My latest police report

It is easy to be intolerant of the fat-bottomed girl who jogs slowly. There is so much shoehorned into those red pants that she moves as if through water. Sweat drips out of unfathomable places. Her face does not conceal the effort it takes to lift each leg. Each leg is God's Turkey Leg, engineered for a great heavenly feast, albeit through a cruel genetic scheme. Moses, Peter, and Martin Luther's ex-girlfriends salivate while global warming preheats the oven. It is easy to be intolerant, but her soul will dine with them, and mine will not.

My car wants to blast through the crosswalk like the athletic machine it is. We wait: the car impatient and the driver hypnotized. The driver is a compulsive fantasizer. No amount of horns or curses can rouse him from the smothering scent and lack of sound. Tethered to his face, the softness is everywhere, like a body pillow hooked up to a dialysis machine. The blue-faced driver slumps, and his right foot is lead on the gas.

Pow!