Anything’s possible.

National Aeronautics and Space Administration astronomers have discovered the lowest tone ever found, a B flat fifty-some octaves below any piano key. (I presume they described the note as B flat instead of its precise equivalent, A sharp, for typographical reasons.) Now here’s the best part of the story: the Perseus galaxy cluster, two hundred and fifty light-years away, has been playing the same note for the last two and a half billion years, more or less.

I decided I must hear this tune, so I grabbed a wad of cash and headed over to Crazy Elliot’s Discount Hi-Fi Warehouse. I went up to Crazy Elliot himself, showed him the article, and asked to see some cheap stereos capable of playing this ancient tune. Elliot frowned and pulled out his calculator. Even though I don’t shop very much, I know it’s a bad sign when a merchant grimaces, does dozens of calculations, then sighs.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Crazy Elliot said shaking his head.

“OK,” I replied, “how about a mid-priced system then?”

“It’s not about money,” Crazy Elliot explained, “it’s about physics. The sound you’re looking for is a million billion times deeper than anything you can hear. No can do, pal.”

“Thank you for your time,” I replied curtly. I knew Crazy Elliot was lying. After all, the NASA astronomers heard it. Of course, they probably had a really, really good stereo, much better than the crap Crazy Elliot peddles.

I really must start drinking a better grade of tequila.

“I wrote myself a little computer program that separates the poetic wheat from the linguistic chaff,” he explained.

“What are you talking about?” I replied. “You don’t know the first thing about programming.”

“That’s where you would be wrong,” Michael said. “I built a filter that deletes every file that contains the words, ‘azure,’ ‘gossamer,’ ‘turgid,’ or ‘viscous.’”

“That’s it?” I asked.

“Absolutely,” Michael confirmed. “On average, my program deletes over ninety-five percent of the crap people submit.”

Now, as my high school English teacher, Ms. Elbers, would say, let’s compare and contrast Armstrong with Jacques Anquetil, one of the other five people to win the Tour de France five times.

Maitre Jacques smoked and drank during the epic contest’s rest days—and sometimes during the race to kill the pain. He was famous for drinking just before a grueling climb. On one occasion he ate so much leg of lamb that he was still bloated and sodden the next day. That’s no way to ride up steep mountains, so his teammates came up with a brilliant antidote: champagne! Et voilà! Anquetil went on to win the race.

Armstrong has a soulless athletic brilliance, but I have to admit I admire even more someone who can triumph with a digestive system full of lamb, arteries clogged with fat, lungs coated in tar, and head tipsy with champagne. As Anquetil put it, “You can’t ride the Tour De France on mineral water.” It just goes to show that the French aren’t entirely worthless.

When pressed, Elva ran to the slide or the swings, put her legs over a bar, then hung upside down until her dress slid above her waist. There it was for all to see: girls’ underwear! At that age, that was like cotton kryptonite. Whenever that happened, I had no choice but to run away in terror and disgust.

I’ve been looking for Elva Shorts, and can’t find her on the Internet. Does that mean she doesn’t exist?

I’m delighted by this debate, if only because it won’t end before the pub closes.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I guess it went in one ear and out the other.”

“I think you’re being too charitable,” Cindy corrected. “I think it went in one ear, hit a brick wall, broke into pieces, then fell into the cesspool that passes for your brain where it eventually decomposed.”

I thanked Cindy for her insight; I never did understand how something could go in one ear and out the other. Since I only had one science class after eighth grade, I remain unclear about biology in general and brains in particular. Especially mine.