Friday, April 25, 2014


The other day I was making my way home on an unbusy 39 when the time came to pull the cord--too soon, as usual, because the 39 from TRAX is just long enough for me to get into the Wikipedia article I'm reading, but not long enough to finish it.

(On an unrelated note, did you know that the English language contains many delightful pangrams? Such as:

Waltz, bad nymph, for quick jigs vex!

Go, lazy fat vixen; be shrewd, jump quick.

Jackdaws love my big sphinx of quartz.

Pack my box with five dozen liquor jugs.

Amazingly few discotheques provide jukeboxes.

The wizard quickly jinxed the gnomes before they vaporized.

Moving on . . . )

Soon though the bus stop had come, however, it was not my day to make a quick exit.  The doors began opening on cue; though they continued opening, their progress was so slow as to barely be perceptible to the human eye. I waited for them long enough that I became a little self-conscious, but they continued opening at a pace that could be generously described as geologic.

As soon as the doors had opened wide enough for my frame to dart between them, I fled. Relieved that I had at last escaped the slowest doors in the world, I calmly trudged home.

(The bus was a '99.  Coincidence?  I doubt it.)

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