She traveled the road as her supreme delight

She traveled the road as her supreme delight alighted on the prow of a Rolls-Royce motor car to revel in the freshness of the air & the musical sound of her fluttering draperies.

It was Ms. Daisy. The person driving her was Tupac. "Please drop me by the orphanage." Tupac lit his joint and adjusted his driver's cap, turned slowly to Ms. Daisy and

handed her the joint. "What's this?" croaked Miss Daisy. "You smokin' weed in my car again, Tupac?" Her flowered chapeau askew, Miss Daisy took at toke, then closed her eyes.

The weed was good and Miss Daisy was almost certain she knew the strain. "Is this Purple Urkle Tupac" she asked. "Of course it is" Tupac replied as he

put on his bulletproof vest and riot gear. Tupac drove an original working WWII Russian tank. He wasn't taking any chances in Compton and loaded the artillery into the

Rear compartment in hopes it would be invisible.

Her rear compartment was not invisible. She had been sold a lot of bad goods. Actually, she just remembered the riders, several lots of bad goods. Real bad hombres. She opened her

-self up for abuse, but if the abusers hadn't abused her, there would have been no abuse. No crime. She closed her passenger door and drove herself back home, wondering if the

ism really was for her. Although she believed a conscious mind was responsible for all things, she hated wearing thick-soled shoes and all the theists she had ever met had ugly

rubber boots with at least an inch of pragmatically adhesive sole on the bottom. What philosophies were there left to turn to? Anti-natalism? Zionism? Hopeless, all.