Shakespeare to the rescue

Off to take the bike down and attempt to have it fixed again.  Yesterday I tried, but found
that other people thought it was a big holiday.  Of course there will be others waiting.

Back when I had time and no money I would just break out the tools and do it myself.  When I was fifty years younger?  Sixty?  Who would have thought of being old enough to even say that?!

That's a kind of triumph, though I'd rather have the kind that you start with a key.

(Ah, one childhood ambition I guess I'll never achieve.  A sports car.  Not important enough anymore, I guess.  What a sad state is this maturity.)

(But my sports car has an equatorial mounting.  How many light-years per hour does yours get?)

I can see myself, fifty years ago, shaking my head at the old geezer who drives his bike down to the shop because a tube has a blown valve.  "Don't you even have a spare tube to swap out?"  Um, in fact, no.  Used it.  Maybe I should get another one.

Well, at least I did fix a wonderful breakfast, yogurt and fresh fruit.  I'll bet those grease monkeys down at the bicycle shop just wolfed down a bowl of Wheaties and skim milk.  Maybe some bacon and eggs.  A plate of toast with tons of butter and fresh jam.  Then a blowjob from the sexy blond cook.  As they open the envelope with a seven-figure check from the Nobel Committee.

I do not desire this man's art, nor that man's scope.  Unless that man's scope is, like, a 14" Celestron.

Well, enough idle fancies.  On to work.

Joe