Happy Fourth of July!
Or, if you live in some other country…Happy Fourth of July!
(Assuming you’re also on the Gregorian calendar, that is, and not one of those metric ones.)
I’m preparing to ride off into the weekend…
…during which I hope to get caught up on the Touring of France, which NBC now brings to us with the aid of this nifty digital air hockey table:
It’s like a Game of Freds in which Horner et al. control the riders’ destinies.
Anyway, in addition to setting off fireworks and grilling and consuming meat and meat by-products, July 4th weekend is also a great time to get big, big savings on a new autombobile:
And just as the fireworks cause household pets everywhere to completely freak out, those car sales send advocates into a frenzy of smugness:
Certain voices in the safe streets movement have an uncanny ability to take an idea I fundamentally agree with and present it in such a way that it makes me want to disagree with them.
As for the aforementioned revolution, the other day I noticed that some municipal chargers have just arrived in my neighborhood, so I guess it’s officially here:
You know something’s truly a part of the cityscape in this town when there’s a can of Nutrament resting on it:
As you can see, the program’s branding reeks of toxic masculinity:
And I’m sure drivers’ minds are exploding as they attempt to parse yet another sign:
If you see one of them rendered unconscious by the mental effort required to interpret the new signage, simply moisten a section of skin and then zap them back into coherence with the charger.
Of course, if you want to escape confusing signs and futuristic car chargers and all the other trappings of modern society, you can always head off into the wilderness…or at least the park, which is right across the street:
It’s that sultry time of year when everywhere you look the world seems to be teeming with life. Ducks are schooling their children:
Inbred swans ply the lily-covered waters:
And fish teem beneath the surface:
So abundant are the fish at this time of year that that you can drop a hook right in the vicinity of your target and watch it sniff the bait disinterestedly, like when you offer a cat a vegetable. I’m not sure this is a matter of the wrong bait or poor technique, but I’m guessing the latter, since the other day as we angled a total Fish Fred complete with multi-pocketed vest emerged from a bush, did some zig-zaggy magic with his line, and hooked a fish in about four seconds. Then he vanished into the underbrush again.