not Pussy Galore's Flying Circus
for the first day in six, the rains subsided. the sun and brilliant blue sky reappeared.
naturally, it was a workday.
un-kinking my back from another night on the dirty couch (cocooned and hermetically sealed in my sleeping bag), i was sipping my customary Cafe Bustelo, black, and huffing my first cigarette of the day, overlooking the pond at Yuppie Stepford.
the birds were all happy... like the cormorant that was diving for sushi, and the single blue heron that flapped in slow motion over my head. it kind of made me feel that way, too.
faintly, i noticed the thrum of more than one prop plane. this close to Dulles, that's not the usual sound effect. as the volume increased, it was pretty obvious that is was more than just two planes. i craned my neck, expecting to see troop transport like one of those humongous guppy-like C-130s.
but, no... in the gap between the townhouses, seven front-engine something-or-others appeared... suddenly gouting smoke, intermittently.
i thought, "SHIT! Nerve gas! Pussy Galore's Flying Circus! and i'm not anywhere near Fort Knox, nor close enough to see their form-fitting jumpsuits!" i may not be so young, but my imagination isn't lacking.
then, words appeared in the smoke. SKYWRITERS!
i'll bet i looked just like Ralphie in A Christmas Story: pink tongue stuck out, brow furrowed, slowly spelling out each and every letter into coherent words, surely of weighty import and significance.
"G-R-E-A-T... R-A-T-E-S... C-H-O-O-S-E...
G-E-I-C-O!?!?!?!?
i was no less disappointed than if they'd spelled out "DRINK MORE OVALTINE".
but, it was still unexpected...
...and i'm not really "Goldfinger", either.
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Geico is the devil.