The Transcript

The Hunter Schema

2018-01-01T00:00:00Z

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{
    "the deer walked by": [ 
        "and I shot it",
        {
            "and it's horns weren't big enough": [
                {
                    "so I shot the next one that came by": [
                        "and it's horns were bigger",
                        "even though it's horns were smaller"
                    ]
                },
                "but I shot it anyway"
            ]
        }
    ]
}

Coctothorpe

2017-11-29T00:00:00Z

coc·to·thorp
kˈäktəˌTHôrp/
noun
noun: coctothorpe
vengeance term for C-Sharp (C#) when a windows programmer refers to "~/" as "sunset whack".

Imagine Dragons Lyrics: Improved

2017-10-06T00:00:00Z

Dune-Style

PICK MY SCABS OUT SO
MY WOUNDS WON'T CLOSE
I'LL JUST FLOAT AND POINT MY TOES
LET ME PULL YOUR HEART-PLUG
LET ME PULL YOUR HEART-PLUG
I'M BARON HORKONEN
BARON HORKONEN

Scatological Teen-Style

SCRATCH MY ARSE AND
THEN I PICK MY NOSE
NEVER ONCE CLEANED MY SMART PHONE
HYGENE IS FOR SISSIES
HYGENE IS FOR SISSIES
I'M DYING OF PINK-EYE
DYING OF PINK-EYE

Mammaw-Style

FLAKY CRUST IS NOT DUE TO CRISCO
HYDROGENATED: A NO GO
OPEN UP THE LARD, MAN
OPEN THE LARD CAN
CAUSE FAT EQUALS FLAVOR
FAT EQUALS FLAVOR

Conqueror Worm-Style

BUST OF PALLAS SITS ABOVE MY DOOR
LOUD HEART BANGING 'NEATH MY FLOOR
THE BELLS THE BELLS THE BELLS BELLS
BELLS BELLS THE BELLS BELLS
AMONTILLADO!
AMONTILLADO!

Moody Album Title Generator

2017-06-24T00:00:00Z

Silly little Moody Album on an 8-Track generator. Have fun, ya bums.

Hog and Oats

2017-05-15T00:00:00Z

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I moved to Cincinnati in 2006. They welcomed me with the traditional foods of their people.

First they took me to Frischs'. I had eaten at a Denny's before, so I laughed it off. Maybe it was a thing like calling facial tissues "Kleenex" or all fizzy drinks a "Coke" or off-white powders from West Lafayette "Crank".

Well, that didn't work, so they took me to get "Chili".

I come from the Skoal-ring, deer-meat, strip-mined wastes around Evansville, Indiana, USA. There, once a year, the second-largest street festival in the country is held. The West Side Nut Club Fall Festival is a glob of the usual carnival rides, shirtless guys with Dobermans, and dingleshit politicians around a hot, greasy nucleus of Brain Sandwich Stands. There, in celebration of God's bountiful harvest, sweet, Catholic ladies from St. Wendell gather around hot fryers full of pure vegetable oil, dredge thick slices of neuron-fat matrix in all-purpose flour, fry 'em up golden, and put 'em on a bun with onion and a dill slice.

There are certain shibboleths, certain rites of passage that are accepted despite their outward absurdity, and have become a symbol that binds a people together. I tell you, without pride or shame, that adult circumcision, facial tattooing, finally punching your dad, or getting your "red wings" ain't shit compared to mastering your gag reflex when confronted with a steaming brain sandwich.

So you must understand that I understood. I know why Cincinnati did it. I know that those sweet, giving people were offering brotherhood when they bestowed that 3-way unto me. I know their hearts were a conduit for the pure agape of the Christ when presenting me that styrofoam dog-dish of writhing, anti-spiced WRONGNESS that could only spring from the charnel kitchen of some Lovecraftian Fish-Man.

When I spit out that forkful of Hot Tapeworms in Alpo, it was wrong. I might as well have used your thrice-great grandmother's Christmas creche to soothe my hemorrhoids. I am sorry, Cincinnati.

But you gotta believe me. I'm from Evansville. I know nasty. I have an AAS in "Industrial Nasty for Workgroups". And I just CAN NOT.

Cincinnati, there is a better way. Instead of that bullshit fake chili, take your new foreign friend bar hopping. Puddle them up with alcohol. Get them so gooned they are reduced to a 100 word vocabulary. Put them to bed. Then in the morning, haul their dehydrated carcass to the Bluejay and get them some goetta and eggs, because that stuff is CHOICE.

Goetta is obviously something that was born of lean times. Frau Armutgrube was down to one sausage for her kids, and with inspiration born of need, produced a crispy, unctuous hug of sausage mush that gave her family the strength to endure that bastard winter. (Except for little Waldemar. Ja, Großmutter, he was the best of us.) And it'll slide a hangover right out of you.

Cincinnati needs to roll new citizens in the human condition, give them delirium, pain and sickness, then wipe it away with goetta, blessed goetta. Through goetta they may know your goodness, your history and that you have their back.

Or get them one of those hot metts from Avril-Bleh.

Schlensker Ditch

2017-05-06T00:00:00Z

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Schlensker Ditch

Pork me in the sewer on a $100 scooter,
at Boeke where Pollack makes the tuning fork, the source of all tinnitus.

Pour Sweetser on it, and get sold two-paper oregano.
Sit in your raintree jock where people from Punjab can't hack the heat.

Sweaty tits made of stromboli, Grippos, Ski and Red Bank kudzu.
Tekoppel. Faggot.

Una pizza wasp nest blinded to the Pigeon Creek Dire Wolf behind.
Champagne don't travel either.

Remuage

2017-04-22T00:00:00Z

Proposed Secondary Meaning

re·muage,
remo͞oˈäZH/
noun

the periodic turning or shaking of bottled wine, especially champagne, to move sediment toward the cork.
deliberate manual debauch.

Usage Example

Young lovers held in cupids thrall
Have a care with remuage!

Uncorked in haste, alack-a-day!
Inadvertent decoupage.

Toofleth in Theattle

2017-04-16T00:00:00Z

My friend Bill, a talented cartoonist, whose bitter Gene Simmons caricature I stole for this site, died over 15 years ago. I would occasionally "give him ideas" for cartoons. By "give him ideas", I mean "pester, nag and wheedle until he'd draw them for me". The best one he ever indulged me in was a man-sized ambulatory human turd, poking a young fellow in the chest with a feculent pseudopod, growling "Don't shit the shitter, kid".

Today I awoke with the stellar idea of a group of robed cenobites standing in a circle, holding white rabbits cottontail-first over their faces, huffing frantically, like hippies passing the last balloon full of nitrous.

The caption?

"The Ethenes Dithcover the Ether Bunny".

I know who I with to rethurrect, today.

Archival Audio of a Reading by Percival Pervstache at the Miles Standish Coffee House in Malton, MA ca. 1919.

2017-04-11T00:00:00Z

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I think that I shall never see
a poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose tender mouth is press'd
against your pallid, quaking chest!

A tree that lifts it's arms to pray
o'er Nyalarhothep's piping fray!

A tree whose sacred seed is cast
in hot, corrosive acid blast,

Girthed by half-caste Barbaloots
with keening pipes, in Barbaloot Suits.

Whose squamous, cold, delicious plums
foretold in manic barb'rous tongues,

by dint of vile saltes manifest
your return, at last, to icy depths.

"It's not a Test, We Just Want to See how You Work" and Other Interview Knavery

2017-04-08T00:00:00Z

Job Interview Coding Questions: Fun in Any Other Context

I decided to try some of those coding dojo type sites to improve my interview skills (since I was/am not a math guy). It's nice that people seem to be using the "team coding with one of our in-house people to see how you think (not a test, ha ha)" thing more.

I've had several ghastly experiences with stupid automated code-tests. Tests like: "create a linked list in Python".

Okay. No. I mean, here it is:

("foo", ("bar", ("bat", None)))

# I know, singly linked and all that . . .

. . . but fucking no. If I had a boss tell me to do that with any scripting language, I'd ask them seriously why we didn't write the thing in C if performance was such a problem.

This steaming pile of bletcherosity has led me to stop accepting interviews if the coding tests aren't administered by a human. If you can't spare an old programmer's time to vet newbies, then you are doing it wrong. I'm not going to help you do it wrong. You are hiring me to do things right, right? Right.

Oh, and if the superlative "Rock Star" appears anywhere in your job description, I'm showing up in leather pants with coke snot caked on my upper lip.

Anyway, I've tried a couple so far:

Hackerrank

I really like hackerrank. They do all the magic square evaluation and "sum the highest count of integers + highest count of an adjacent integer in an array" sort of thing that are probably super-easy for someone with formal CS training, but serve as really productive brain-pain for us lapsed English majors.

So far, several of the testlets have required one to solve problems that are trivial for a human to eyeball, but are less straightforward to code. This sort of problem is valuable beyond prepping one for an interview and reminds me just how much of my day is CRUD and lookup table doodling, rather than actual thinkin'.

Codewars

One short look at codewars' "Prove yourself by solving some obfuscation-based E.T. mini-game using opaque debug messages before we'll let you join" portal page . . . The "NOOOOOPES!" manifested like herpes in a bible college.

Kindly proceed to the gamification of my balls please, you pie-eating, riddle-fappers. Life is entirely too short.

Others Worth a Look?

Hit me up on twitter, I'll add them to the list.

Diddling While Rome Burns

2017-03-17T00:00:00Z

As usual, Chris Hedges' well-reasoned and thoughtful warnings about the looming collapse of western civilization have made me come to terms with how I have wasted my short time on this earth by packing my head with ephemera.

In that spirit:

You Never Done it Like That

(Howard Greenfield, Neil Sedaka)

You're so terrific
Ooooh you never done it like that
You never been this way before
To be specific
Ooooh you never done it like that
Who went and opened up the door?
My lips are burnin'
Yeah, you never done it like that
I thought the flame was dead and gone
But you been learnin'
Yeah you never done it like that
How long has this been goin' on?
Ooooh, ooooh, who's been teachin' you?
Show me the man and let me shake his hand
Hey look at me, I feel just like Columbus
I did discover you're some kind of lover
My mind is blowin'
Ooooh you never done it like that
You got me climbin' up the wall
My love is growin'
Yeah, you never done it like that
You know you made me ten feet tall

It appears that Daryl Dragon's firm, muscular pianist's fingers were informed by another gentleman on certain hidden techniques that legend says can save a flagging marriage. What mountains did Dragon climb, what demons, subtle or brutal did he defeat, to obtain the Sedaka Shocker Scroll, and become the Dragon Warrior of Love, the Chakra Tickler Equal of Heaven?

I used to walk around the house singing "You Never Done it Like That" at the top of my lungs when I was 12. My long-suffering mother, faced with her son caterwauling a soft-rock hymn to ass-play, only pointed out that the song was grammatically suspect. I have employed the same parental duck-and-weave vis. Niki Minaj with my own child. What else are you going to do? Buy Radio Disney? Train her in Asymmetric Combat? Hoard rim-fire ammunition?

So as the shithouse collapses and we all come to terms with our proper place on the scatter-plot in the Holy Feudalism Dashboard, as ordained by St. Deming (we want you to want to genufluct) just be glad that I have colored your memories of the fall with some good, clean dirty fun the Captain and Tennille had before their own division and downfall, and not that creepy-uncle Michael Franks shrimp-job.

Gas-Phase Rectally Administered Hopes

2017-03-15T00:00:00Z

Card Trick

I have seriously pondered having the following printed on a business card:

"Hi, I'm Hemiac!

I am 'on the Spectrum'. I'm very lucky, in that I can function pretty well in most situations. However, I tend to get excited pretty easily in conversation. This sometimes has funny results. Other times, I'll make an observation or comparison that may be personally wounding, or may "go on" about things. If I do so, please let me know. If you are uncomfortable pointing out the actual issue for any reason, just say "shoehorn", and I will stop whatever it is I'm doing immediately! If you are comfortable with offering clarification at any point afterwards (in any method or tone you choose), I will be very grateful.

Thanks!"

Wouldn't that be more useful than "Motivated, Dynamic & Focused on YOUR Profitiability!"? At minimum, it would be more accurate.

That Whole "The Human Mind is Incapable of Examining It's Self" Thing is a Real Pickle.

Someone I follow on Twitter re-posted this little gem today:

Things like this are kind of cute, and may be actually useful for those attempting to navigate (WARNING: PEAK PRETENTIOUS WORD APPROACHING) shibboleths.

For someone from another country, or for whom English is not their first language, these little charts may sting a bit when they reveal an unrealized brush-off or demand a recalibration of one's social standing. Sure it sucks, but it's to be expected, after all: whole 'nother country.

This is probably why I like Immigrants so much.

I've Barely been Able to Suppress My Disdain While You Continually Blathered! Wasn't that Uncomfortable? So Long!

So there was this former co-worker who I really enjoyed talking to, and have continued to IM and email for a couple of years. When I left the place we both were at, he said "Let's stay in touch".

I now realize my answer should not have been: "Cool! Yay! A friend!"; but "Dang, I thought our time together was pretty great. I mean, you kept laughing".

Remember, up there, I said: "from a rural area"? This is, of course, not the reason I have been fooled. People seem to like that "Country Mouse/Town Mouse" fable, and I have, at some point, decided that it covers lots of my loud-mouthed, dick-tripping social gaffes. "Sorry I insulted your whole family, and by extension your entire values system! Gawrsh! This just ain't my milieu! Nyuk nyuk nyuk"!

I guess I'm keeping in touch with myself. Click here for rimshot.

The Interlocutor Schema

2017-03-14T00:00:00Z

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"That's a Really Good Question", Means . . .

{
    "salesman": {
        "I": [
            "got you now",
            "hate your guts"
        ],
        "who": [
            "let this asshole in here",
            "important heard that"
        ]
    },
    "manager": {
        "engage": [
            "seratonin pump",
            "threat display",
            "hr"
        ],
        "emit": [
            "accusation",
            "gerund cannon",
            "meeting"
        ],
        "flip": [
            "the script",
            "table"
        ]
    },
    "scientist": "I love you"
}

Sound file created using simper.

People Stick Things Places

2017-02-27T00:00:00Z

By the water fountain.

On the phone can.

Stuck on a sign.

Apparently R. Crumb was attending Oscar the Grouch's Herbalife party in my neighbor's trashcan.

I Want Iorek Byrnirson to be My Kid's College Roommate

2017-02-26T00:00:00Z

"He put something in your drink. I used his blubber to lubricate my armor".

"Can is not the same as must, but if you must and you can, then there's no excuse. And quit signing up for 8:30 classes."

"It is unwise to mate with ones who claim to be a "D.J." on twitter, yet have no vinyl. Any choad can download Traktor."

"This one had a diseased pizzle. I sent him away. You cannot trick a bear."

"He has his mother on speed-dial. Wait. Being patient and choosing wisely is better than having to knock her tit out of his mouth at her funeral."

The Love Schema

2017-02-13T00:00:00Z

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{
    "love": [
        "stinks",
        "bites",
        {
            "is": [
                "asymptotic",
                "limited",
                "neurotic",
                "two headstones with three names",
                {
                    "a": [
                        "chemical slapstick",
                        "fine kettle of fish",
                        "four letter word",
                        "storage locker",
                        {
                            "dirty": [
                                "duvet",
                                "pillow",
                                "trick"
                            ]
                        }
                    ],
                    "an": [
                        "ape thing",
                        "illusion"
                    ],
                    "like": [
                        "oxygen",
                        {
                            "a": [
                                "red red rose",
                                "hormone black-out"
                            ]
                        }
                    ]
                }
            ],
            "won't": [
                "quit leaving shit lying around",
                {
                    "stop": [
                        "hitting me",
                        {
                            "waking me up to": [
                                "bone",
                                "fart out the sun",
                                "talk"
                            ]
                        }
                    ]
                }
            ],
            "can't": [
                "take this shit for one more minute",
                "see a way out",
                {
                    "let me": [
                        "go",
                        "keep this fucking place clean",
                        "stay"
                    ]
                }
            ],
            "didn't": [
                "endure",
                "change",
                "work out this time",
                "fix the problem"
            ],
            "just": [
                "didn't listen",
                "doesn't feel close to you anymore",
                "wants some space",
                "can't"
            ],
            "underwent": [
                "therapy",
                "vacation",
                "binding arbitration"
            ]
        }
    ]
}

Sound file created using simper.

Overblown Animation here

The Hell Schema

2017-02-11T00:00:00Z

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{
    "hell":{
        "is": [
            "wishful thinking",
            {
                "other people": {
                    "with": [
                        "wah-wah pedals",
                        "the remote",
                        "my bandwidth"
                    ],
                    "who": {
                        "just": {
                            "discovered": [
                                "ayn rand",
                                "veganism",
                                "infinitesimal sexual deviance",
                                "the EAV pattern"
                            ],
                            "bought": [
                                "their first tab of molly",
                                "a new harley davidson",
                                "an apple product"
                            ]
                        },
                        "forgot to": [
                            "document",
                            "wipe",
                            "take their meds",
                            {
                                "laugh at their own": [
                                    "faith",
                                    "values",
                                    "genitals"
                                ]
                            }
                        ]
                    }
                }
            }
        ],
        "awaits": [
            "existing on damnations edge",
            {
                "those who": [
                    "commit murder for faith",
                    "implement the zend framework"
                ]
            }
        ]
    }
}

Sound file created using simper.

Three Songs that Bother Me at Night

2017-02-06T00:00:00Z

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Close. Your Eyes. SLEEP, YOU IGNORANT HILLBILLY

I can't sleep. This was not a problem before my hayflick limit went critical. I could just drink six or eight Ski's at work and tough it out.

Not anymore, I just lie awake and itch everywhere. This down-home brain-chemical tweek-fest always has a cheerful musical accompaniment. Small portions of these three songs have been the main offenders since the new year. Songs? I love you so! Why do you hurt me when I'm unable to function?

Renee Armand - England

There is no reason I should like this song as much as I do. I had hippy-dippy teachers who showed us Bless the Beasts and the Children, which was a little too boo hoo for me, even in grade school. I came to this particular tune when I was looking into that old Hoyt Axton Song "Bony Fingers", which was one of those things my mom used to sing when she was trying to annoy me. "Oh look, some local band is calling themselves "Boney Fingers", that reminds me of the woman singing that nasaled-out Junie Carter harmony . . . Oh yeah! Internet'll help!"

Turns out Ms. Armand sang with John Denver. Another strike: my dad used to leave "Rocky Mountain High" on replay all night. One night the record started skipping on "∞writing on the tapestry, of all there is to seeewriting on the tapestry of all there is to seeewriting on the tapestry . . .∞". Getting that shit stuck in your head at age 9 is a total hypnogogic hag-ride. I guess this is a pattern.

Anyway, I have to admit that I came to scoff. Fuck me. Totally wrong. This is a great song. I mean, I kind of had some trouble with those flutes, but the lyrics . . .

My home town has had some meth problems.

By the time the end rolls around to that clapped-out guitar with it's teeth ground down to corn nubbins, that's 4 a.m.

Carla Bozulich / Geraldine Fibbers - Dragon Lady

Yes, I'm one of those dick-tips who will bend your ear for the remainder of the party about Carla Bozulich. Ain't No Grave got me at 48 like Mutiny in Heaven got me at 18.

"Jesush Wishkers, fellers, that music makes me feel like tearing up my undermuhpants and struttin' down Main St. to show the preacher".

The offending line in Dragon Lady?

"We were kissing in the cockpit when the airplane wrecked".

That's a shit-faced ballerina on an escalator. That's ruining your opera career cause you can't quit deep-throating popsicles. It loops and loops and loops, "k's and "eck" slotting right into my dendrites and doinging them like a math class boner.

Suzy Quatro - Lipstick

I had never even heard of this until last year when Ian from Bazillion Points tweeted it. There is no reason this song should resonate at all. I mean, it's pretty much "Gloria". But Jesus, the disdain for her slut boyfriend and the way she's kicking herself square in the ass for letting his sticky pecker back into her house is just so precisely IT: DO YOU HEAR ME S***N? I FOUND THE CONDOM WRAPPER(S)! I HAVE NEVER USED "NATURAL LAMB", BECAUSE I WOULD NEVER FUCK A SHEEP'S INTESTINE: UNLIKE YOUR SKEEVY FOREMAN YOU FUCKED IN MY BED, YOU CHEATING METH LIZARD!

Unfortunately the wonderful, liberating, absolutely true lyrics are not what spins around my skull, it's that accursed "Gloria" sounding octave slidey thing.

Euthanize Me

I'm seriously worried writing this is going to cause them to all hit me at once tonight. Sleep tight.

Advantages of Being a Candy-Ass

2017-02-04T00:00:00Z

One of the many unexpected advantages to living in the early stages of our planet's conversion to a cool venusiform is that I can ride a motorbike year round at my latitude. I'm not a tough guy, but if it's above freezing, I ride. It's not that cold once you get used to it. My commute is not scenic or challenging (unless you count Other People in Cars), but it's 15 minutes of focusing on one thing that doesn't involve work, and that's hard to come by.

My bike is a cheap-assed, but surprisingly well made SYM 150. It's basically an old Honda CB 125 with good brakes and an extra 50cc's to make up for the pollution control devices. If you had a CB 125 back in the day, and it said "Made in Taiwan" on it, congratulations, you had a SYM, too. My commute rarely gets above 45 mph, so it's perfect. It gets mileage like a scooter, but (and this is of vital importance) I'm not perched like a hemorrhoidal duck on a dingleshit scooter.

A couple of years ago (Oh. Uh. Seven years . . .) I got a basket-case Honda Cub, put a big engine on it, spray-painted it black, and raced it up in Detroit at the late, lamented Thunderdrome (Link is to a youtube vid. Don't go to thunderdrome dot com, some fuck-stick has seized the domain and it'll try to inject you with spyware). It turned into something of an obsession, which ended up with me sporting 11 centimeters of titanium in my right tibia.

The problem with the cub was: it was silly and kind of cool looking.

That's Good, Right?

Almost always. I got lots of comments from people who had owned a Cub back when they were in the process of becoming the most-produced motor vehicle ever. No one tried to tell me their Little Honda went 100MPH, or would wheelie in third gear. There was no crap involved. Cubs are cute, get absurd gas mileage and are easy to ride. The fact that I'd put a stupidly over-sized engine on mine and had a real-live "postie" tank got positive vibes from other humans who like this sort of thing. I once rode it down to a local custom bike shop to look for a decent, used headlamp bucket. The owner kind of threw me some shade when I told him what it was for, but when I actually lured him out to look, he guffawed and personally led me to his junk room so I could pick something out. Almost every time I went to a motorcycle shop on it, the mechanics, regardless of age, creed, or race would come out to point and laugh. I'd demand they ride it around, after which they'd pronounce it "Fucking Dangerous" (or something similar) and be really pleased to help me find some stuff that was not in the computer. I once emptied the whole kitchen of my neighborhood Indian restaurant, they knew from cheap bikes and goofed on it hard. There is nothing like being in on the joke.

And Yet, I Sense there is a Downside?

Yeah. Old Fuckers.

You may suspect that I am old, and a bit of a fucker. You are right. Big gut, bad knees, can't hardly get it up no more. I'm totally there. The old fuckers I'm talking about are the faux garrulous Old Fuckers who spy you at the gas station, or the beer garden, or at the stop light, take a look at your Mobile Irony and Dangerous Fun Generator, and jump to the conclusion that you are compensating for something.

That something is "It's not a Harley".

To be clear: This is not a Brand Rant. However, of the negative bullshit that came my way, only once was it not Harley-Davidson related. Now to be clear, it was never anyone actually on a Harley blowing feculent, half-literate gibberish out their little pouch moufs. My next-door neighbor was a semi-retired tool and die maker who rode a canary yellow dyna-glide. He fabbed my handlebar risers and hauled me around to all the secret spots in my city to get cheap metal. Harley riders were never the problem. It was marketing. Excellent marketing, that gave someone who knew jack shit about anything to do with my thing the self-assurance that they knew what the end goal to my life should be.

"When you gonna get a Harley?"

Over and fucking over. And over. This was generally hollered out the window of a pickup with greater than two doors and a bed that had never hauled anything heavier than a gas grill, but could materialize anywhere. Grocery store parking lot? Oh yeah. Gas station? You gotta ask?

I even got a ration of shit from an Old Fucker in an honest-to-douchepipe beret at a Panera Bread in Detroit. My usual reply of "Naw, I had a tractor before I left the farm" wouldn't come out as I had been struck dumb.

Old Fuckerism means having defaults. It means trying to set shit back to where they think it belongs.

Luckily the Cub nearly killed me. That's another long-winded stream of bullshit.

So What's the Point to THIS Long-Winded Stream of Bullshit, then?

I have discovered that certain bikes are invisible, as bikes. I ride the SYM around and people see my ugly bright jacket, and cue-ball white helmet. They notice my turn signals. It's quiet. It moves with traffic. Now to be fair, the SYM is pretty. It's the right size for farting around on. Young men and women who don't ride motorcycles comment on how nice it looks. Older guys think I've restored an old CB. Other people on bikes ask what it is and are generally pleased and mildly interested when I give them the "Well, when a Honda had a 'Made in Taiwan' sticker on it . . ." schtick. It's not funny/cool. It's not cool at all. It's the Official Tour Bike of Andrew Dost.

What it does not do is awaken the inner Schoolyard Bully in the guts of an Old Fucker. Their eyes slide off of it. When the Trump Apocalypse comes, I shall carry my whole family and some chickens on it to our secret bunker. We will not be seen. Like one of the Witches from Phillip Pullman's "His Dark Materials", we shall be rendered invisible by the SYM 150's Intensely Held Modesty. I promise, I'll come back for you.

How Did it Happen?

2017-01-01T00:00:00Z

Laziness

You seriously didn't try.

Impatience

You know it's late, right?

Hubris

Nobody uses Perl anymore.