Last Tuesday morning, I awoke to witness the malfunction of my apartment complex’s sprinkler system. As a result of this malfunction, the water shot out faster and farther than usual. The malfunctioning sprinklers sprayed water into and onto apartments, automobiles and people who were unlucky enough to be in the path of these pressurized insta-spouts. And what’s more, all of the sprinklers sprinkled simultaneously (hey, don’t laugh. Sprinklers sprinkle. That’s what they do) so the entire 800 unit complex all suffered the same fate at the same time. Pedestrians, commuters and apartment employees were running around like mad, dodging water and just generally trying to come to terms with an unusual morning. For whatever reason, that morning’s craziness brought a wide white smile to my face. That smile lasted until I saw a prostitute get arrested at the corner of Nebraska and Bearss. I hate seeing the morning prostitutes get arrested. What are all the sleazy truckers expected to do when this happens? Pleasure themselves while driving? Just a damn shame. And yes, all of this occurred before Nine AM. What a day.

The new girl at The Local Pub has been there three days and still hasn’t figured out the bottle opener. For the record, her career GPA is a 3.9. This is a social experiment in the making. If you don’t think I’m keeping track of her, you lost your mind in a hunting accident or something.

Don’t you hate it when you get used to partying regularly with a friend, then he gets a girlfriend, falls out of favor with his crew of friends, and can’t go anywhere without her. It doesn’t matter how cool she is. Nothing is the same after that. Nothing.

And finally, because I’m too lazy to bother with logic and fluidity today, I leave you with the following, which my buddy Six said when he found out about my column on PIC:

“You ever write about strip clubs?”

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