Mr. Car

I met this guy on the subway the other day as I was coming home from work. I was all, "Hey, buddy, get out of my way." And he was all, "I don't have to make way for you, for I am a kindred spirit." This left me a little perplexed, but he continued. "I'm a kindred spirit, not with you, but with your car." I exploded, "My car?! You fool, if I had a car, would I be taking the subway?! No, I'd be driving, you half-brained teetotaler!" It was his turn to stand there perplexed. "Oh. Right. Never mind. I was confused there for a second." Then he turned around and started to walk off. I stopped him, and asked if he was all right. I'm a good samaritan sometimes, to make up for my money laundering schemes. It keeps the celestial ledger nice and level.

"No, I'm most positively not all right, in any way, shape, or form," he said. Then he collapsed into a crumpled heap and water started pouring out of his ears. It was the creepiest thing I've ever seen in my life, like out of some science fiction horror film. Staring Tom Cruise as a constable on the wrong side of the law. But after the strange man evaporated, I got a good look at the clothes and wallet that remained. His name was Augustus Car, which is probably why he felt he was a kindred spirit with my car. People's last names mean so much more than we'd like to think.

For example, this morning on my way to work, I saw this guy in the street acting out a scene from some Shakespeare play. Most likely MacBeth, as he was covered in green goo. And when I asked him his last name, he said "My last name, my good sir, is Westpaulexeterbythingstein." I mean, is that even a real name?! But if he wasn't totally bluffing me, then it's the perfect Shakespeare name. Shakespeare was a close personal friend of mine, and even helped me get elected King of France after the storming of the Bastille. You know why they called it Bastille? Because Bastille was my dog's last name. That's right, I named a famous French city after my dog. Big whoop. Wanna fight about it? I thought not. Coward. Shakespeare never even tried to fight me. He knew he was outmatched after the first time I made him cry "uncle" on a crowded street in the middle of London. This was post-plague, in case you can't keep up at home.