Saturday, October 29, 2005
I had given up hope of ever skateboarding again, and was just packing a few possessions in a rucksack in preparation to wander the country as train-hopping hobo, when the Pope of Fakiegrind dramatically appeared in the kitchen and asked if I had any pickled onions with which to garnish the spicy Italian sausage he was brandishing. I just happened to have a jar of sweet, pickled onions, and, after finishing his sandwich, the Pope sang an a cappella version of Sweet Caroline before disappearing again in a cloud of dry ice.
When the fog cleared, and my spasmodic coughing fit abided, I discovered that my skateboard truck had been magically repaired, and was all set to go (ignore the torn bushing that no doubt mirrors the gnarled state of my ravished knee cartilage). So, Fakiegrinders, I am off to catch a few airs before the sun sets on our aging civilization, and the Space Invaders finally land with that sickening "PLUDGE" sound that they make, and the Frozen Lower Blogosphere freezes over, or thaws, or does whatever it does when the Evil Bob Dole takes the reigns of office.