"Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little

"Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy..." The song was running through my head like a drum beat. The cars were at a standstill. I tapped the accerator

and bumped the car in front of me. I had to get that song out of my head. The guy came to my window. I began singing, "Mares eat oats, does...". He ran, hands to his ears, blood

running down his face

the tiny, tiny marathon sprinters came round the nose, dipping into the nasal-labial trough on their way through. Suddenly a snore erupted, and the tiny men

were sent flying. The micro marathon was at an end as bodies and limbs were torn asunder by the high pressure winds. They never thought this would happen, but

anyone with sense could have told them holding a marathon around Cape Canaveral during a satellite launch was a damn silly idea. But a runner's head got stuck in the rocket and

Elton John was getting a sloppy joe from from a heavy set dutch cop and saw the the runner's head rip off and go to space with the rocket ship and he

began to sing. His voice rising high and far even over the grunting. Passerbys stopped to stare. Some broke into dance, while others simply stared at his absurd sunglasses.

Elton John brushed all the stares aside and proceeded to pop a wheelie on his motorcycle. Throckmorton applauded lazily, distracted by a striped speedo walking up the beach.

It was David Hasselhoff, swigging from a paper bag and unsteadily waving an open Gucci manpurse. Throckmorton put in $10 and watched the Knight Rider lurch off into the sunset.