Attack of the Rusty Training Wheels

I just finished up a mess of outdoor chores: mowing the front lawn, taking the kayak off the car, bringing in groceries (price chopper had coke products 4/$10 with a free 24 pack of Dasani tap water), and watering all my dead potted plants.

Sweat was coating my entire body. That slimey, eeking out of each and every pore, kind of sweat only caused by an over-heated, ove-weight body. I dreamed of a cold cold shower and lo and behold my on the fritz hot water heater FINALLY decides to work properly. It was luke warm and cooled me down a little. I am toweling off, water and sweat which has crept back, and I hear it. I hit the ground because literally it sounded like Freddy Kruegger running his knived finger nails down a chalk board. SSSSSCCCCCCRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEECCCCCHHHHH. kachunk. SSSSSCCCCCCCRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEECCCCCHHHHH. kachunk. Like that. I realize the sound is NOT coming from in the house, but I planned the escape anyway. I wait. NO sound. I quickly dress and creep downstairs. And there it is again but this time CLOSER and Faster. Skreech. kachunk. Skreetch. kachunk. Screetch. Kachunk. I peek outside and see something bobbing side to side down the street. Now I think it is some deformed madman, with hooks for arms, trying to move behind all immovable objects in the vacinity in the hope of not being seen.

I was wrong...it was a kid on a bike with rusty training wheels that of course don't even touch the road except when he leans one way or the other. Hence, the screetch, kachunk. Unfreaking believable. Kids need to learn that the training wheels are no longer helping at that point. Although, after spending 20 minutes trying to convince DJ that Spiderman could infact kick Superman's ass, I realize kids are just illogical beings.

In anyevent, I am going to read Cornwell's new non-Scarpetta book.

Stay cool!
G