What’s that smell?
Oh, that’d be me. I was swimming in raw sewage. I love it! — The Naked Gun 2 1/2: The Smell of Fear
So apparently I not only have to wait for a shuttle bus to fill up after finishing the race tomorrow in order to get back to my car, it’s also a half hour farther out than I am right now.
Which means it’s at least a 2 1/2 hour drive back to the airport if the return bus fills with my arrival.
Which means I don’t have time to get back to the hotel and shower after the race.
Which means I am more and more like Frank Drebin every day.
I can live with that. I don’t know if my seat mates can but after the six hour flight to MCO tomorrow, I’ll probably never see them again.
To which I can say to them, “Smell ya later!”
These things happen on the road. What happens on the road, smells of the road. But a road by any other name would smell as grody. Shakespeare said that, I think… Or Moon Unit Zappa. Some poet for sure.