August has turned the corner, as has my first year on the clock at the Jalopnik mill, which put me in mind of this fan-made take on the Hold Steady's productive uses for summer. It also goes well with a long story from COTD pro Desu-San-Desu about getting inspired to do something cool with your life, like stickering the toilet of a late-night talk show host:

Every time I read about or see Bill Caswell doing something incredibly fun and immature, I'm reminded of a dream I recently had.

In the dream, I'm at my High School reunion. At this point, it's more of a nightmare than a dream, except for the fact that I pulled into the parking lot driving a 2011 Subaru WRX STi in full rally spec with custom liveries. People noticed. Background music played. There may have been fog.

At one point during the reunion, I'm speaking to a snooty girl I had A.P. classes with. She was the Valedictorian, captain of the tennis team, a cheerleader, and won the High School Heisman trophy for softball. Oh, and she was blonde. She also hated me. I tended to consistently score higher than her on the tests and exams, but I was otherwise too busy either reading or drawing to bother doing daily work or homework. So she always say me as a slacker who made her look bad. It was also possibly because I didn't worship the ground she walked on.

Anyways, she sees me at the reunion and walks up to me, very high and mighty, and looks at me as though she suspects someone stepped in a doggy landmine and didn't wipe their shoe off. We exchange awkward, forced salutations and pleasantries and at one point she asks me what I do for a living.

"I uh...I drive cars for a living." I reply, trying to avoid sounding absurd.

"Oh? Like a chauffeur?" She asks, obviously amused and feeling very superior at this point.

"Uh...no. I drive competitively. I'm drive race cars."

She looks like she just tasted ass. It's as though her brain understeered into a Louisiana swamp and can't get unstuck. Her expression eventually segues into a desperately pious look of disbelieving condescension. She forces out a sick, strained laughter as though she's trying to claw her way out of mental quicksand. Apparently she succeeds, because the laughter becomes more genuine and patronizing, as though my answer honestly amused her instead of confounding her.

"You-you-you're a race car driver!? Are you serious? What are you, like, twelve?" she giggles as though I'd just told her the best upside-down bar stool joke in the world.

I just close my eyes and breathe for a couple of seconds before finally looking her in the eyes and telling her in as serious and even tone as I can muster. "Yes. I am. What is it that you do for a living?"

This seems to curb her amusement a bit as she visibly puffs up haughtily and composes herself like a perverse version of Voltron comprised of multiple forms of Uber-Bitch. She somehow looks down at me even though I'm about a foot taller than her. I can see her nose hairs. They wiggle as she speaks, most of the syllables coming out of her nasal passage instead of her mouth.

"I am the regional district manager of a nationally franchised banking administration, thankyouverymuch."

I'm pretty sure mosquitos get more sympathetic looks before they become disjointed piles of wings and proboscis. It's almost as though talking about herself gives her elitism strength. I feel like I've possibly discovered the Secret of the Super-Bitch's powers. At this point I start laughing. I laugh really loud. I make sure everyone within thirty feet can hear me before I respond.

"You-you-you're in banking!? Are you serious? What are you, like, boring?"

There's that ass face again. She actually licks her lips this time. Apparently it didn't help, because the expression remains. I can tell she honestly has no idea what's happening. She doesn't know how to respond. Vulvatron just lost a leg. Her jaw begins to ocillate up and down rapibly as her eyes begin to get a wet sheen across them. She replies with a squeak.

"Wha-wha-....why am I...boring?" I think she's actually crying. Apparently it was her own ass she tasted. I smile politely.

"Because racecar."

Yeah.

I really wish I was as cool as my subconscious.