|BESPOKE BIKE ENGINE: Other drivers|
thought we sounded like Harleys, of
that I'm sure.
Wonder if it was the same genius who--a few years older--determined that if you get the foil from the inside of a cigarette pack and very carefully separate the tinfoil part from the tissue that it was adjoined to, and then you form the foil part into a tiny chalice-shaped vehicle all the while chewing on the tissue part, in all its disgusting tobacco-tasting yuckiness until it's a saliva-soaked ball, you insert it into the top of the chalice thingie and with a quick wrist motion, flick it upwards so it sticks to the classroom ceiling.
Forgive me for assuming it was a guy, but on this topic, I'm like Jeff Foxworthy, who I heard observe, "I bet there's not a man in this audience who at some point in his life has not taken the time out of his busy day to light a fart on fire."
On the other hand, I'm betting it was a woman--a French woman of course--who invented the extremely sensual art of the French inhale, which is when a cigarette smoker lets smoke exit her mouth so gently that it magically and sensuously flows gently up and over her lip and,into her--sigh--nostrils. Pretty sexy, I know.
|SMOKIN' HOT: The French they knew how to |
kissing and inhale.
Speaking of really healthy activities that are lots of fun, who doesn't like watching your buddy hyperventilate for about 10 seconds and putting your arms around him so he falls to the ground unconscious, coming dangerously close to suffering permanent brain damage.
That's what we called entertainment.
And do you know that that if you take an empty Mr. Freeze bag and light it on fire, it drips blue yellow and green licks of fire to the ground? At least it used to.
First time I was ever in the back seat of a cop car was because a pal and I got caught burning Mr. Freeze wrappers. In case you don't know, a cruiser's back seats are hard and unwelcoming.
Paul (whose surname I won't mention because his mom's still alive and he might not have told her yet) and I were hanging out near the basketball courts outside King George school, which was two blocks directly east of our house in Sudbury. We somehow had a dozen or so Mr. Freeze wrappers and were lighting them one after another, trying to outflame each other, when a pair of Sudbury Regionals drove their black-and-white right up on to the basketball court.
The cops plunked us in the back seat almost literally scaring the crap out of me. Particularly frightening was when they told us there'd been some vandalism at another nearby school, Princess Anne, and they figured Paul and I were the perps.
I remember thinking "I can almost see my house from here, but we're probably spending the night at Cecil Facer," which was Sudbury's juvie.
|So that's why they call them "MR. FREEZE!"|
They let us off with a warning.
It was the summer between grade seven and eight.
One of the casualties of the Mr. Freeze affair was my favourite jacket, a bright yellow nylon zippered jobbie that I was so proud of because it had an embroidered Ontario Legislative Page patch on the right shoulder. I was the only kid in town to have been a page.
I had doffed the jacket to fart around with Paul (it was summer) and was so scared by the cops, the second they let us out of the cruiser I ran home. Next day, I went back to fetch the jacket but it was gone. Crime doesn't pay.
|MEGA BITES of computer power were wasted |
to produce this graphic but
the bite pun was worth it.
Or better yet--and whoever figured this one out has Leonardo Da Vinci-esque vision--we could manipulate a $1 bill so the queen's neck and jaw aligned to form what we all agreed was an image of the queen's bum. I'm sorry but looks like we don't have enough room for a picture of this one. You're welcome.