Dancing On the Pedals: Tenuously-Bicycle-Related Epherma

I was recently informed by a reader that they considered my Twitter coverage of Rocco Rossi's withdrawl of his mayoral bid to be in poor taste:

Tough shit.

Moving on, I was also recently accosted on the Pathway to Enlightenment by a cadre of Toronto cycling advocates leading a vague mob of ne'er-do-wells, slackjaws, and hoohas on bicycles about Toronto's core, pausing to gesticulate uncertainly at various intervals.  I initially feared I was witnessing a how-to course demonstrating the use of the Urban Repair Squad's advanced AI (Ass Infrastructure) planning, but then recalled that tonight's tenuously-bicycle-related event was actually just Bike Pirate's Bike To The Future.  I gawked momentarily, but fearing human contact I fled before anyone noticed my bicycle and invited me to join.

In truth, I have profound and debilitating issues associated with dancing.  In my youth, the teacher would play music and encourage us flail our limbs in syncopation.  However, she was a callous brute who misrepresented our pathetic attempts to improve her own performance review results with the board.  She once wrote on my report card, "Moves well to music," even though I was, in fact, having a seizure.

I also fled because they were playing 80s music, and I fear Michael Bolton like Rob Ford fears his mother's cabbage recipes.

Cabbage stank got nothin' on this.

Having returned to the safety and solitude of my hovel, I turned away from the cold teat of the outside world and embraced the lukewarmth of the Internet.  Thereupon, I was immediately confronted with news that I had lost the BIXI video contest, mainly because I hadn't submitted one.  I longed to, but my visceral fear of movie production technology, like my phobia of dancing, was too disabling (it gives me nervous gas).

Like Rob Ford, I believe in the traditional marriage of still pictures to old-timey piano rags, but I yearned to flirt with more homogeneous mediums like motion pictures just to have a chance to visit Hoopie again to pick up the prize.  I used to lurk in his store and pet the handle bars till one day he chased me out with a broom. I loved it in there, and I was very saddened to be banished.

Alas, I was unable to muster a submission.  The gas would not pass.

How I long to feel the warmth radiating from Hoopie's warm bulbous head again.

I miss you, Hoopie!  [Sad face.]