Homes Tuesday March 24 1998

Whither at the burne or in the regular field of home practice, one must contend with the vilest tumor accoutrements known to man or beast: the bicycle thiefs. These dastardly milksops hide under the cover of nightness and their own futility as human beings; they steal away but leave the cut-through locking mechanism in order to contravene the thoughts of the owner, which go for a split half-second to the imaginary that perchance he left his bipedal conduit elsewhere on the bloch. Alas, tis expired!
He is aghast. His mouth trembling and with watery eyes he whimpers, softly. "Why?" he breathes. There is no riposte.
These thievish miscreants knowe nothing of true jollity; nothing of the rapturous delights of parasailing wheelfully down the pavement, waving at passersby and whisping past inconsiderate rustbuckets. These hooligans know only of disassembled parts, metal sizings, painted bars and hornyballoos. They trade in souls for feta, and take their sizable stacks to their milking mothers, sopping up years of unloved nurture with this pitiful exchange like serfbread mops up rotgut. The owner's malaise will not be lifted, but for the hopes of one day soon to be reminded of those soaring efforts with a new frame and a pair of shiny wheels. It will be replaced, to be sure, but never unremembered.
-H.E. Homes