. When I visited Stonehenge on the autumnal equinox I had a vision. The giant stones formed 11s and started dancing about. I blame it on the LSD but even so I believe that the vision is a true portrayal of the final battle I will be forced to fight to defend my 12 year old moped. After all, I just had the headlight adjusted. What is this world coming to? I can't even have nice things! Damn teenagers and their goats, they always have to break things! Next time I see them, I'm going to teach them a thing about goat, teen boy, and goat-boy etiquette. "And dammit, pick up that mess," I said. "The pottery is bad enough, but grandpa's ashes need to be scattered across Grandma's lawn so her flowers feel nice and fresh this year when they bloom in the spring. Just clean this up so that we can get to the church on time. That's right. It was Sunday--fried egg day and dress up day all rolled into one. The mess would have to wait because we needed to make sure we got to church on time. But on the ride to church, we encounted a three car pile-up. I rolled down my window, curiousity overtaking me, and I puked on the pathment. That jello stew that I had eaten at the pick nick was not settling well, so I opened up my glove compartment and took out my stash. I kept it behind a dusty old map of Fort Wayne, Indiana, that came with the car. Never been there, but now I associate that city with pot. I wonder if I'm the only one? I think it has something to do with the name "Wayne." It reminds me of that old show, "Wayne's World." You know those two were high on something. The discipline of the high has always escaped me. How can one truly enjoy working while blasted out of his mind, or truly enjoy his high while numbing his mind with work? Luckily I had the plane on autopilot. These 747's practically land themselves. Damned navigator tricked me into getting high again. Well this is the last time. Hey was that a speckled flycatcher I just saw whizzing by the plane?" I said to the navigator. He looked away and I clocked him atop his head with the fire extinguisher. No more weed for him. I'd have to land this thing myself. Couldn't be much different than a car, really, with a couple of added dimensions. And I'd sat through enough air disaster movies in the 70's to to know how to handle this crate. "Everybody buckle up and put your head between your legs" I flipped a couple of important looking switches. "and don't call me Shirley."

 

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