The bib-jeaned philosophic spittooners leaned further into the countertop, doing their best to not level their wizened amusement at my hapless fate, but I d been had. To their credit, no one laughed out loud or spit sideways until I d turned tail out of the store, ignoring Max s genuine imitation bakery display for the Twelve-Ounce Poundcake. Do or die. After tending to the hanging hinges, dried gunk and whistling gaps and applying a winter s coat of cosmoline to the weedwhacker, we sometimes hanker for a pizzazzier pursuit than pushing the blender to the liquefied edge of the envelope. We die on them because they are machines, built by people.
Machines break and people are greedy idiots.
There s nothing transcendental about a human whirligig gone bogus. Don t ride them. All rights reserved.