I can’t.

What makes you think that you have a choice?

The lychee promotion assured me, “it’s worth the effort,” but I’m not so sure. It doesn’t really matter, though, since I have no idea what a lychee looks like.

“I found it hanging on a fence when I was in Japan,” I replied. “I thought the words ‘natural flower garden’ on a cheap, blue shopping bag seemed particularly Japanese.

“You shouldn’t have taken that,” Emiko replied. “That was a piece by Katsukawa Katsushika. He puts them up as sort of an aesthetic protest.”

I was disappointed to learn about my bag’s provenance. I thought I’d turned the readymade object into art, but Katsushika beat me to it. Oh well, easy come, easy go, easy come again.

Who wants a demi anything? I shall continue to seek out megaurges.

“Why did you bring beer?” Veronica asked when I arrived. “I told you I’d get some.”

“Can’t be too careful,” I replied. “What kind did you get?”

“I got some Half Dome Amber Ale,” Veronica said. “I liked the illustration.”

“Although I’ve heard that many wine experts choose wine by the aesthetic appeal of the bottle’s label, I think we have some more telling evidence at hand,” I explained as I put the big cans of Rainier Ale next to a relatively diminutive bottle of Half Dome Ale.

“See how the majestic Tahoma towers over little Half Dome?” I inquired rhetorically. “A computer problem as serious as yours needs such monumental resources.”

Veronica sighed and poured herself a glass of orange juice. Both of us knew it was going to be a long afternoon.

“I think it’s a mistake to go to a nude beach that’s not on the Mediterranean,” I said. “The nude beaches here are full of people you’d never want to see with their clothes off.”

I disagree with the pundits who have concluded that heavy drinking is a sign of superior intelligence. Smith’s expensive experiment just demonstrates what almost everyone knows: the rat race drives people to drink.

I was setting up a moonshine still high in the mountains in a remote, abandoned cabin. To get the heavy distillery equipment up the steep path, I built a big bike with massive tires and sturdy shock absorbers. I loaded the bike with supplies and headed up the narrow trail.

My invention worked well. The breakneck rides down the steep path more than compensated for the difficult, uphill climb.

On my third trip up, though, I discovered I wasn’t alone. I spotted a couple of guys on horses near the cabin. I pulled out my binoculars and saw that they were cops! I had to escape, so I threw my distillery pipes off the bike and headed back down the overgrown trail on the bike. The cops on horseback chased me, but couldn’t go very fast because of all the lowhanging branches.

When I made it back to the road, I hitched a ride from a man in a pickup truck. I threw the bike in the back of the truck and we headed into town.

Since I had to get rid of the incriminating bike, I sold it to the driver for fifty dollars. The man who bought my bike took credit for inventing it, and still claims to be the father of mountain biking. Oh well, I didn’t get arrested, at least not that time.