Scooping poop in the backyard I noticed, quite clearly, a barcode sticking out from one of Bernie’s turds. Being on doodie duty, I couldn’t help but be amazed at how far-reaching the packaging phenomenon has spread. When crap comes out of your dog’s butt already assigned a specific code, we’ve either taken a great leap forward in biotechnology, or Bernie’s just gotten into something he shouldn’t have. I almost wanted to wrap it in a Ziploc bag and take it to one of those freestanding store scanners and see what rung up. Clean up on aisle five.
At least I can take comfort in the fact that when the gods of culture come to pass final judgment on my Philistine soul, they’ll have a good laugh at my expense. And if you can make the gods laugh — no matter the price — then you know your life on this dimension wasn’t a total waste of time.Read More
I carry around a lone 3/8-inch socket — without its wrench — in my car. I don’t think I’ll need it, nor do I believe it has any apparent match with anything mechanical in my Prius. But since it appeared all by itself, I figured it would be tempting fate to get rid of it. Maybe not fate, actually, but whatever phenomenal power left it on my driver’s seat in the mystical hills near Fort Wayne, Indiana.Read More
Every time my yoga instructor starts talking about the mystical yogis that could melt the snow around them while they meditated or who sat for weeks under ancient banyan bushes, I keep thinking about the only yogi I’m familiar with, the one who wears a hat and steals pic-anic baskets.