I'm working on something a little different.
Translation: I spent hours writing a brilliant story that I'm not quite ready to publish. Sometimes you just need to call it a day, snuggle up with your kids and try to sleep through the voice that's blasting your half-ass efforts that resulted in nothing suitable for publication.
In the mean time: Meet Daryl
Daryl Moody rides the bus four blocks to work every day, because he read somewhere that Europeans -- "the elites" if you believe as Mr. Moody does that Americans are fat, stupid, uncultured swines -- are big on public transportation.
His wardrobe consists of six brightly colored silk shirts -- red, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple -- three identical pairs of black cigarette pants; two pairs of alligator wingtips in yellow and purple; one battered pair of knee-high, black combat boots; and a gray trench coat that converts into a cape for his meetings with the underground elven society. He ties what little hair he has back in a tight ponytail -- so tight that it lifts his eyebrows 4.4 and three-quarters centimeters above their natural position so he appears perpetually shocked and bewildered.