Monday, November 26, 2007


My sister and I are in these red outhouse-rocket things. They're chained together so that one tows the other. She is operating the lead outhouse-rocket which doesn't blast through space, but sort of gallops about ten feet above the ground, depending on how fast she pedals.

And she's taking us through downtown traffic, hurdling the traffic lights like an Olympic runner. And the cops come get us, but then they let us go and say we have to report to jail the next morning. So I fly to California and visit my friend The Scribbler. I wake up in a giant hotel suite in San Francisco and realize that I'll never make it back to the east coast in time for jail. I call my father and he's disappointed because now my sister has to do time for both of us.

Then I wake up.

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