The five-minute commute to my car after work affords me too much thinking time. I don't use it to obsess over work or figure out my itinerary for the evening. Rather, my mind wanders to uncharted territories. For example:
Two idiots get in an argument about whether or not Philly should've ever moved the statue of Rocky.
1: Dude, it's a historical monument.
2: No, it's not. It's a fictional character.
1: Rocky Balboa? No way.
2: Completely. Conceived, written, directed, and acted by Sylvester Stallone.
1: Seriously?
2: Yes. So it doesn't matter whether it's in front of the stadium or the art museum. You may as well put it in front of Stallone's house, if he owns a place here.
1: Hmm. Yeah, I guess it'd be like the Viatnamese arguing over where to put a statue of Rambo.
2: Um, no. No, it's not like that at all.
And another, dumber, cruder:
Thinking how my wife is so innocent/naive, she couldn't recite the infamous dirty limerick opening "There once was a man from Nantucket."
Comeback: Oh yeah? Well, your dick couldn't even do your belly button.
If the above truths lead you to contribute toward the "Jim Becker Needs an iPod" Fund, please remember your checks will be cashed, it is not tax-refundable, and there's no guarantee my music won't provide even odder inspiration(s).
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