Names From the Wrong Side of the Street

It would be easy enough to blame road rage for my habit of veering onto one-way streets. It's certainly a deliberate act, and I'm unquestionably angry when oncoming traffic forces me to drive on the sidewalk, but sometimes there's more to offensive driving than might be evident from the police report.

Boredom, for one. I'm driving, I'm yawning, I'm driving, I'm yawning, and all the while I'm forced to read street signs that wouldn't entertain the average two-year-old, let alone someone who hasn't wet his pants in years. Willow Circle? Give me a break. Eagleview Court? Not likely. Sparrows, maybe, at least those that haven't been eaten by rats.

It's tempting to blame municipal government, but a simple lack of candor has caused this problem, and only candor will bring our streets' identities into proper alignment with my needs. While some might shy away from neighborhoods featuring street names such as Rat, or Bubonic, I would welcome their forthright, unpretentious spirit, regardless of how many people might flash their headlights at me along the way. Turning onto Follicle Road from Swollen Terrace, then accelerating toward Eggsack Lane by way of Pipsqueak Boulevard, it would be with the knowledge that the road to anger management is paved with tax dollars, but that doesn't mean we have to settle for boring street names.

I don't think we should use scientific notation for street numbers, though.

 

Undressing Perspective

The idea that clothes make the man is disturbing already, but adding manmade fabric to the picture brings the same panic I feel whenever I try to put an Escher print into perspective. If I was fabricated by the same entity I created to fashion myself, which came first, and how many iterations must I endure before I'm fit for the rack? These are the sorts of questions that compel me to take off my clothes. Clearly, there are pressing reasons to remain undressed in the first place.

A misplaced iron, for one. For two, the problem is compounded by the duplicity of gender-specific garb, which only betrays the outline within. Without resorting to anatomy, I would simply point to the hourglass figure on the beach as an example of behavioral problems that may linger into adulthood if left unaddressed. As any postal employee will tell you, it isn't polite to point, regardless of how little sand is left in the timepiece.

In larger households, the effort required to maintain perspective amid the closeted wardrobes of upscale hand-me-downs may exceed available oomph, resulting in vertigo, and shortness of pants. Since panting is one of the few remaining pleasures available to the modern dog, expecting your best friend to keep his canines away from your trousers is like asking a dog to darn your socks. Better to just hex the whole wardrobe and get it over with.

 

A Question of Identity

Unlike the sun, the earliest philosophical questions entertained by primitive man revolved around the moon, and whether or not sweet dreams are made of cheese. Who am I to disagree? At the same time, who am I to agree with the results of double-blind tests administered by those who refuse to wake up and smell the dairy products?

Like so many questions, it begs an answer. More to the point, it begs to differ, which is where things get hairy. Because fastidious begging is prohibited under section IV of the municipal code, beggars can't be choosers, nor are they afforded equal protection where pardon-begging is taxed or otherwise regulated by law. What effect this might have had on primitive woman is beyond the scope of present-day astronomy, so you can imagine the difficulty of determining dream composition using the crude optics of the day, especially during an eclipse.

Put another way, the difference is night and day, or day and night if you happen to live below the equator or are otherwise standing on your head. If you're standing on your neighbor's head, it may be time to consider using a periscope instead.