Filthy

Things that are filthy: Congressional ethics panels, the floor at a strip club, my bike. Seriously, this is nasty. On the way home today, I was pursued by such a racket that I couldn't decide whether to pedal harder so it'd be over sooner, or to attempt to quietly coast the entire way home (as it's predominately uphill, I didn't have much choice in the matter). I passed some guy on a sparkling white Colnago who, as my screeching drivetrain neared, slowed drastically. I could pretend that I was just much faster, crushing a monster gear on my commute home, but the pained look on his face told me otherwise. It said "holy shit, have you got Rosie Perez caught in your chain? Hurry up down the road and away from me so I can continue to enjoy my Italian-themed ride in peace." And I don't blame him, 'cause I felt the same way. Except, you know, for the Italian part.

Tomorrow: it puts the lotion on its skin or it gets the hose again. Actually, it's getting the hose anyway.