The Song of the Century

For those of you demanding my lyrical genius, here it is.

I need some tightie whities,
not just any tightie whities.
I need some tightie whities,
for my BALLS!
(Repeat until you forget how much your crotch hates your bike)

This is the song I was singing to myself on my commute. I was only singing it for about five minutes three quarters of the way to work and I thought I was alone on the trail. After the third or fourth verse, I looked back and this guy was behind me. He passed me, laughing. It seems that every time I try to sing in public people end up laughing, which reminds me that I have yet to post the details of the weekend in New York.

I have begun biking to work for the exercise and so I can avoid giving Bush's buddies anymore of my money. So far, I haven't paid taxes on the vast majority of my income this year, so you would think I was taking it to extremes, but we'll forget that for the moment. I don't want congestion on the bike trail. I thought that by leaving at 730 and not even getting to the trail until its almost 800, I would avoid most of the commuters. I was hoiping that all the people with jobs in the government would wnat to be there by 800. How wrong I was. For about fifteen minutes, I was really cruising probably 25-35 mph and dodging people on the trail. This is exactly what I hoped to avoid. I was wrong. I guess everybody else was probably hoping to avoid congestion, too. It was pretty sweet flying by people on my shitty little bike. Especially when they have the full gear on like the spandex shorts and shirt with all the special saddlebags. My bike lookslike it came from the trash heap behind a bike shop, which it did, and for storage, I have secured an orange milk crate to the rack. Hobo-stylin, indeed.