There are some things you just can't practice,

There are some things you just can't practice, like zooming in a jet-propelled one-man rocket suit, either you do it or you don't.

Do it, you experience the awesomeness of zooming in a jet-propelled one-man rocket suit for a few glorious minutes; don't, you end up a flaming smear on tarmac. Life is Pass/Fail

. On the other hand, did Elton have much choice? She packed his bags last night, pre-flight. Zero hours, 9 AM. He was gonna be high as a kite by then. Elton's jet-propelled suit

case was how he traveled. The glorious Sir Elton raised his jet-propelled suitcase and say, "Sweet Jesus and Ta-Da!" Then he'd fly off, leaving a contrail like a yellow brick

suppository enroute to a Phish concert; which is to say none.

The folder finds himself the remarkable situation of having, just..no idea what the previous fold is trying to express. Is it that the route they took didn't exist? Either way, thi

s road to Heck was paved with intentional pot-holes. Or plot-holes. So they decided to ditch the road and walk in the ditch. By the time they got to Woodstock, they were muddy and

troubled waters, a bridge over them, on the boardwalk, boardwalk, they were rambling, rolling stones, and joints where they drank bad coffee and cigarettes, swung low & made love

While electric sheep strolled by, oblivious to their surroundings, and walked into the bar. There they drank Raging Bitch beer, smoked joints and laughed. Then they went home.

All of this repeated cyclically for the next few decades before everyone moved on and eventually died, remembering fondly the days when they'd get drunk as fuck and smoke drugs.