I Biked Home in a Torrent

Since I was wearing jeans, like I do every day that ends in Y, and since proper jeans are made of that thick, shamelessly flagrantly water-lovin' cotton (a well-known paraphilia in the fabric world: "hydrophilic," the other fabrics say with barely veiled disdain), I weighed like 20 extra pounds by the time I got home and it had stopped raining and I could see the waning crescent moon in the now clear non-drenching sky and the only water-drips I detected whilst crossing P Street after buying two Guinness singles at my favorite liquor store were coming from my head and my fleece (its valiantly hydrophobic fibers overtaxed and defeated, succumbing at last to sogginess) and my bike gloves and I could see the planes up there passing by the aforementioned waning crescent moon, on final approach to Reagan National, they were.

My sudden weight gain? Temporary. Just "water weight." So, no worries. I changed pants, then ate an entire pan of brownies, right out of the pan, which was shaped more like the mixing bowl, actually, because I kinda skipped the part on the box that sez "Bake 40 minutes in preheated oven at 350 degrees."

I don't have / that kind o time. Besides, I Just Lost: 20 pounds! Celebrate! Fudgy Chocolate Kegger! (Slathered and dunked to a heavy drooling drip with a ... refined butter frosting, accented with a hint of almond extract, garnished with lively fresh spearmint sprigs, and locally grown strawberries sliced with a microtome.)

(Your pilgrim, will always, Tell Y'all: The Truth. Except: when making shit up is way more funnies.)

But back to your pilgrim's arrival, via bicycle, in the rain, which came in torrent(s), at home here at Rock Creek & P.

My Converse Chucks (same slutty water-lovin cotton canvas, with sole cushions made outta SpongeBob SquareTrousers' dead, probably synthetic, relatives that, hey! they probably never were in the actual Ocean, let alone On The Show  ... "No porifera were harmed in the making of this popular retro footwear that lotsa olds probably wore in the 60s, when they were younger than you, mofos.")

[hold on. too long an interpolation there to properly lead in to the next bit. pick up again at:]

My Converse Chucks were 

Squishing to the rhythm that my footsteps made ... [and, um]
People passing by they would stop and say
Oh my that little country boy could play

Go go
Go Johnny go . . .

You know what else? My sodden underwear is now dyed with a light indigo wash, even lighter than the kind of jeans Old Guys Buy.

You know what? You know what else? Everything inside me Timbuk2 messenger bag (my most constant companion) was all like, cozy comfy dry.

The End.