Wait a sec. Let's all take a moment to picture that. Are you picturing a thug balancing on a cop's bike with the cop in shorts and all happy he caught the bad guy? Good. So am I.
But how is a bicycle cop supposed to stand a chance next to a car? A car that has gasoline. And an engine. And gooes vroom vroom (or so I learned in preschool)? And how does a bike cop pull someone over? I assume he has one of those bike bells, the ones that go ching ching. So if he wants to pull someone over, does he just ring the bell really fast over and over? chingchingchingchingchingching! Very threatening.
Poor bicycle cops. Such a hard life. So misunderstood. Especially by me. I feel bad for them now. I want to buy one a drink and let him (or her) tell me the woes of copping on bicycles (that sounded dirty).
I am an old lady. And need to buy epson salts for my aching hips. That is all.
I have mentioned to more than one person in the last few days that Portland has a lot of sexual energy. My theory is that it's because it's so damn green. So much pollen in the air. Life exploding out of the ground. Spores copulating everywhere. This has worn Rosie out. Momma either needs to get laid or buy Rosie some new batteries. Poor Rosie.
A tweep brought up music in 1993 today. And I was instantly reminded of the glorious sounds of the Proclaimers
Do you remember this?
Or this?
Or this?
Reminds me of high school dances and my friend Elise and big floppy hats with sunflowers on them and spaghetti strap dresses worn with white T shirts underneath and making grilled cheese sandwiches on an ironing board with my cousins.
If you haven't checked out the Raw Photo Contest yet, you totes should. Submit your raw photos and peruse the wonderful submissions we have so far and leave them nice comments. Everyone loves comments, you know.