Fresh, Hot Wastes of Time

While we were at the ranch, the gas station on the horizon let out a bunch of little mushroom clouds. As that distracted my attention, a 737 taxied up to the ranch house. It said “Panama” on in, but I knew that was a Hawaiian airline. The pilot set up the plane like a pop-up camper and went to the neighbor’s house to pick up an invisible quilt. Intrigued, I followed him over there. The woman wasn’t home, and as the pilot made disparaging comments about her quilt, the radio in the background played “Another Drip in the Mole”, which was almost but not quite like Pink Floyd.

John Riiter died!